Collision [𝗠.𝗩.]

Monaco, December 10th

"Some are genuinely talented, others, well, they just know how to pick the right connections."

⸻

MONACO

DECEMBER 10TH

I'm trying to ignore it. I really am.

After a blissfully boring week of hanging at Max's, playing video games with him, teaching him to cook some other meals, and watching as he hits the racing sims on his setup - and let's not forget the gala - I want to be happy. I want to be smiling as I look around this bare apartment and plan for my future.

But I just can't.

Because now I know exactly what's being said. By his father. He's waxing poetic, but they're all digs. At Max. At me. At both of us. We're not talking about it, for our reasons, but I know at some point, we have to. Sooner, rather than later.

I just don't know how to start the conversation. Or navigate it.

"What do you think?" The voice of the estate agent pulls me back into the bare, empty flat I'm looking around. The wooden flooring is basic, but this is a newly-finished block. Everything's set up just to enable prospecting buyers to take a look.

The plain walls, plastered, not painted, would serve as a perfect blank canvas. I could make this place nicer than my current home. I try to picture it in my mind, the way I could turn this into a proper home. But nothing stays for long. A fleeting image of deep red walls turns to dust as my traitorous thoughts question why I'm doing this.

I want to leave.

"I've got a few— other places to look at." I finally say, turning around, wanting to get the hell out of here. I can't think. I can't breathe. The walls don't feel far away anymore. They're too close, too large.

Stepping outside provides little solace. The sea air should be a comfort, but all I can think of is those words, and how my mind is already twisting them. Am I doing this because I want to? Or is it because of Max? Would I even consider moving if we weren't together?

Get out of your head, I have to tell myself. I'm being an idiot. This isn't me. This is just the stress of everything that's happened in the past month or so. The crash, the nightmares, the injuries, and this shit is just the icing on top. I'm allowing it to eat at me.

I get my phone into my hands without thinking. I need to speak to someone who can talk some sense into me. Someone that won't judge, and won't tell others. James is the first name that comes to mind. But he's got his own shit to worry about. Liam? No, I think he's with his family right now. George? No, I can't handle how direct he is. My own failing, not his. He doesn't mince his words.

So who can I talk to?

A huff leaves me as I realise there's one person I could speak to that understands crippling anxiety. Someone who doesn't use sharp words when soft ones would be better.

Jessie (Me);
Need some advice.
About a lot of shit.
Any chance you're free to talk?

Estie (Esteban);
Of course!
One second, I'll call!

My phone rings a few seconds later; I swipe the screen and place it to my ear as I leave the area on foot, sighing out into the cool winter air.

"Hey."

"What's wrong? Is it the stuff his dad's been saying?" Straight to the point. I can't be sure if I appreciate it or hate that we're not even going into niceties first, to soften the blow that is the topic at hand.