t w o w e e k s l a t e r

I usually considered myself a sunny person. People often underestimated how much your environment affects the type of person you grow up to be, but I knew growing up in Encinitas injected a type of sunshine in my veins that most people didn't have.

The same could be said for Gemma, whose generally chilly disposition mirrored the dismal overcast of the city she'd called home for over 10 years. She looked in her element as I caught sight of her through the crowd, standing on the train platform with a black jumper and sharp, dark aviator sunglasses, waving her hand casually as she was engrossed in what seemed to be a displeasing phone conversation. I could practically feel the eye roll behind the lenses of her sunglasses.

I'd taken a train right from France, still lugging around my surfboard and some sand in questionable places from the Roxy Pro event in Hossegor out on the coast. I'd secured an actual, legitimate 3rd place, which kept me in the top 10 in the world rankings. Despite the beating my body took, my mind was elsewhere, floating on a cloud and not contemplating the drop back down. I was going to enjoy my weekend in London with my best friend, and nothing was going to fuck that up for me.

Still suckered into her phone call, Gemma didn't initially notice me walking up to her. With a smirk curling up my lips, I popped up in front of her, nearly causing her to jump out of her Gucci trainers.

"Hi." I grinned widely at her.

Gemma put her hand to her chest as she hung her phone up with her other hand, shaking her head slowly at me. "I was about a tenth of a second away from hitting you."

I pulled her into a hug, squeezing the near life out of her and enveloping myself in her citrusy, woodsy smell. Gemma had been wearing Mademoiselle Chanel since she was tall enough to reach over the perfume counter at Harrods, and the familiarity of it made me warm.

"I missed you," I mumbled into her shoulder, feeling the soft cotton of her jumper brush against my cheek.

"I missed you too." Gemma pulled away and gave me one of her wide, perfect white toothed smiles. When you spend such long periods of time away from someone close to you, seeing them fills the little spaces in your heart that grow in their absence. That's not to say that when you leave, it tears the stitches open all over again. Long distance friendships were hard enough. Long distance relationships were like holding an anchor and jumping into dark water, never sure of when you'd hit the bottom.

Gemma expertly led us through the dissipating lunch crowd of Kings Cross Station, but I still nearly decapitated a man in a suit with my surfboard.

"You couldn't have sent that back home?" she groaned.

"And trust it in the hands of strangers?" I scoffed. "I'm offended you'd even suggest such a thing."

It didn't change the fact that we now had to strap a 7 foot long surfboard to the roof of Gemma's Audi, which was nearly an insurmountable task for two tiny girls. When I finished hooking in the final bungee cord, I skirted around to the passenger side door, nearly knocking Gemma over in the process, who glared at me.

"Wrong side, Sav. You've been to England before, get with the program."

I groaned. "Right, right, sorry."

As Gemma maneuvered us out of King's Cross and eventually through the cobblestone streets of a tiny neighborhood, I fiddled with the radio stations.

My phone vibrated in my lap, and for a split second my heart skipped. It was just my dad, making sure I got to London alright.

I huffed out a sigh and pressed my phone back facedown into my lap. I didn't know why at this point my body couldn't keep up with my head. I knew it wasn't Atlas, and I'd personally made sure of that.

I slid my glance over at Gemma to see if she'd picked up on my subtle frustration, but she her eyes forward towards the narrow, car-lined streets. There was no point in telling her what happened with Atlas - she'd approach it all with her usual grace and logic, but grace and logic couldn't help someone who had rattled the wolf's cage too many times. I needed to just walk away with minimal scratches.

Besides, I wasn't about to let any creature without a uterus ruin my weekend with my best friend.

After settling on a fuzzy indie rock station, I leaned back into the plush leather seats of Gemma's car and glanced out the window. Rows of white houses were stacked neatly beside one another, nestled behind little square yards and rows of trees. I stuck my hand out of the open window and let my hand coast along with the wind, humming along softly to Holly Humberstone.

"So are we actually going to Notting Hill this time?" I asked her. "Every time I'm here you tell me you're going to take me and you never do."

"Because it's just a cute pastel neighborhood with markets," Gemma stated pointedly. "Wouldn't you rather just shop?"

"Shop?" I gave her an exacerbated sigh. "What exactly would I be shopping for? Bathing suits?"

Gemma kept her eyes on the road ahead, but the tiniest smirk curled the corners of her lips. "Well, you're going to need to buy an outfit for tomorrow. I'm assuming you didn't bring anything remotely appropriate to wear anyway."

A sudden panic hammered at my chest. "Tomorrow?" I sputtered out. "What the fuck is tomorrow?"

Gemma kept her mouth pinched shut, still curled up into that little grin of hers. Subtle, and just slightly cunning, as I would expect from someone going into politics, but as my best friend I knew it was also the way she kept her emotions zipped up when she got overly excited about something. That being said, things that excited Gemma were a whole other universe away from things that excited me.

"Gemma, don't tell me this is another tour of Parliament." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I'm really not interested in old men in white wigs. They're not even stylish."

Gemma shook her head. "You're going to care about what I have to tell you."

I pursed my lips, thinking back to our previous facetime calls where Gemma poorly tried to hide someone else's presence. "You have a secret boyfriend."

"Better."

"So you're not denying it."

Gemma took a breath, her smirk faltering ever so slightly. After slowing to a stop at a red light, she nodded her head towards the car's dashboard. "Look in the glove compartment."

The light turned green, and as Gemma navigated through the narrow side streets of her picturesque Angel neighborhood, I popped the glove compartment open, retrieving two laminated cards with lanyards attached. They looked like concert backstage passes, but when I flipped it over, and Silverstone Grand Prix glared back at me in bold letters, my heart dropped like an anchor into my stomach. I eyed Gemma with seething suspicion.

"Gemma, what the fuck is this?"

Even calm, cool, and collected temporarily escaped Gemma as she grinned widely at me and nodded. "Are you ready to watch boys drive fast cars this weekend?"

Not telling Gemma about my Miami night with Atlas turned out to do more harm than good, because no, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to watch Atlas in his element, to watch him probably dominate in something I still knew so little about, and smile that cunning, effervescent smile of his while he did it. I wasn't ready to be reminded that I had let something go that maybe I shouldn't have.

I sighed. "All I wanted was to go to Notting Hill."

Unsurprisingly, maneuvering through Gemma's chic but ancient apartment building and all its narrow hallways and creaking stairwells with my 7 ft surfboard was a disaster. It didn't even fit in the rickety elevator, and so I nearly toppled backwards down the stairs several times while trying to climb up to Gemma's fourth floor flat. People gave me weird glances like I had fins and a tail.

Gemma ordered us Taiwanese food from Din Tai Fung down the block, and as we settled onto her obnoxiously plush suede couch, I found myself unable to stomach my noodles when the TV flickered on, with something that seemed to be a race on full blast. It didn't take much for me to realize that it was full tilt Formula 1, high octane and smoking tires and all. Rain ricocheted off the cars like sparks, and despite the downpour they still seemed to zoom around the track with reckless abandon.

In the back of my mind, I knew Gemma was just trying to be a good friend. Guess I couldn't have really said the same about myself, and my lie by omission was about to ruin a good weekend for us. So I swallowed my pride, and some rice noodles.

"So, I am confusion," I said, pointing at the TV with my fork. "I thought the race was tomorrow. Why are they doing this?"

"Saturdays are for qualifying," Gemma stated in a matter-of-factly tone, as if I should have known Saturdays were for qualifying. This kind of common knowledge did not exist in my sphere of influence, partially because I didn't want it to. But it seemed like Gemma was hellbent on pulling things I wanted to keep at an arms' distance right up into my face.

"You're going to have to be specific." I rolled my eyes. Before my eyes could make their full round, I glanced down to see a grey fluffy mound of fur with its paws in my box of food. I groaned, now vividly remembering when Gemma called me ecstatic that she'd rescued some poor kitten from a dumpster by her university. "Gemma, your kitten is in my noodles."

Gemma shook her head and immediately extracted Walt from the noodles, but he meowed loudly in protest. The moment she put him down, he ambled back over to me and my noodles. "Walt is really sweet, okay? Give him a chance."

Walt swatted my leg with his little paw. "He kinda looks like a stuffed animal." He mewed again and gave me a little headbutt in my thigh. I smirked triumphantly. "I think he likes me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Gemma quipped with the flick of her wrist. "Walt loves when I have company. Although, apparently, he was a total psycho when we were in Monaco...as per my neighbor."

The television blared to life again, and the way Atlas's name fluttered from the English-accented announcer had me taking my tension out on my noodles, stabbing at them with my fork.

"Here comes Atlas Vaughn, who has been looking good all weekend long in that Porsche! That is just his first lap in this final qualifying session, and it might be too good to beat for quite a few."

It was easy to pick up Atlas's car, with that familiar bright yellow and red Porsche crest against the midnight black of the rest of the body. He flew around a corner and down into what seemed to be the starting line, crossing it with blistering speed as the rain continued to come down. The number 1 was painted in bright red on the front of his car.

"One of one," I whispered to myself.

"What did you say?" Gemma nudged me.

"Uh, nothing," I shook my head.

Gemma turned her attention back to the television and wiggled her eyebrows. "Your Welsh lad fairs well in the rain."

I scoffed, trying to deflect from the satisfied smirk that so desperately wanted to make its home on my face. "How do you even know all this? I know your sudden interest is not just because I had a two-night stand with one of them and sent him drunk Instagram DMs." I paused and shot her a puzzled look. "I mean, at least I hope it's not."

Gemma sat up straight and rolled her shoulders back. "Formula 1 was born at Silverstone in Great Britain. This is culturally significant. I also hate football, and this is the next best thing."

Precise. Calculating. Logical. As Gemma always was. A normal person wouldn't have thought twice, but to me, her response was almost too rehearsed - all the way down to calling soccer football. I didn't have much time to overthink it as the cars continued to whip around the track. I guess not everyone could handle the rain like Atlas could as I watched a bright orange car spin out while coming around a turn, sending water and smoke ricocheting from the tires. After two more cars whipped by, he managed to slide himself back on track.

I gave Gemma a wary nod, unable to fully tear my eyes away from the television. They cut to an angle that resembled being in the actual driver's seat with a GoPro, showing a replay of that same orange car spinning out in what seemed like slow motion as the rain made visibility almost damn near impossible, save for the red flashing lights on each car that zipped by. My heart was in my throat even when I had no idea who was sitting in that seat. People watched this for fun?

I bit down on my lip, slapping my fork against the side of the plastic food container. "So what, do they like...take turns or something?"

Gemma laughed and shook her head. She tied her blonde hair back into a perfect slick ponytail before addressing me. "You really don't know anything about this, do you?"

It wasn't a malicious question, but rather came from a place of surprise. As if this was something I should have bonded with Atlas over and taken a keener interest in, but the entire basis of my so-called relationship with Atlas was all about escapism...for both of us. It wasn't my place to air out the things we spoke softly to each other in the haze of early mornings.

"It's uh...not exactly a topic of conversation for us." I stabbed at my noodles again and shoved a forkful in my mouth. At least that was the truth.

"Well, for starters, qualifying is how they determine the grid order for the race on Sunday," Gemma responded, as eloquent as ever. "There are three timed sessions, and there's a process of elimination for each. So if your time isn't in the top ten during Q2, you don't make it into Q3, which is what we're watching now."

"They get to go more than once, right?"

Gemma chuckled. "I know math isn't your strong suit, but think about it like this - if they're clocking in 1 minute 30 second laps, and the session is 15 minutes, realistically how many chances do you think they have? Besides, they usually come into the box at least once."

"It almost sounds like a heat in surfing." I nodded, the gears starting to turn now that I could relate it to something I actually understood. "You can ideally catch however many waves within the allotted minutes of the heat to attempt to get the score you want."

Gemma smirked at me. "Now you're getting it."

"Mercedes' star Adrian Olsen has gone fastest of all on the intermediate tyres, and that has put the cat amongst the pigeons!"

I couldn't help but snicker at the announcer's British idioms. Cat amongst pigeons? I glanced over at Walt, cognac-colored eyes bright and curious, knowing full well he wouldn't be chasing any pigeons. A sleek silver car came throttling around a corner, the little flecks of metallic paint still shining in the overcast gloom of the rain. Bold text fluttered in across the top of the screen - New Track Record: Adrian Olsen 1:28:06.

"And now Vaughn is bailing on what could've been the fastest lap of the session to go into the pit lanes. Porsche is making a risky last minute change from the full wet tyres to the intermediates."

The rain began to let up, and little bits of sunlight filtered onto the track through fat grey clouds. The camera zoomed into Atlas in his car, his red-tinted visor up and his icy eyes locked directly into the camera's lens. I shuddered, like he was looking right at me.

I felt Gemma jab me in the thigh, but it didn't really register - I was too busy trying to force my heart back down my throat.

"I don't get it, what happened?" I groaned.

"That guy on the Mercedes team," Gemma swallowed her food and pointed at the TV with her fancy chopsticks. "Adrian Olsen. Snarky Swedish guy, last year's World Champion. They switched him from a tyre used in the rain to a tyre used in half-wet/half-dry conditions and he's just set a track record for time, so all the other teams are following suit thinking it'll help them, including your boy."

I groaned again and had to swallow my words back. He's not my boy. I made sure of that myself. Savannah the master of deflection stepped in and made a hard left turn. "I think the fact that you've suddenly become such an expert is the least surprising thing about this entire weekend."

A voice I had grown to know a little too well came through a static blip on the television.

"These tyres suck, I have no *bleep* grip. I told you not to jump the gun and change the *bleep* tyres."

"Wait..." I let out a breath. "That's actually him. That's live? He sounds pissed."

Gemma shrugged. "That's because he probably is."

I thought back to my conversation with Atlas in Miami - that was the voice of someone who was moody, frigid, and did not play well with others.

"Gem..." I glanced over at her warily, trying to keep a neutral expression. "Since you're such an expert now, is there something more I should know about Atlas?"

Gemma tapped a chopstick against her chin, her brows furrowed like she was deeply contemplating her next words. "I'm under the impression he wouldn't win a popularity contest among the other drivers. So, maybe he's not really the warm and cuddly type..." she glanced slyly in my direction. "Unless you have physical proof that rebukes that statement."

I scoffed. "Gemma!"

"What? You asked. Your deflection says enough, anyway."

I thought I had proof, in the way his tongue would trace the constellation of freckles on my collarbone, and in the way his breath was warm against my cheek when we whispered to each other in the night...but what the hell did I really know? Judging by today, apparently not much. Maybe this was the real Atlas, and I'd just deceived myself into thinking there was something more.

Before I had a chance to prod Gemma even more, the race announcer and all his accented glory recaptured our attention.

"We're in the last minute of this Q3 session here, and everyone is getting started on their final flying lap."

Gemma leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her, suddenly enthralled with . I gave her another side-eyed glance. "So...do you have a favorite then, since it's clearly not Atlas."

"Jaye Lim has a personal best through the final sector, and he crosses the line to improve to 3rd fastest overall. But what a disaster for his teammate. P4 is not what Atlas Vaughn anticipated for his home race weekend after leading in all free practices and Q1."

I bit down on my lip as crowd noise roared from the television, where a bright siren-red car came rocketing down to the finish line."Unsurprisingly another pole for Callahan Jane, his 4th so far this year, just beating out Adrian Olsen who will be snapping at Jane's heels into the first corner tomorrow."

"Well, everyone admires Adrian Olsen, and honestly I do too." Gemma paused and nodded to the TV, where the camera was following the cool down lap of car #9, which I could only assume was Adrian's, coasting along the track in the misty rain the way a dolphin coasts along the waves. "I'm also partial to Ferrari. They're the red cars."

The camera cut to Atlas climbing out of his car in Porsche's super high-tech looking garage, all chrome and big screens, lit up with several camera angles and too much data to comprehend. He threw his helmet across the garage and after a heated exchange with a guy in a large headset, he stalked further back into the garage, his cheeks red with some combination of heat and anger. A gaggle of guys in Porsche jackets followed him back, but the camera didn't. I felt the heat from Gemma's sideways glance.

The three top cars slid into spots marked with large numbered signs - 1, 2, and 3. Before I could steal a glance at the other drivers, who seemed like otherworldly anomalies with nothing more than a name at this point, the TV went dark.

"So do you want to shower before we head out?" Gemma jumped up from the couch and began collecting all of our Taiwanese food boxes and plates. "You've been shedding sand onto my couch."

"Head out?" I shook my head. "Head out where?"

Deny, deny, deny.

Gemma shot me a glare. "To Silverstone." It flicked off her tongue in annoyance. "It's just better if we go now. I got us a cute AirBnB, and it's only about an hour and a half drive from here. I don't fancy having to get up early to get out there tomorrow and hit traffic."

"No, no, don't worry about me," I grumbled. "I didn't want a moment to breathe or anything after all that."

If the way my heart felt like exploding was any indication of how the rest of my weekend would go, I had a feeling I'd need more than just a moment. I'd need a god damn year.

and it's so good when we dance all night
and i swear that i'd be alright
but it's gettin' harder and harder to reach you
and london is lonely without you

london is lonely / holly humberstone

not me setting unrealistic expectations that you'll get aesthetics at the end of every chapter...but sav and gem are really just the core of my writing happiness, so they deserve it.

anyway, i figured now would be an appropriate time to slip in a few reminders for y'all -

1. this story is fictional. bestie adrian, baby jaye, and anyone else that is or becomes relevant in this story has been completely made up and are not based on any real person. i genuinely love creating characters, and there's also just no need for me to project my personal opinions on real-life people through fiction. please just be understanding and respectful of that, i'm tired of having to repeat myself. however, some specific in-race situations may inspired by real life because i'm definitely not a racing savant, and we are going for realism as best as we can here.

2. since this was apparently a sore spot for certain people in the first draft of the story, i'll make it more clear now - savannah is not an f1 fan and had no knowledge of it prior to meeting atlas, and therefore should not be expected to now suddenly know everything about it. it's unrealistic. her asking gemma questions is not bad or annoying, she's attempting to be interested and learn because of atlas.

3. this story was first conceptualized in august of 2020. just something for y'all to keep in mind 😇

thank you so much for reading and for loving my kids, even after you've witnessed atlas vaughn's first (justifiable) tantrum. i love and appreciate y'all, and as always i'd love to hear your thoughts and feelings so far! it's chapter 10, but we're really only just getting started 😈