Page 99 of Red Flagged
It was still early when I left. Monaco was golden with evening light, the streets alive, the sky open. But I couldn’t shake the quiet weight in my chest, a tight pressure that made it hard to breathe.
Exhaling loudly, I tapped the screen in my car to call her. It went straight to voicemail. I frowned and tried again. This time, it rang and rang and rang until her voicemail picked up again.
Okay. So her phone was silenced. That was fine. She’d see I called soon and would return it.
I sent a text anyway, just in case she didn’t see I called. Or so she’d know I wanted to hear from her. Anything, really, to know she was okay and this was just my anxiety speaking rather than a sixth sense I swore I had when it came to her.
How is unpacking going? Need some help?
No response the rest of my drive home. My leg bounced the entire time I was stopped at lights. I chewed the inside of my cheek raw, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. I cracked my knuckles, flexed my hand over the gear shift repeatedly. Anything to keep my hands busy and my brain from spiraling.
None of it worked.
I barely registered the climb up into the city center, the switchbacks winding down toward the harbor. My flat was perched above it all. I gripped the wheel tighter as I pulled into the garage, my phone vibrating on the console beside me. I snatched it up.
It was nothing from her. Just the usual onslaught of social media notifications.
I parked, knowing I should go straight upstairs. But I didn’t. I sat in the car and called her again. Except this time when I got her voicemail, I didn’t hang up. Her voice filled the car, all soft and melodic and perfect French that brought me to my goddamn knees. My heart lurched.
“Salut, c’est Aurélie. Je suis pas dispo maintenant, mais laisse un message et je te rappelle dès que possible. Bisous.”
Hi, it’s Aurélie. I’m not available right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Kisses.
The “bisous” wrecked me. Sweet and unthinking, a kiss through the phone line. Like she hadn’t gone MIA without warning.
I let the silence stretch for just a second, staring at the leather seat beside me—empty, except for the imprint of memory.
God, the first time she was in this car, it was the first day she set the paddock on fire about sexism. She’d seen her ex for the first time since leaving F2 and panicked. She needed to be out of the paddock. The boys and I had snuck her out.
I took her bungee jumping to shut off the noise. And we came back here because she didn’t want to be alone. We were exhausted, adrenaline-drunk, exhausted, laughing about her Frenglish and broken croissants.
I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. It was the first time that had happened in so many years I’d forgotten what real laughter felt like. She blushed, and the way she looked at me after made me realize I was falling head over heels for her.
Now she wouldn’t even pick up the phone.
I blinked back the burn in my eyes and swallowed.
Beep.
“Hey, baby… it’s me,” I said, voice thick. “I just wanted to check in. I know you’re probably unpacking or busy or something, but… I don’t know. I’ve just got this feeling, and I’d feel better if I heard your voice. So… just call me when you can, d’accord? S’il te plaît, mon amour. Je t’aime, Aurélie.”
Maybe the French would pull her back to me. Maybe hearing “mon amour” in my voice would remind her she’s not alone. I didn’t care if I sounded pathetic. I just needed her to know I was still here, still reaching.
Maybe she’d roll her eyes. But if she did… if she heard the way I said her name, the way I begged in her language, maybe it’d crack something open. God, I hoped it would.
Maybe I should’ve said more. Maybe I should’ve called sooner. Maybe she needed me and I was too wrapped up in my own shit to see it. She called on her drive down and—fuck. I just wanted to hear her voice. Even if she was mad and didn’t pick up.
Maybe I should’ve insisted I go with her after the way we left things.
I exhaled, fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel.Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Eventually, I forced myself to get out of the car.
The lift ride to the top floor felt like it took hours, even though it was less than thirty seconds. I couldn’t handle looking at my reflection in the polished doors, so I pulled out my phone again, and opened our group chat, PR Nightmares.
Kimi had sent a meme that morning. Ivy reacted with a laughing emoji. Marco sent a gif. It was normal, chaotic bullshit. But no reply from Aurélie.
I scrolled up, confirming she hadn’t said a single word since yesterday morning.
