Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

18

Lizzie Jones

If this was six years ago, I'd be sliding over to Lando, casually asking how he was after last night's "whatever that was." You know, like normal people do after awkward late-night drunk conversations where feelings leak out faster than cheap vodka. But now? Now? The idea of even looking at him without feeling like my brain's about to explode with "Charles doesn't deserve you" on repeat is exhausting. Like a broken Spotify playlist stuck on loop — but way less chill.

Why did he say that? Like, what was the point? Was he trying to mess with me? Or was he low-key confessing something I'm not supposed to hear? And if he suspects anything — like, any secret, hidden agenda, or emotional black hole — then guess what? Someone else probably does too. Gossip travels faster than F1 cars on race day. Sooner or later, someone's going to spill the tea, and I'm not exactly ready for the fallout.

Okay, Lizzie, breathe. You have to find out what the hell's really going on. Today. At some point. Maybe after I finish this iced coffee and stop obsessively scrolling through my phone for the tenth time in an hour. Maybe. Or maybe not.

I turn my attention to the window instead, pretending I'm deep in thought while low-key avoiding my own brain. The ocean looks calm, like it's mocking me with its peacefulness. This was my vibe back in the day — sneaking out to the window every night, just watching the sun set like it's trying to drown the whole villa in some warm golden filter, you know? That aesthetic mood lighting where everything feels like a TikTok slow-mo montage.

Once, Lando actually threw a paper plane through my window at like midnight, and it landed right on my desk. It had the most embarrassing, teenage-cringe note asking if I wanted to grab ice cream. Classic Lando move. I miss those simpler times — when all my worries were about who was going to win the karting race, not about broken hearts and complicated feelings. Before he told me he loved m— wait, stop Lizzie, don't go there.

A sudden yell pulls me back from my spiraling thoughts:
"Lizzie!"
Kate, loud as ever, is half-lying, half-sitting on the bed, looking like she just survived a tornado but somehow still manages to be effortlessly flawless. Great. Time to stop my mental pity party and pretend like I'm actually ready to function today.

———————————————————————————

"Okay, one more," Kate says, crouching like she's about to drop the hottest TikTok dance, phone ready. "Lizzie, you haveto smile like you're actually enjoying yourself this time."

Great. Because that isn't a full-time job already. I'm standing in front of the yacht's steering wheel, wearing this pink bikini that makes me look like a flamingo who just got lost in a candy store, a flower in my hair like I'm auditioning for Baywatch: Revenge of the Sunburned. Meanwhile, Lando's dad—bless him—is taking a break, probably wondering how he got stuck with this circus. Kate's snapping pics for Instagram, because apparently documenting fake smiles and forced fun is the new way to prove you're living your best life.

But me? I'm over here thinking, Why am I even pretending? The second I fake it, these pics will come out looking like I just smelled something bad. Spoiler alert: I did. So, really, what's the point?

"You know what—let's come back to this," I say, finally tossing the phone back to Kate like a hot potato. "I'm going for a swim."

Kate jumps up like I just announced free pizza. "Finally!" She yells, diving straight into the water like she's auditioning for The Amazing Race: Wet Edition.

Obviously, I wasn't actually steering the yacht—hello, parked in a lake, not the open ocean, because if you think I'm jumping into the ocean, you clearly don't know me. That's a hard pass. Open water? Nope. I'm a pool queen.

Then Adam Norris strolls over, looking like he's about to make some deep philosophical comment about life, or more likely, crack a joke about my obvious water-phobia.

"Your friend has a good idea. Come on, Lizzie, go for a swim," he says, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me.

I laugh awkwardly, because admitting "I'm scared of open water" at 22 while driving at 300kph for a living? That's peak cringe.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot," Adam chuckles. "Lando always said you hated water."

"Yeah, Lando's right," I mumble, eyes glued to the deck because the floor is way less judgmental.

Adam shakes his head, probably pitying me. "Not sure Lando's going in today anyway. Too hungover." He waves over to his son, who's dragging himself over like a zombie with designer sunglasses.

Lando's eyes immediately roll at the sight of me. What even? Last night he's all about frisbee nostalgia, and now he's acting like I'm some kind of annoying mosquito buzzing around his ear.

I flop down on the sofa, mentally checking out my tan lines while hoping this interaction won't turn into a full-on WWE match.

Suddenly, I feel a weight next to me. Great, I think, here we go.

"How are you feeling this morning?" I ask, because even though he looks like he got dragged through a desert, his tan says otherwise.

"Whatever I said last night—just forget it, okay?" He looks me dead in the eye for the first time since we got here.

"Oh, so you don't remember?" I probe, trying to keep it casual.

He just shakes his head. Smooth.

"Why did you get so drunk?" I ask, feeling like I'm in a therapy session I didn't sign up for.

"Oh, I don't know, Lizzie. Why don't you tell me?" And boom. He just threw the verbal grenade.

"Lando, don't blame me for your six-month tequila marathon," I snap back. "You had all that time to move on."

"Not everything is about you," he fires, voice sharp enough to cut through steel. Then mutters, "And I said I'd wait for you, didn't I?"

I'm blinking like, Wait, what? Did he just say that out loud?

"Well, clearly it is about me. You can't say you waited when you've been hooking up with anyone who breathes. This is exactly why we can't be together—we just argue." And I'm whisper-shouting because I swear the water's louder than this drama.

"We didn't used to fight, Lizzie," he snaps, suddenly standing over me like some angry F1 pit boss. "You start all this with your stupid questions. Why should I even wait for you when you're just... fucking Leclerc?"

I'm about to reply, but then my brain does a full-on crash—wait, so he thinks we're still together?

"If you hadn't dated your 'best friend' and stopped messing with me, we wouldn't be here every time we talk. Maybe if you hadn't shut me down in the elevator or at the club five years ago, this would be different," he yells.

"Don't even start," I say, feeling like I'm about to explode. "How I was ever friends with you, or even wanted to be again, has seriously slipped my mind."

He doesn't say anything back, and neither do I. We sit there, heavy silence hanging over us like a bad Spotify playlist.

Finally, we drive back to the villa, both of us ghosting the rest of the group. No one says a word. Honestly, they all know how this ends—like a poorly edited Netflix drama with no happy credits.

I'm ready to get so pissed tonight that I forget this entire emotional demolition derby.

This isn't the Lando I know. Not the one I laughed with, competed with, promised futures with. I miss that—I really do. But I don't think we can ever go back. And the more time I spend here, the more I want it. But I can't keep fighting when all we do is drag up the past like it's some kind of toxic playlist on repeat.