George changed.
Carla doesn't know when it happened, how or even where, but he has. He's not the same man she fell in love with five years ago.
Lando's the one who noticed first, the thought whispered to her when George had plucked the wine out of...
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
"Thank you." George mumbles his hand squeezing mine from across the table. The candles on the surrounding tables flicker in time with the one on our own table as I take a small sip of wine grinning back at his gorgeous face. He's almost beaming at me, George's blue eyes sparkling under the candlelight as I smile softly back at him.
"What for?" There's confusion laced in my words as I hold his hand in mine. The restaurant he'd chosen for tonight was just beautiful, from the menu, to the view of the Melbourne skyline as the sun dips down below the horizon. It's all dreamy, as life is with George always seems to be.
Our food was delicious, even George's diet-approved dish, which in places like this can sometimes look (and taste) like slices of cardboard. The music a smooth jazz paired with the extravagant interior making me feel both grown up and like I shouldn't entirely be here, like I don't quite fit in. Even being twenty four, even with my career being how it is, even with George by my side; I just don't feel like I fit in or should really be here.
"For being here Carla." George says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I really appreciate it...you."
"Stop." I can feel myself beginning to flush with his words. He always does this. Flatters me until I don't know where to look, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment with his affection, a feeling of unworthiness settling somewhere in the chest with his praise.
"No." He laughs with the word, a small shake of his head as that charming smile looks to me. "I know it hasn't always...been easy." George continues reaching for his water. I just shake my head, waving him off with the hand that's not tied to him as he takes a sip. "No, really." George stresses, his deep eyes gazing softly into mine. His words sitting somewhere in my chest. "First at Williams and then last season but, I think (I hope), this season will be better." I shake my head once more with George's words.
It doesn't matter to me much to me if George performs better or not, of course I want him to do well because he wants to do well. However his success, or level of it, doesn't determine how much I love him. It doesn't matter to me if George is top of the championship, bottom of the championship or not even in Formula one. He should know this, it's something he's been reminded of enough over the years by me. Still, it always seems to be a concern of his.
"George, you know that doesn't matter to me." I remind him with a quiet roll of my eyes. My finger skims against the soft skin of his hands, emphasising my words, hoping to ingrain them to him. George just huffs with the words.
Sometimes I think he misunderstands me when I say things like this. It's not that I don't want him to do well - of course I do! It's just that George's performance on track would never, and couldnt ever, impact on how I feel about him - just as I hope my career would never define how George feels about me. He's so much more than the person he is when he's in those cars and I know and love those sides of him so much more.
