Crash

Heaven sent

Penelope had never been to France before. Her friends, Logan and Charlotte, had come here once for a press tour a couple of years back, but she'd skipped it so that she could skate in some competition in Los Angeles. The only places she'd been other than the racetrack since she and Charles had arrived this week was their hotel some restaurant that her boyfriend liked in the city. She had no idea where she was or how to get anywhere in this place. Sure, she'd been doing her best to learn a little French from Charles and his family, but really when it boiled down to it she hardly knew any at all. Despite all that, she'd managed to end up walking through Marseille after the car had dropped her off in the nearest city.

What day was it? She couldn't remember. The only thing going through her head was Mattia's warning. God, she was stupid. How could she have let things go this far? If anything happened to Jasper because of something she was involved in...

Once again, her stomach was in knots. Everything made her feel nauseous. Every couple of seconds, her brain would flick from one extreme to the other. What the fuck was she doing here? She couldn't be wandering around France, in some unknown city without telling anyone where she'd gone. God, the minute Charles realised she was missing, he'd go crazy. There wasn't a single person in the entire paddock who'd be safe. He'd turn the entire place upside down within an hour if it meant any chance of finding her.

But what was the other option? Go back? Face the fact that she was putting her dear friend in danger because of the man she loved? How could she bring herself to do that, either? She wished she could go back in time, before she knew everything she knew now. She wished she could be that 22 year old girl again, going to a dinner party she didn't want to attend, falling in love with a green-eyed boy who made her laugh more than anyone else ever had. She wished they could have stayed in that pool in LA forever, on the opening page of the book rather than the tragic ending. She wished life had better timing for them. She didn't want a love story where it was about the story. She wanted their happy ending.

Unfortunately, Penelope was quickly learning that happy endings only really happened in fairy tales. Her life was far from that.

There was nothing left for Penelope to do. So, she just kept walking. She walked and walked and walked until her feet were sore. Maybe people recognised her. Maybe they didn't. To be honest, she didn't really care. After a while, she ripped the paddock lanyards from her neck, catching a glimpse of her picture as she dropped them in the closest bin. She remembered the day it was taken, the first few hours she was in Bahrain for the first race of the season. Charles had spent ages taking photos of her, at his own request, finally choosing one where she was smiling so much that her cheeks hurt and her eyes sparkled with glee.

You're a natural photographer, she'd told him as he'd held her, her body lounging against hers as though he were a throne and she his queen.

It's easy to take pictures of someone like you, he'd grinned, planting soft kisses down the side of her neck.

You'll make me blush, Leclerc.

You're the most beautiful person I've ever met, and I've met a lot of people.

I'm not sure if that's a compliment or a subtle brag that isn't actually that subtle.

It's a complement, he promised. Trust me.

There it was again. Those two little words that kept replaying in her head over and over. Trust me.

Somehow, she'd managed to reach some form of small park, with a duck pond and a belt of flowers that saw a range of people walking past them. A couple sat by the water, watching their children feed the ducks bread from little felt bags. From a distance, a woman perched on a bench, engaged in an important-sounding phone call wearing an expensive dress and a matching Birkin. Finally, over by the flowers, was a elderly man, all alone, staring at the red roses on the ground as though they were a reminder of someone he'd once known.