Page 30 of Flat Out
More than a full day, and nothing. Two days ago, on my last night of visiting before flying to Austria, I left him some polaroids of me in lingerie, getting myself off. In return, he sent me a filthy masturbating video, telling me I was his, and then followed up with a flat-outsext.I hadn't responded, because I was too busy hiding my puffy, tear-covered face on a commercial flight and trying to not completely lose it in public.
Or that’s what I told myself to quell the guilt of pulling away.
I’d given him everything—care, devotion, my body—and maybe that was the problem. Maybe I’d given too much, made it too easy, and now he was slipping through my fingers without even saying goodbye. Just a final send-off of how my body got him off.
Santino said it best back in Monaco.
She was a fun fuck while it lasted.
She fucks like a pornstar if you give her what she wants.
My fingers trembled as I opened my phone and tapped through notifications. Hate, slander, twisted headlines. I scrolled until my thumb hurt.
@thef1advocate: She only cares about her image.
@f1trollololol: Faking trauma for attention.
@bringbackthegridgirls: Fraser’s just a notch on her belt. A FUCKING SLUT.
@theogf1fan: Pit chaser turned activist. Yawn.
I locked my phone and let my head fall to my hands, and seconds later, my phone buzzed. Peeking through my fingers, I saw it was Ivy. I nearly didn't answer, but something about her name flashing across the screen brought a sense of comfort when I needed it the most. A woman also fighting her way through a male-dominated world.
She'd get it.
"Hey," I croaked, putting it on speaker, because holding my phone up felt like too much work.
"You sound devastated," she said, her posh English accent soothing through the phone. "What happened? When we spoke yesterday, you were on top of the world."
I rolled my lips together, debating how much I should tell her, but I decided to anyway. I needed someone to talk to that wasn't just my subconscious and team members who hated me. When I was done, there was a moment of silence.
"You need to breathe, baby girl. Deep breath. In. Out. You've got just a couple minutes left, and I need you to remember who the fuck you are."
Through the tears pooling in my eyes, I laughed. It was bitter, but it was at leastsomeemotion. "What, a disaster in red lipstick?"
"You'reAurélie fucking Dubois. The only driver on the grid actively fighting sexism and advocating for driver safety. You were just appointed one of France's top thirty under thirty. You're the face of the sexiest damn lingerie campaign the sport has ever seen. A national icon with blistering lap times and a body that broke the goddamn internet. You're rewriting the rulebook and smashing the glass ceiling in stilettos."
My heart squeezed, and I struggled to get air in my lungs. "You say that, but none of it feels like it matters because ofhim. I didn't mean to push him away."
"I know. But sometimes we do what we need to in order to survive. That note you left him?" Her voice softened. "That was your way of saying, 'If you really want me, prove it.' You flew across the fuckingplanetfor him. You rearranged your life to make sure he was taken care of, because he sure as fuck wasn't going to ask anyone else to do it. Hell, he wasn't even going to askyou."
I shut my eyes, unable to look at my reflection any longer without feeling sick. In the black behind my lids, there it was, burned into memory. The stack of Polaroids I’d scattered across Callum’s bed before I left, my last pathetic attempt at permanence. A last-ditch effort to seem alluring, to make him remember me when I couldn’t be there. Maybe sexy, maybe something more than that, but also something raw enough to haunt him.
They weren’t just photographs. They were pieces of me I could never take back, because each one captured a version of me only he was allowed to keep. My smile, soft and unguarded in one. My bra half-unhooked in another, the curve of my shoulder tilted like I wanted him to look forever. My mouth parted, flushed, still damp from a gentle yet draining orgasm, seductively looking at the camera over my shoulder, caught in the most vulnerable afterglow I’d ever let anyone see.
I told myself it was brave, that leaving them behind would tether him to me when distance made me feel like nothing. But the truth was uglier. It wasn’t bravery; it was desperation. Flying across the world, nursing him back to health like a fool in love, and then leaving him tokens like a woman begging not to be forgotten.
And the last one—God, the last one—had my handwriting scrawled across the bottom in black ink, two words that felt less like a promise and more like a plea: yours. always.
"I just didn't want to be the only one chasing after this,” I whispered, my lower lip trembling as I fought tears. I couldn’t explain why I was shutting down, other than finally feeling the crushing weight of all the pressure I was under.
"You're not," Ivy reassured me firmly. "You're showing up. You're leading this movement. The world is just catching up to you. And you know what?"
"Hmm?"
"He's going to catch up to you too. Just have a little faith and patience. The man literally just survived a near life-ending crash and then fought for your career."
Something about her words settled in my chest, and I felt my armor returning. I let myself bask in that for a moment before saying, "You're too good at this."
