Hate You - LN

28

There's a note on the mini fridge in the room when I get out of bed this morning. In my half-awake-half-asleep daze earlier I'd heard Lando get up and leave to presumably the track for the start of weekend meetings. Thankfully, it's only Thursday so I don't have to be at the track until this afternoon, if only to meet briefly with Zak and help some of the McLaren mechanics with their various injuries ahead of the weekend.

Slowly, I pull the blankets off my body and slide my legs over the side of the bed. I didn't see Dad last week in Monaco, but I spent most of my time at Charles' apartment, or with Alex. I made sure I was never alone, and if I was alone, I was alone in public. It's taking a toll on me, I know that. The constant feeling of having to look over my shoulder. But I think a part of me has also given up worrying, or maybe I'm just dissociated from it. Because it doesn't feel real that he is out of prison, walking around like a man who didn't try to kill his only daughter. The danger I'm in seems like an exaggeration because, how could he be free?

The short carpet is rough under my feet as I cross the room and kneel in front of the small fridge. This weekend Lando and I's room isn't a suite, we're a meer steps away from each other whenever we're both in the room. But somehow, even despite what happened on my birthday everything is a bit less awkward. He hasn't been outwardly mean to me, not yet at least, and then there is the whole talking to Charles thing. I thought last night when he'd said I was leaving I thought somehow, like I thought Charles had when Pierre and Kika announced their having a baby that somehow he'd found out about my father and what the word leaving meant to me right now.

But he'd just found out about my contract with Mercedes, which I haven't technically signed yet. Despite the papers being on my desk back home. Toto's said nothing about when I have to sign the papers yet. Which I'm thankful for since my apartment is the last place I want to be right now.

I can't make out the messy printing on the note until I step closer. Lando's printing has always been horrible. I'm half expecting some dig, or insult written in the blue ink but it's not. I read the note once, not believing the letters and spaces. The second time it makes a bit more sense. The third, I'm supremely confused.

I'd tell you there was a 2-for-1 deal to make you feel better, but there wasn't. Just eat the damn food and no, I don't want you to pay me back for it. Just eat Dev, I'll see you later.

-Lan

My butt hits the packed carpet and I swing the mini fridge open in front of me, the door barely passing in front of my knees. there's a container on the second shelf from the top, it's a black plastic with a clear lid and a plastic fork and knife set sits on top. slowly, as if the fork and knife might turn into a venomous snake I take out the container from the fridge and stare through the clear lid.

Feduccine alfredo.

Lan.

Don't want you to pay me back.

Lan.

He'd signed his name Lan, the nickname he made so clear he never wanted me to use. But he just left me a note, on food he bought me. And signed it Lan.

My head is a mess.

I groan and close the fridge, scootching back on the rough carpet until my back is leaned against the foot of my bed. I scrunch my knees up to my chest and I don't miss how they come a little bit closer to my chest than before. The container of deliciousness sits taunting me from its spot where I put it down in front of the fridge.

I stare at it and question if it might be poisoned.

But, I know that he would do that, just like a part of me knows Lando's perspective on me's changed. He bought me food, and he signed the note Lan. The familiarity of the nickname even in my mind, not my tongue, brings up memories I've wanted to forget about since the day I left.