6. Callum
I woke up feeling as if I’d been steamrolled by a grid of tractors.
My head throbbed, ribs screaming with every shift, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Emotionally, I felt like I’d sprinted a hundred laps in the dark without ever crossing the finish line.
The only light was the lavender salve and the sticky notes she’d left behind—crumpled now, but tucked safe in my nightstand drawer like souvenirs.
Souvenir.
Out of curiosity during my endless spiral of thoughts last night, I’d looked up the word.
I’d always known it was French—hell, I’m fluent enough to hold my own in any paddock conversation—but I’d never stopped to think about what it really meant.
Not the watered-down English version we use for trinkets in tourist shops.
In French, it’s not just something you keep. It’s something you remember . A memory you carry, a piece of a moment you refuse to let fade.
That was her . Every note, every touch of her throughout my flat, every whiff of lavender still floating through the air.
Not just keepsakes, but reminders . Proof that she’d been here, that I hadn’t imagined her whispering things to me in her native tongue.
Explaining to me what the term tu me manques literally translated to.
And maybe that was the reason I looked it up to begin with. I was desperate for more, for pieces of her, for a deeper understanding of everything that embodied her.
Aurélie was the memory I couldn’t stop revisiting. And the worst part—the best part—was knowing she’d left these pieces of herself behind on purpose.
So even now, with her in Paris and me in Monte Carlo, she lingered. She was still showing up for me, quietly and fiercely. And now I needed to show up for her.
After her interview, I hadn’t been able to sleep.
Instead, I spent hours scrolling, watching every clip of her I could find.
Not just from this week but from years ago.
F2 podium interviews, grid walks, candid fan videos, her old social media posts.
Anything to hear her voice and see the way her eyes lit up when she laughed.
Somewhere between midnight and sunrise, I fell down a rabbit hole and learned more than I’d ever known.
Her favorite candy, of all things, was jelly beans.
Not the cheap, artificial kind—because why would it be?
She loved the ridiculously fancy ones with flavors like rosewater, lychee, and cherry cola.
The kind you have to special order by the pound .
I found a candy shop not far from me that had them, so in the wee hours of the night, I bought them to be delivered today.
She’d once told a French reporter that Monaco was the playground for the rich and famous, and that she wanted to sip espresso on a balcony here overlooking the harbor with a fresh baked pastry.
I immediately went onto a delivery app to find my favorite patisserie–the one that I discovered had pistachio croissants–and ordered half a dozen of them.
Then I found a café that carried an imported French roast that I spotted in the background of a video she posted a couple years ago.
In the video, she was with her twin brother, étienne, prepping a pre-race week breakfast and making coffee.
Sometimes it was hard to imagine them as siblings, because the only resemblance between them was the eyes.
She glowed with her golden blonde hair, and his hair was darker and straighter than hers.
Even their personalities were drastically different.
étienne was a beloved member of the racing community, all sunshine and bright smiles.
He played the role well to be a fan favorite driver, but it was all for show.
Behind the scenes, he was arrogant and just enough of an asshole to make half of the grid steer clear of him.
He was aggressive, I’ll give him that, but too impulsive, always burning through his tires early, missing braking points when the pressure was on, forcing overtakes in places no sane driver would try. His need to win every battle on the track kept him from winning the war.
Aurélie, though… she was calculated chaos.
Patient when she needed to be, ruthless when it counted.
She read races like a book she’d already memorized, taking risks only when they tipped the odds in her favor.
She didn’t just drive the car. She bent it, the strategy, and the moment to her will.
And that was really saying something given the shitbox she drove.
That was the kind of spirit that made champions. And mark my words, Aurélie Dubois would be a world champion in the near future. I couldn’t fucking wait to see it happen.
In Monaco, I’d watched her struggle with loyalty to her family and believing in herself.
They could never go hand in hand, because in her world–in her life–they were two different futures.
Either a family who supported her only when they could control her, or shooting for the stars because she knew what she was capable of.
Then her family cornered her in her space, dismissed her, acted like she was a problem to be managed instead of a driver who’d earned her seat.
She confessed to them the truth of how she’d stepped into étienne’s seat after his crash, and they were disgusted by her.
But she stayed strong, held her ground, and came straight to… me.
I’d been angry that night, but not enough. Not the way I should’ve been.
Even though she would be arriving in the afternoon, I still wanted to give her a dream breakfast on my balcony here, which had perfect views of the harbor. So those croissants and that roast would be waiting for her when she arrived.
I didn’t know what her favorite flowers were, but as I scrolled through the options from a revered florist near me, I paused over an elaborate bouquet of pink peonies.
They were soft and feminine, like her, but in full bloom they carried this quiet kind of strength—layers upon layers protecting the heart of the flower.
The edges were delicate enough to bruise if handled carelessly, but in the right hands, they opened fully, unapologetically, taking up space like they were meant to be admired.
It reminded me of the way she moved through the paddock. Grace in every step, but a spine of steel under it. The kind of beauty you had to earn the right to see up close.
By three in the morning, I was on a mission.
I wanted to make my place feel like hers every time she walked through the door.
Fluffy pink towels for her to wrap herself in after a shower.
A silk pillowcase in the exact color of my favorite dress of hers–the one she wore in Miami and then again right here in Monte Carlo.
A soft throw blanket she could curl up in on my couch, light enough to travel with if she wanted to take it on the road.
Little claims on my space that said, you belong here .
Then I thought about Paris. About that flat of hers she never called home.
I switched over to the group chat with just Kimi and Marco once it was a reasonable hour.
Kimi, I need Auri’s flat address in Paris.
Kimi
That feels like a huge invasion of privacy.
So does plotting to run her off the track. Just give me the address.
Kimi
Fair enough. Sending now.
Marco
Do we even want to know why you’re asking?
Shut up.
By the time Marco and Kimi started chirping at each other about boundaries, I was filling my cart again to stock her fridge with her favorite yogurt, cheese, and fresh fruit. If she intended to travel this much for the next several days, she needed to eat properly.
I also added a handful of plush blankets to the order, and candles that smelled like cherries and champagne. Both reminded me of the way she tasted, and fuck, did I miss that.
It was obsessive. Maybe over the top. But if I couldn’t hold her right now, I could damn well make sure she felt held.
Halfway through me dragging myself around my flat to get ready to leave, the group chat lit up again.
Marco
Dubois landing in an hour. Just in case you forgot.
Kimi
You shouldn’t have reminded him. He might do something stupid like crawl to the door with flowers.
Marco
… be so fucking for real. He’s already ordered them.
They weren’t wrong. But it still didn’t feel like enough. Not for her.
I rolled my shoulders back, every muscle stiff and protesting. The pain was sharp enough to make me see stars, but it was worth it. If she could give this much of herself while the world tried to silence her, I could push through a pain spike.
I turned the kettle on to brew some tea.
Opening the cabinet above the kettle, I froze.
My assortment of teas were lined up neatly on the bottom shelf.
I tilted my head, squinting at the neat rows before it dawned on me that they were alphabetized , rather than my usual disarrayed arrangement where I had to rifle through the boxes and bags until I found the one I wanted.
Such a small thing that made sense and fit into my life. I paused as an idea formed. I thought about how many of the little things I still didn't know about her.
I reached for the stack of sticky notes she’d used yesterday, running my thumb over the faint indents of her handwriting. Then I scrawled my own, pressing the pen harder than necessary just to leave a mark.
Breakfast, my love?
Sweet (pistachio croissants in bed)
Savory (me between your thighs)
Both (you won’t walk straight after)
I was about ninety percent certain she’d go for both . And that was the thing—I wanted to know all of it.
I stuck the note to the cabinet above the kettle and coffee maker. Then—after groaning through the full motion—I pulled out a glass vase and dropped in the tight blooms of pale pink peonies. The color once again reminded me of that ridiculous little pink dress that made me forget how to breathe.
I left another note by the vase.