Daughter of a fallen former Formula 1 pilot, Camila has had only one mission since her early childhood : to disappear from the public eye and the journalists who eagerly await to tear apart the last ties holding her family together. Torn between her...
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March 2018.
I've been straining my eyes on my applied mathematics textbook for so long that the lines are starting to blur together, beginning a psychedelic dance before my eyes. It's been a month of drowning in class notes with a huge midterm coming, and I feel like I'm falling behind every day. Feeling my morale weaken, I grab my phone and click on the conversation I share with my brother.
You, 9:38pm : I really hate you for making me sign up for this rn.
Andrea, 9:40pm : Are you talking about polytechnic?
You, 9:40pm : What else could make me cry on a Friday night?
Andrea, 9:41pm : Boys, I guess
Andrea, 9:41pm : But maths too, yeah
You, 9:42pm : I should have stuck with simple mechanics.
You, 9:42pm : Who needs to learn about numerical linear algebra?
Andrea, 9:42pm : Future F1 engineers?
Andrea, 9:43pm : I wish I could say "mom and dad would be so proud of you" to cheer you up, but dad is dead and mom would kill you if she knew you lied about being an English major lol
You, 9:44pm : ... Wow, thanks Andrea
•
November 2019.
"Should I buy those?" Pierre asks, checking himself in the huge mirror of the shop, moving his legs to observe his feet.
"Well, it depends," I reply, fingers glazing over some leather. "Would you like me to walk ten feet ahead of you for the rest of the day?"
"Are they that bad?"
"They are," I say, stifling a laugh. "Please put those hideous things away."
For the past two days, Pierre and I have been exploring Austin, enjoying the pleasant weather of early November. Two days that the Frenchman and I have spent visiting museums, shops, restaurants, and strolling along the river. Two days of laughing until we get cramps, of leaving way more tips than necessary, of saying goodbye in front of my room at 4 in the morning. Two days of trying on every (and I mean, every) cowboy hat we come across.
A phone ring echoes in the store, and Pierre fishes his phone out of his pocket, scrutinizing the screen.
"Max has just landed," he informs me as I try on sunglasses that cover half of my face. Raising his head, the Frenchman can't help but let out a hearty laugh. "Wow. You look like a fly."
