Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

19

lizzie jones

Club Palm was that obnoxiously exclusive kind of club where the bathrooms had gold soap dispensers, the music was weirdly always one beat off from the vibe, and everyone smelled like generational wealth and expired trust funds. Basically, rich-people Disneyland—with worse lighting.

My parents and Lando's had always treated this place like some kind of bizarre networking gala disguised as a party. You know the vibe—handshakes over house beats, fake laughs over overpriced cocktails, and more blazers than should legally be allowed in one place. Meanwhile, us kids were just trying to avoid making eye contact with any adult we might accidentally have to call "sir."

Being back here now was like stepping into a fever dream from my teenage years, except this time I had Kate and Max as my emotional support humans. I was wearing a strapless blue mini dress that I swear looked better in my bedroom mirror and a pair of white heels I already regretted. Like, they were cute, yes. But also? They were actively committing war crimes on my feet.

We walked the five minutes from the villa, and now we were all casually loitering around Adam Norris while he charmed the bouncer into handing us VIP passes like we weren't clearly children pretending to be functioning adults. Adam could sell sand to a beach.

"Lizzie, how many times have you actually been here?" Kate asked, eyes wide like I'd just casually admitted to being a child spy or something.

"Since I was like fourteen," I replied, brushing a hand through my hair like it wasn't a deeply weird flex. "We'd just hang in the VIP section with mocktails. Or cocktails if we managed to steal one when no one was looking." I linked arms with her as we made our way in, trying to ignore the tiny existential crisis brewing in my chest.

Inside, it was exactly how I remembered it: a blur of flashing lights, pulsing music that felt like it was synced to your heartbeat, and sweaty humans pretending they weren't desperately trying to be seen. The VIP area was upstairs, perched like a judgmental parent over the chaos below. I dropped my bag, gave Max a thumbs up for already ordering a drink, and made a beeline for the downstairs bar where the actual fun was.

And then the bartender looked at me like I was about to be part of a TikTok surprise party. He gestured to the neat little line of shots in front of me like it was a tray of free samples at Costco.

"They're on the house tonight."

Excuse me?

I gave him a look that screamed, okay but what's the catch, and he subtly nodded towards the figure sitting next to me. I turned, and of course. There was Lando. Looking like he was trying to astral project out of his own body. He had a shot in front of him and the energy of someone who just remembered their ex's Netflix password still works.

"Lando," I said, already exhausted by the tension, "let's make a deal."

He didn't even flinch, just grabbed the shot and threw it back like he was taking cough syrup.

"Go on."

"For tonight... we forget everything. No drama. No bickering. No weird vibes. We just—drink, dance, and act like we actually had a normal friendship once."

I instantly regretted saying it because wow, the desperation in my voice? Tragic. But then:

"Deal," he said, and I genuinely think my soul left my body for a second.

"Wait, seriously?"

"You proposed it, Jones. I'm just accepting." And with that, he took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor like we were the leads in a rom-com, not the ex-whatevers starring in an emotional car crash.

"Lando, I cannot dance. Not sober."

"You're not sober."

"...Touché."

He spun me around, hands settling on my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly the past didn't feel like a weight. It felt like a rhythm. The music thumped, the lights flickered, and his breath ghosted over my neck as I leaned into him, feeling the tension slowly melt into something else. Something... warmer.

"So you've been watching me, huh?" I whispered into his ear, voice low, curious, dangerous.

"I've been waiting to do this," he replied, dragging his hands slowly around my torso before locking them on my hips. "Now I finally can."

I felt his lips on my neck, a feather-light kiss that nearly short-circuited my entire nervous system.

"We can't do this here," I said, heart doing gymnastics, "someone will see."

He didn't even hesitate—just nodded toward the exit. I bit my lip. And we left, like a scene out of a Wattpad story I'd pretend not to have read.

"Wait, let me grab our stuff. I'll be right back," he said, disappearing into the crowd.

I sat down, trying to figure out what dimension I was in. My brain was playing ping-pong between what the actual hell is happening and how much have I had to drink? I rubbed my temples, and just then, the door swung open.

He returned with my bag and a massive bottle of champagne like a very sexy but confused Uber Eats delivery guy.

"I know you don't like champagne," he said, offering it up like a peace treaty. "But I couldn't find anything else."

"It's perfect," I said, popping the cork like a feral Victorian child and taking a massive swig. Immediate regret. Bubbly regret.

"Jesus, slow down," he said, laughing and taking his own sip. His face twisted like he just remembered that champagne is, in fact, not apple juice.

We walked back to the villa in this weird little pocket of calm. No words, no overthinking. Just footsteps in sync and hands brushing like we hadn't spent years pretending we didn't miss this.

At his room, he opened the door and dropped onto the bed like he'd just completed a triathlon. I stood in front of him, unsure of what to do with all the tension still buzzing through me.

"Why did you agree to this tonight?" I asked, voice softer than I meant.

He looked up, his eyes more honest than I'd seen them in a long time.

"Because, Lizzie... I'm tired. And I'm not over you."

He pulled me down gently, rolling us onto the bed, and for the first time in years, there was no snark, no defense, no pretending.

"No one's ever had me. Not like you," he whispered.

And I believed him.