Page 88 of Red Flagged
Sunlight slanted through the windshield in pale, watery streaks. The motorway hummed beneath the tires. A blur of highway signs and villages slipped past—Rouen, Évreux, Lisieux. The world was happening at a distance. I kept my music low, fingers clenched around the wheel, body going through the motions because stopping would mean collapsing.
At a gas station somewhere outside Caen, I stopped for fuel and to change my hygiene products. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and I stared into the mirror for too long.
I felt alone. So, so alone. My mind spiraled, remembering the last two times this had happened, both times ending in sterile doctor’s offices and hushed conversations about hormones and bad luck and poor ovarian reserve.
Between the endometriosis—which doctors had only confirmed after my last miscarriage, when complications forced them to perform an exploratory laparoscopy—and the premature ovarian insufficiency, I just felt… worthless. Defective. Like my body was an apology I was always one breath too late to make.
Callum wouldn’t want me to feel this way.
I winced as I climbed back into the car, popping an ibuprofen just to dull the stabbing ache that refused to ease. The weight of the test in my pocket was unbearable.
Do I call him? Not call? Maybe just… plant the seed?
My hands shook slightly as I tapped his name on the screen and backed out of the gas station.
The second I heard his voice, something in me loosened.
“Hey,” he answered softly. “You okay?”
It was hushed. I could hear the echo of other voices in the background, and I imagined him half-turned away, phone against his shoulder, shielding our call.
“I’ll be at the new house in a couple hours,” I murmured, tears springing to my eyes unbidden. “There’s… something I want to tell you.”
There was a pause, and then muffled movement on his end. Voices grew louder. Laughter? Discussion? A door closed, but the noise remained, just muffled now.
“Sorry,” he said, breathier now. “I’m still at the hotel. Kimi and Marco are here. We’re going through GPDA prep stuff and the proposals Beckett sent over.”
“Oh.” I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth. “Never mind. We can talk later.”
“Aurélie.” His voice grew more alert. “Is something wrong?”
I hesitated, then exhaled slowly as I pulled back onto the main stretch. “It can wait. Go take care of this, mon amour. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mhmm.” It came out a little shrill as I bit back the emotions threatening to pull me under.
“Okay, baby. Call me if you need anything. I’m here,” he said, like a promise.
Just a little bit longer,I told myself.
So I kept driving.
The windows were down,and for the first time all day, I could breathe.
The wind tangled through my hair as I journeyed further south, letting the sun-warmed, salt-tinged air rush through the car and sweep everything else away. Just for a moment, it worked. No blood. No test in my pocket. No grief heavy in my throat.
Just the open road and the prominent scent of salt and pine, the purr of the engine beneath me. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting out the window, catching sunlight between my fingers. The sea wasn’t far now, its pull familiar, magnetic. My ribs ached, but not just from the cramps, but from holding everything in.
I watched dark, dense clouds gathering on the horizon. They felt like a mirror of my own body—heavy, churning,weeping. Icouldn’t tell if they were coming toward me or if I was headed straight into them.
Finally, I turned off the main road and onto the long gravel drive.
The tires crunched, slow and steady, up the private path that carved through a grove of olive trees and wild rosemary. Cypress lined the edges like sentries, tall and quiet. The house emerged at the top of the hill, and my heart fluttered. Not with dread this time, but something akin to hope.
It was just as I remembered, nestled among tall grasses and wildflowers that would be overgrown by the end of summer. Four bedrooms, two floors, and so much character it could write a book of its own.
A stone façade the color of warm sand weathered by time, with ivy creeping up one side and a slate roof stained darker from the rain. Shutters painted the faded green of antique wine bottles. A wide porch, partially covered, wrapped around the front of the house. Garden beds flanked either side of the walkway, still bare but brimming with potential. A weathered lion’s head knocker stood guard on the thick wooden door.
