Gemma and I had agreed to sit up in a VIP box together for the race.

Rain continued to trickle off of the overhang and onto the glass railing in front of us, little droplets racing down to beat each other to the bottom.

Gemma inched forward in her seat just the slightest as the cars' engines roared to life to begin the formation lap. Rain ricocheted off of everyone's tyres, sending sprays of water like palm fronds into the air.

The icy white of Atlas's car passed right behind Callahan's Ferrari, sitting in that same P5 and P6 they ended up in after yesterday's qualifying disaster. When Atlas had finally joined me back at the hotel, we acknowledged what had happened and his heated exchange with Callahan, but we didn't talk about it in the way we should have. It was race weekend, and I wasn't sure unpacking that would have made today any easier for him.

While we'd been getting used to sleeping in the same bed more frequently, Atlas and I weren't snugglers. In fact, we'd gotten so used to each other that we would end up waking up with our backs to each other, rolled over on our respective sides of the bed.

But last night, he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me in close to him, feeling his breathing uneven as his chest pressed against my back. There was an unease to his presence that I couldn't place.

A gust blew a few rogue raindrops onto us, and I was thankful I'd finally made a substance over style decision and opted for Atlas's Porsche bomber jacket as I pulled it tighter over my chest. For once, Gemma lacked the substance, though her style remained in a black cropped blazer and slacks combo with a thick black headband to keep her hair back.

I gestured to her ensemble, which I knew was fresh from the Babaton winter collection. "Gem, are you sure you're good with all of this getting wet?"

"That's what umbrellas are for," she replied as she crossed her legs, turning her body to entirely face the track as the boys came around, but they went for another formation lap instead of lining up for the race start.

"They're going around again?" I asked her.

"It's raining," Gemma stated.

The silence Gemma let linger afterwards was self-explanatory. Everything did in fact change when it rained.

"You know," Gemma continued as she shifted in her chair again, pulling at the sleeves of her blazer. "This is the longest stretch of time that we've spent more time together than not."

I chuckled. "November has really been never ending. Like we're in the story."

Gemma tilted her head at me. "The what?"

"You know, with the dragon, and the book, and the song?" I waved around my wine glass.

Gemma arched an eyebrow at me, her features mixed with alarm and confusion.

I scoffed and waved her off. "You know what, never mind. Remind me when you're flying into John Wayne so I can make sure I'm around to come get you."

"The last weekend of November," she confirmed. "So the month will in fact end."

I breathed out an audible sigh of relief.

It would be the first time Gemma had been back to Encinitas since childhood, and since she wasn't coming to Tahiti, this was how we were going to spend time together before my last event of the season before the finals.

The first few cars made their way down the starting grid, with Adrian's silver Mercedes slotting into pole position. I smirked at Gemma. "Do you think Nina is watching? That's essentially her man up there now, isn't it?"

Gemma gave me a cryptic half-laugh. "Yes, and to be determined."

The air rumbled with noise from the engines, and through the haze of the rain, the five lights lit up a burning red. One by one they shut off, until the last one went dark, and the engine roared to full power as they shot down towards the first turn, where a curtain of fog and water obstructed almost everything. Between the spray and the speed of the cars disappearing into turn one, we were forced to turn and look at the screen behind us, just in time to see disaster strike.

A white car skidded off of the track into the runoff on turn two, taking two or three more cars with it behind them, and my heart damn near exploded in my chest, frantically searching for clarity on the car number. 21. Jaye.

As the replay flashed on the screen, this was decidedly not a racing incident as it was obvious enough Jaye slipped out and went right into everyone else.

Relief whooshed out of my chest, and I felt Gemma reach over and give my arm a gentle squeeze. Adrian continued to lead down into the go fuck yourself parabolika as first yellow flags, and then red flags came out, with both Atlas and Callahan unharmed and still in their original positions. The cars all slowed and veered off track and back into the pit lanes. A red flag meant no cars could even be on the track while they cleared the other cars off the circuit and gave the rain time to let up. As the cars filed in, an unsettling stillness came down on the whole circuit.

"Well, this sucks," I huffed as I sat back in my chair. "How long do these red flags usually last? I've never seen one before."

Gemma offered a shrug. "Could be twenty minutes, could be an hour." She paused and let out a sympathetic sigh. "Jaye made kind of a mess."

The rain began to let up a bit, and down in the pit lane I saw the guys begin to get out of their cars, taking their helmets off as rain jackets were draped over their shoulders.

I glanced down at my VIP pass. "We still have our passes...could we go down to the garages?"

The faintest smirk tugged at Gemma's lips. "I don't think anyone would stop us."

So we went down to the paddock from the VIP section, ducking under a shared red umbrella as Gemma dropped me off at the Porsche garages before making her way to Ferrari's.

I caught my breath as I wormed my way through the snaking back hallways and into the garage itself, where a few pit crew members sat around while mechanics and engineers reviewed some data on the far wall and wheeled different tyres through.

Atlas sat slumped in a chair in the far corner with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hat sat low on his head as he kept his gaze down. His mechanics skirted around the garage and avoided him like he was radioactive.

"You know, I think that pouting you've got going on is what's causing the rain," I grinned as I stood over him.

The clouds in his eyes cleared as he looked up at me. "If the weather was reflective of my mood, it would be typhooning," he grumbled. "But it might lighten up now that you're here."

"You wanna talk?" I asked as I lowered myself into a chair next to him.

"Not really," he replied softly, and while there was no malice in his voice, sometimes you could just feel when there was an energy shift in someone. I was starting to get deja vu from last night, and I stood up, offering him my hand.

"Let's go check on the weather. There's nothing else to do."

After a moment that felt like far longer, he took my hand and led us to the front of the garage. Atlas put his hat on my head and pulled the hood of his jacket up as we glanced out to the pit lane, watching a myriad of mechanics from various teams in orange, black, blue, and white dart around like someone spilled a bag of skittles. Of course, Atlas had zeroed in on the Red Power Ranger himself as he trekked from the Ferrari pitwall back to the garage. He made eye contact with Atlas, and the energy shift came again, seething and smoking the way that Atlas's tyres did during qualifying. He slid Atlas an uncharacteristic scowl before disappearing into the Ferrari garage beside us, where I assumed Gemma was waiting for him.

I pinched the elbow on Atlas's jacket. "Are you still mad about what happened yesterday with Cal?"

"I'm not mad," came his short reply as he turned on his racing boot and went back into the depths of the garage. I was on his heels as we walked by his car, taking care not to touch anything.

"I see," I nodded as Atlas sat back down in one of the folder chairs at the back of the garage.

"Don't do that," he groaned as he rubbed the side of his face.

I took the seat beside him, draping my arm over the back of his chair. "Do what? Sound cryptic like Gemma?"

He side-eyed me, and his voice dropped to a low whisper. "You know what. Poke at the cracks. I've got enough people doing that."

"I'm not just people, Atlas. I'm yours." I let my hand move from the back of the chair to his shoulder, tracing small circles with my thumb. "I'm just trying to help you."

"I know," Atlas surrendered, his voice still low. "I'm not mad at him. I'm just mad it was ruled a fucking racing incident like it always is with Callahan. God forbid it's ever just his fault or his mistake."

I heaved out a sigh. "You guys are friends. Whatever decisions the FIA makes, you don't need to make this more complicated than it already is. Holding onto shit just makes it worse for yourself."

Atlas pressed his clenched fists down into his pants, but before he had a chance to speak up, Ronnie appeared out of the mist over us, his headset dangling around his neck.

"30 minutes until restart," he told us in his thick cockney accent. "Looks like it'll probably switch from laps to time at some point."

"Beautiful. Fucking beautiful." Atlas's voice dripped with sarcasm as he stood up from the chair. I didn't dare ask what switching from laps to time meant, since it was obvious enough that Atlas was not a fan. That's what I had Gemma for - my Formula 1 glossary.

"I'll see you after the race." I gave his hand a squeeze, and we shared one last glance before I left through the back of the garage. The despondency in his eyes was hard to miss, but I couldn't linger any longer.

I met my personal glossary back up in the VIP box, our wine glasses magically refilled on the glass table in front of our chairs. Clear skies began to poke through the thick blankets of clouds, but the rain hadn't let up just yet.

"Did Cal say anything to you about Atlas?" I asked as I reached for my wine glass, feeling the slightest shake in my hand. There was an unintentional sharpness to my words that I was sure Gemma picked up on, and there was no way Callahan hadn't mentioned their silent scowling standoff just 10 minutes ago. It said a hell of a lot more than words could have.

"Of course," Gemma replied coolly.

Sirens went off in my head. "Is Cal mad at him?"

"Not necessarily. It's not so cut and dry."

I knew Gemma wouldn't surrender specifics of what her and Callahan said to each other in confidence, but I didn't need specifics. I just wanted anything that could lead me to a solution. Atlas was off, and there was no denying that any longer. Callahan Jane might have been the only person with the experience (with Atlas, on and off track) to provide meaningful insight.

"Then what is it?" I asked, leaning forward in my chair, almost in anticipation.

"It is probably frustration. They're not rookies anymore, and how it was handled wasn't a good look for them." She relinquished a soft sigh, letting her gaze wander out to the track, where the teams were beginning to ready themselves for the restart. "Cal was still a bit feisty after the team debrief last night, but that's not where his head is at today. It hasn't come up once."

Today. I let out a sigh. Apparently, today I'd been full of miscalculations. It seemed Callahan's scowl may have been just that - a simple scowl - but it clearly ran deeper for Atlas. I saw it in his eyes.

"Oh, okay," I sat up in my chair, trying to let the last 20 minutes roll off my shoulders like rain on the overhangs. "Down in the garage, we saw Cal on his way back from the pitwall and there was this baby silent standoff between them."

"Oh?" Gemma arched a brow, all but confirming that Callahan hadn't mentioned the exchange.

"Well, I didn't know Cal could scowl like that - I'm impressed," I joked with her. She smiled up at me, and it took some of the iciness off of the edge I'd been feeling.

"But it's a handsome scowl, isn't it? I haven't completely evaded them."

"How special." I slid her a coy smirk.

We filled the last 15 minutes or so with an easy conversation about the new Babaton winter collection from Aritzia. Apparently Gemma still had things in her online cart, and they were all black.

After another two formation laps of deja vu, we were ready to go racing again, and the rain had become nothing more than a sprinkle. However, the track was still slick, and all the cars sported the blue-striped full wet extreme tyres. The engines revved up just like they had before, and rain came spraying off the tyres as the lights went out.

This time, Callahan's red Ferrari sped around the outside of the two blue Katin cars before they hit turn one, but Atlas's Porsche was swallowed up by them in the back, left in a cloud of mist and rain as cars continued to pass him. I twisted around to look at the TV behind us, where his name had dropped to P8 on the timing screen. Up at the top, where it would normally read LAP 2/67, there was a countdown. 1 hour, 28 minutes.

Time instead of laps, just like Ronnie had said.

I glanced back to Gemma, who had slid to the edge of her chair, wearing a proud smile. 

"He'll be all right," she offered when she looked over at me, no doubt referring to Atlas's bad start. "He's a good racecar driver."

But as I'd learned lately, being a good racecar driver sometimes only got you so far, and just like in surfing where the conditions could catch you out and ruin your whole god damn day, it could in Formula 1 too. Sometimes, luck went sour like bad milk.

When parts of the track began to dry and bits of sunlight cut through the clouds, teams began scrambling to bring the cars in to switch the tyres to more appropriate ones for dryer conditions. With Jaye out of the race, Atlas was Porsche's only hope for points in their home race, but I knew by now that with him still sitting in P8, it didn't give them a lot of strategy options.

Callahan, now in P3 after his maneuvers at the restart, came in first and had a stellar pitstop - the kind where you blink and you miss it. He came out back onto the track behind his teammate in P2, and the large flatscreen position on the VIP deck displayed Callahan's radio message for all to hear.

"Plan E, consider. I am faster."

Gemma smirked. This was nothing like Atlas and Ronnie's correspondence throughout the race - Callahan made a demand to his team, but it was calm and calculated and heard. Whatever Plan E was, it looked like it was implemented after a few laps as Callahan's Ferrari teammate slid to the side to allow Callahan to pass him with ease.

I held my breath as Atlas came in for his stop, and it only took a few seconds for me to realize the worst had happened...again. 5 seconds went by, then 10, and finally by 12, he was off. The wheel gun had jammed, because of course.

"Shit," I hissed under my breath. "I don't know that things could get any worse."

The universe must have heard me, because next came Atlas's radio message, neither calm nor calculated.

"I told you not to put the *bleep* inters on. It's dry as a desert out here, I needed slicks."

The countdown above the timing screen resembled a time bomb, and it was quickly on its way down to zero. 30 minutes left.

Up ahead, it had turned into the Cal and Adrian show as Callahan had quickly come up within a second of Adrian in P1, zooming up to him with DRS on the straights to get within literal touching distance of Adrian's Mercedes.

"Please," Gemma breathed out, her hands pressed together in front of her mouth. Every time the cars came by down the start-finish line, her focus was lasered in on Callahan's red Ferrari. I didn't dare break it - I knew Atlas's race was over, and I had to give myself time to recenter so I could be genuinely happy for my friends.

"*bleep* me, don't know how much longer I have. Jane's faster in the corners," came Adrian's chirpy, accented radio message next.

Sure enough, as they came out of the apex of the final corner, Cal inched ahead of Adrian with enough voltage to surge past him in the straightaway right in front of us. Gemma jolted in her chair, grinning the widest grin I'd seen from her in years. The entire grandstand erupted into cheers, and energy was so infectious, I couldn't help but reach over and grab her hand.

"That is the true Red Power Ranger right there," I said to her with a grin. 

There was something rare and absolutely adoring glistening in her eyes. "There's no one like Callahan Jane."

I accompanied Gemma and the rest of the Ferrari crew down to the podium ceremony for Callahan's storming P1 victory. Callahan stood in the staging area where little podiums were set up for them to dispatch their helmets and accompanying gear before going to their post race interviews. Adrian came up to him first to give him a bro hug and that same smize I'd seen him wear so many times already, but shortly after came Atlas, his cheeks red and his hair a windswept mess.

As they leaned their heads together to share a few words, Callahan strategically positioned himself so that his back was to the crowd and the cameras. My heartbeat kicked up into a frenzy for what felt like the 100th time today, and as Callahan turned away from Atlas, I heard in a distinctly French-accented voice, "And that's all it is."

Judging by the silence that fell over the rest of the nearby crowd, they all heard it too. They separated like two scheming little kids without a handshake or any kind of physical acknowledgement. I reached down to give Gemma's hand and apprehensive squeeze, which was all I could do without tainting the otherwise glorious moment. 

Callahan was also forced into a shift in energy as he approached the interviewing reporter, now sporting a victorious grin.

"Callahan Jane, that was an absolute masterclass in the art of racing in the rain," the reporter began, and Callahan gave a wave to the crowd who cheered in agreement.

"That was a very tricky race," he began. "And I hope I don't have to do anything like that anytime soon. Except for winning, I needed that one."

"And by winning, not only did you hold of Adrian Olsen securing his second driver's championship title, but you've now moved yourself up into second in the driver's championship over Atlas Vaughn."

My heart clenched at the sound of Atlas's name, and the cogs started turning. I just didn't know if Atlas was upset because he knew this was happening, or this happened because he was already upset. Everything was muddled like dirty water, and I needed to keep my head above it.

"I had a good fight with Olsen in the final stint. The team made all the right calls with the strategy and we obviously had the pace, and I am so happy we pulled that one off." More cheers, to which Callahan replied to the crowd with a thumbs-up and a tired smile.

Callahan passed off the microphone to Adrian and walked towards us and the rest of his crew. When he got closer, I realized he'd zeroed in on Gemma. As much as I knew she refrained from PDA where she could, she didn't hesitate as they shared a quick kiss before Cal got absolutely jostled by his crew, showered in victory cheers.

I slung my arm around Gemma's shoulder as we watched on, and I grinned at her. "That's gonna make a cute picture."

"I know," she replied with a coy smile and a shrug.

Gemma and I went our separate ways when we arrived back at the hotel, waiting for the boys to rejoin us before going out for drinks to celebrate Callahan's victory. I was in the bathroom taming my hair when I heard Atlas before I saw him, the hotel room door shutting forcefully behind him as he dropped his bag on the tile floor of the front hallway.

"Atlas?" I called out to him, poking my head out of the door of the bathroom.

He brushed by me completely and walked over to the bed, sitting at the edge and pulling his sneakers off.

I treaded lightly - literally and metaphorically - over to him and sat down on the bed beside him.

"Do you wanna talk now?" I asked, brushing a lock of hair off of his forehead.

"About what?" his voice was low, but there was an edge sharper than a knife. 

"About qualifying, about the race, about..." I paused, letting the realization of how much we truly had to unpack sink in. "About everything, I guess."

"There's nothing to talk about," he grumbled, laying back on the bed with his legs still hanging off the bottom. "Everyone's satisfied enough with my poor performance this weekend and Callahan's victory. I don't know what else you think there is to say."

"There's plenty to say, Atlas," I insisted. "I just don't understand why you won't. I don't understand why you insist on being the villain."

Atlas kept his gaze up to the ceiling fan, spinning and throwing shadows to the walls. His voice dropped to a soft whisper. "What else am I supposed to be?"

"Atlas..." I sighed, rubbing my hand down the side of my face. "Can we just-"

"You should go," he said, referencing the plans we'd all made to meet at the rooftop bar. "They're your friends."

"They're your friends too." I reached over and squeezed his hand.

"Are they, though?"

There was no malice left in his voice. It echoed out of him, like he was a hollow, empty shell.

"They are," I replied, although I knew by now, no amount of pleading or begging or insisting would change his mind. He was fully withdrawn into that shell and wouldn't dare show his head. This was no alpha. He was prey.

"Frost would want you there."

"And she would also understand why I can't," I countered. "I'm yours, Atlas Vaughn. Remember that."

I left him to marinate in those words as I left the hotel room to go intercept Gemma in the elevator bays before she left. She sported a nice cardigan and her standard vegan leather pants, primed to celebrate her man's victory.

"You're not coming."

It was a statement as she assessed my leggings and hoodie situation, clearly not fit for the rooftop bar.

I shook my head in response. "I can't."

Gemma scoffed. "You can't?"

"Something's not right Gemma." The words came out softer than I intended them to. "I can't explain it, but...I just can't, okay?"

"Can you at least try to explain it? Is this about you and him, or just him?"

I felt my voice crack in my chest before the words left my mouth. "I...I don't know. I just know I need to stay."

"I know this will sound arbitrary, but we've never celebrated together," Gemma stated plainly. "I don't know the next time we will, so I'd love it if you could be there...even if it's just for a little while."

There was a nostalgic sincerity in her eyes that I'd rarely seen from her, and I had to look down at my socks.

"I'm sorry Gemma, I don't know what else to say."

Perhaps there were things I could have said, but I'd built a stone wall around Atlas this weekend without realizing it until I was already on the other side - trapped in, with him.

Gemma let out a hollow chuckle, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "Callahan had what he thinks was the best worst drive of his career and you can't celebrate with your friends? You're the one who calls him your meilleurs amis."

"He is," I blurted out. "You are. But I..." I swallowed down a confession I wasn't ready for. "I just need to stay with him tonight."

"I don't suppose I'll see you before my flight, so I'll see you in California."

There was no anger or frustration in her voice. It was defeat.

sometimes at night i let it get to me
and sometimes i'm sure it gets to all of us
and last night it had me down, i'm feeling numb
i can try, but sometimes that is not enough

in bloom (acoustic) / neck deep

big shoutout to my resident bono w1ldflow3r for FLP-ing this one with me. perfect strategy, perfect execution. ily m8

seven chapters left and i'm not okay. what are your thoughts/predictions for now to the end???