French Grand Prix
LE CASTELLET, FRANCE
When they land in Marseille, Julien navigates the airport hallways with relief. It’s nice to finally see French signs after a long weekend of everything in German.
Rafael stays in step as Julien orders a rideshare. “You can share my car.”
Julien angles his phone away in a huff. “I’m not staying at the hotel this weekend. My apartment’s just over there.” He gestures in a direction, though he has no idea whether it’s correct.
“But Thomas is at the hotel.”
“Good for him.” What Julien needs is his own bed, his own car, and his own sim rig. He’s mentally, physically, and emotionally drained. This race came at the perfect time for a reset.
If Thomas wants to buy some Italian mansion and move everything there, that’s his prerogative. After boarding school, Julien is plenty happy keeping a second apartment close to home.
Rafael shuffles to a stop. “Alright, then. See you in the paddock?”
“See you Thursday.”
The rideshare driver is a grumpy old man who doesn’t believe Julien when he says he lives in the city.
Why would he lie? Does his French sound weird now?
Thomas said his Italian sounds British, but Julien thought he was just taking the piss.
Julien is dropped off at the far end of his street, despite his insistence that the narrow area is, in fact, built for cars. The wheels of his carry-on suitcase catch in the grooves of the cobblestones as he drags his luggage up the road.
His neighbors poke their nosey heads out of their opened windows and watch him pass with disdain. They’re already awake, they’ll be fine.
Julien unlocks the heavy outer door of the building, masterfully juggling his luggage into the lobby one-handed. Through another door into the courtyard and down a hallway, he holds his breath.
Oh, thank God. The elevator is working today. Julien crams himself into it and pulls the rickety gate shut.
Once he’s past the door of his apartment, Julien leaves his luggage at the entrance, falls face-first onto his bed, and takes a deep breath.
He’s finally home.
He can’t sleep or he’ll suffer from jet lag the entire weekend, so Julien gives himself another minute to enjoy being home before forcing himself upright and over to his drawers.
They’re blessedly full, and he thanks his past self for doing laundry before the season started. No matter how often he washed the gym clothes he lugged from country to country, they never felt truly clean.
Fresh shorts, fresh shirt, trainers, earphones—let’s go.
As Julien jogs down the uneven street, his blood stirs awake and his excitement grows.
For the first time in over a month, he knows his route. He knows which uneven slabs of pavement to watch for, and he knows how long any path will take.
Every familiar stone grounds him better than a hotel treadmill ever could.
Julien aims for the marina. The city is devoid of tourists so early in the morning and he longs for sea air to fill his lungs. One street, then another, then another. It takes Julien a while before he can spot the water, but when he does, he pushes himself faster.
The yachts seem larger than normal. Either his memory is getting worse or the visitors in town for the race have significantly more money than the usual inhabitants.
Considering the usual inhabitants have yachts, that's really saying something.
Julien doesn’t usually exert too much energy during a race week, but what’s the point of reaching the marina if he doesn’t run alongside the boats? His legs burn, but it’s a welcome ache—something bone-deep that assures him he’ll be a better man tomorrow than he is today.
Curious faces turn as he dodges pedestrians. That’s new. Usually the locals ignore the odd jogger. Then again, Julien has been in the press more often lately.
His music pauses, and Julien slows to a stop as his phone rings. Fumbling, he retrieves the device, slightly disappointed to see it’s his mother calling.
Well, who else was he expecting? “All??”
“Were you not going to tell me you flew in this morning?”
“I just landed.”
They've only just started the conversation, but Julien can already tell this is going to be a whole thing. He shuffles over to a covered bench and collapses on the seat.
“Thomas said he’s already at the hotel.”
Of course Thomas tattled on him. Nothing ever changes.
“I’m not with Thomas. I’m staying at my apartment.”
“And you didn't invite him to stay with you?”
Julien gapes. “I only have one bed!” He isn’t some fancy full-time driver with mansions and private suites to stow people in. He can’t even afford a couch with both apartment leases sucking his account dry.
“It’s only polite.”
“Maybe next time.” Never, but it’s better just to concede and move on. “Well, I’m in town. Is that all? Will I see you at the track?”
“Of course that is not all.” Of course. “Will you be bringing a guest tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“For dinner at the house.”
Did Julien know about this? Maybe his invitation got lost in the mail. “A guest?”
“Matthieu needs to know how many people to cook for. It was Thomas’s idea—he said there was someone special he’d like everyone to meet.” Everyone but Julien, apparently. “Will you be bringing someone as well?”
Someone special?
It’s embarrassing that someone actually came to mind.
“Can I call you back?”
Julien pulls up Rafael’s contact and dials before he loses his nerve.
Between Thomas and Julien, it’s practically a teammate dinner at this point. A teammate dinner with Julien’s family. A family dinner where they will meet his someone special.
He should hang up right now.
“Julien?”
“Hey, Raf!” When has Julien ever in his life referred to the man as Raf?! “Uh, do you have dinner plans for tonight?”
“No…?” Why does it sound like a question? Surely the answer is either yes or no. “Would you like to get something together?”
“Uh, kinda?” This is a bad idea. Horrible idea. “My brother is making dinner for the family tonight and I—I wanted to invite you.”
“Invite me to meet your family?”
It sounds even worse in his voice. “Well, you already know one of them. It’s just more of that.”
There’s an agonizingly long pause before Rafael answers, “I’ve had Thomas’s cooking and I don’t—”
“Oh! Not, not that one.” Julien laughs. Imagine Thomas boiling water for more than one person. There isn’t a large enough microwave. “No, Matthieu is the cook tonight. He’s a chef. You won’t get sick, I promise.”
“How many people will be there?”
“It’s just a small thing. Maman, Papa, Matthieu, Thomas, me… Oh wait, Maman said Thomas is bringing someone special.”
It’s probably Jean-Luc. They seem awfully close for driver and performance coach. Julien will have to practice his shocked face.
“So, I would be your someone special?”
Julien’s stomach drops. “I—” This is so embarrassing. “You’re my, uh, good friend. My back-up, in case Thomas and his new beau want to start a fight.”
Rafael can take Jean-Luc. The man is way too ripped for Julien to stand a chance against.
“Yeah, I can do that for you. Send me the address?”
For you.
“I can pick you up from the hotel.” Julien tries to temper his excitement, but his heart thuds hard in his chest. “Wear something nice. Semi-formal, like a button-up and slacks.”
“Semi-formal?”
“I’ll see you tonight!” Julien hangs up before the man can reconsider. He texts his mother and Matthieu the updated guest count and pushes himself up off the bench.
After a quick stretch, he continues his run along the marina. He’ll have to stop by the shops, iron his good shirt, and polish his shoes. It’d take far less work and be much more rewarding to stream instead, but the flutter of anticipation in his heart won’t settle.
I would be your someone special?
The thought doesn’t scare Julien so much this time.
“Sir, if you aren’t a guest of the hotel, you need to move your car.”
“I’m picking up a friend,” Julien repeats. “He’s in one of the fancy rooms and everything. Give me like, five more minutes.”
“You’re blocking the valet.”
No, he isn’t. There are two empty lanes that haven’t seen a car since Julien arrived, but his older model sedan doesn’t match the vibe of the hotel and they both know it.
“S’il vous plait, cinq minutes?” Julien tries again.
The guard sighs and points to his watch, as if he will personally keep track of every ticking second.
“Merci.” Julien looks at his phone and back up to the glass doors. Is he in the wrong place? Should he text again?
This is a bad idea. It was stupid to get his hopes up.
Rafael Souza has better things to do than show up to some family dinner. He has magazine covers to shoot. Cologne commercials. Award shows. Not—
A crowd forms in the lobby, backing towards the entrance like a school of fish. They spill out of the sliding front doors and the front of the pack shuffles backwards without a care as to what they might run into.
“We’re running late!” Julien calls out over the crowd. Some individuals in the mass notice him and turn their cameras as Rafael wades through.
He looks extra good in maroon, with his collar unbuttoned just enough to show a little cleavage. He smiles when they lock eyes, but his expression falls when he spots the car. “That’s your car?”
“Don’t make fun of her.” Julien knows she looks a little worn with her paint peeled off in large chunks around the hood and roof. He lives next to the sea. Salt water isn’t good for any car, much less antiques.
Rafael has his phone out in the next second. “I'll ask Marco to give us a ride.”
“Just get in.” Julien jiggles the handle of the passenger door and holds it open for Rafael. Not for chivalry reasons—only because the burly man might accidentally break it off.
As Julien rounds the car, he spots the guard. The man stares wide-eyed at the crowd clamoring for pictures and autographs with both Ferraro drivers. Julien smiles for a couple of selfies before falling into the driver’s seat.