Page 23 of Flat Out
I wiped my eyes, but the burn didn’t stop. “She picked the fucking locks of my flat and then held me like Iwasdying,” I rasped, forcing it out through the lump in my throat. “Then hours later she walked into a studio and put the sexist FIA officials in their place without flinching. And I just... laid here. I didn’tdeserveher showing up the way she did. And I'm so fucking sorry, Mum.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then, soft as a secret, “Do you love her?”
I pressed the tin of lavender balm to my chest and breathed Aurélie in. “I think I’ve always loved her,” I murmured.
The nightmare flickered across my vision again. It may have ended with the sobering thought that my future was ripped away from me. Now I wanted to rewrite the ending. With her safe, with her head on my chest and our baby tucked between us. With her laughter echoing down the halls of whatever home we built. I used to think I wasn’t built for any of it. But now I knew I was made for this—forher.
"For a long, long time." No one knew the truth about just how long I'd been obsessed with her. From the very first time I saw her all those years ago…
“Then don’t fuck it up.”
The second we hung up, I was already searching the internet for photos. I scrolled past podiums, crash footage, behind-the-scenes selfies Marco forced me to take. And then, there it was.Thephoto in Montreal. Right after she reached me on a gurney.Our hands were clasped together like we didn’t know how to let go. Her forehead was pressed to mine.
I had been so scared she’d disappear and I'd realize I was actually dead. But she didn’t disappear. She fought like hell. And now it’s my turn.
In this photo, we looked like the end of the world and the beginning of everything.
I stared at it for a long time. Then opened Instagram, and with trembling hands, I typed:
I stand with her. I stand by her. I stand for her. I stand because of her.
No tags, no filter. Just truth.
I hovered over the keyboard. WroteI love you.Paused, then deleted it, because she hadn’t said no to my half-joke proposal in our text thread. Which meant she was as crazy about me as I was about her.
And I’d take that.
Until Austria.
I wokeup feeling as if I’d been steamrolled by a grid of tractors. My head throbbed, ribs screaming with every shift, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Emotionally, I felt like I’d sprinted a hundred laps in the dark without ever crossing the finish line. The only light was the lavender salve and the sticky notes she’d left behind—crumpled now, but tucked safe in my nightstand drawer like souvenirs.
Souvenir.
Out of curiosity during my endless spiral of thoughts last night, I’d looked up the word. I’d always known it was French—hell, I’m fluent enough to hold my own in any paddock conversation—but I’d never stopped to think about what it really meant. Not the watered-down English version we use for trinkets in tourist shops.
In French, it’s not just something you keep. It’s something youremember. A memory you carry, a piece of a moment you refuse to let fade.
That washer. Every note, every touch of her throughout my flat, every whiff of lavender still floating through the air. Not just keepsakes, butreminders. Proof that she’d been here, that I hadn’t imagined her whispering things to me in her native tongue. Explaining to me what the termtu me manquesliterally translated to.
And maybe that was the reason I looked it up to begin with. I was desperate for more, for pieces of her, for a deeper understanding of everything that embodied her.
Aurélie was the memory I couldn’t stop revisiting. And the worst part—the best part—was knowing she’d left these pieces of herself behind on purpose.
So even now, with her in Paris and me in Monte Carlo, she lingered. She was still showing up for me, quietly and fiercely. And now I needed to show up for her.
After her interview, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Instead, I spent hours scrolling, watching every clip of her I could find. Not just from this week but from years ago. F2 podium interviews, grid walks, candid fan videos, her old social media posts. Anything to hear her voice and see the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. Somewhere between midnight and sunrise, I fell down a rabbit hole and learned more than I’d ever known.
Her favorite candy, of all things, was jelly beans. Not the cheap, artificial kind—because why would it be? She loved the ridiculously fancy ones with flavors like rosewater, lychee, and cherry cola. The kind you have to special order by thepound. I found a candy shop not far from me that had them, so in the wee hours of the night, I bought them to be delivered today.
She’d once told a French reporter that Monaco was the playground for the rich and famous, and that she wanted to sipespresso on a balcony here overlooking the harbor with a fresh baked pastry. I immediately went onto a delivery app to find my favorite patisserie–the one that I discovered had pistachio croissants–and ordered half a dozen of them.
Then I found a café that carried an imported French roast that I spotted in the background of a video she posted a couple years ago. In the video, she was with her twin brother, Étienne, prepping a pre-race week breakfast and making coffee. Sometimes it was hard to imagine them as siblings, because the only resemblance between them was the eyes. She glowed with her golden blonde hair, and his hair was darker and straighter than hers.
Even their personalities were drastically different. Étienne was a beloved member of the racing community, all sunshine and bright smiles. He played the role well to be a fan favorite driver, but it was all for show. Behind the scenes, he was arrogant and just enough of an asshole to make half of the grid steer clear of him.
He was aggressive, I’ll give him that, but too impulsive, always burning through his tires early, missing braking points when the pressure was on, forcing overtakes in places no sane driver would try. His need to win every battle on the track kept him from winning the war.
Aurélie, though… she was calculated chaos. Patient when she needed to be, ruthless when it counted. She read races like a book she’d already memorized, taking risks only when they tipped the odds in her favor. She didn’t just drive the car. She bent it, the strategy, and the moment to her will. And that was really saying something given the shitbox she drove.
