“The same type?” he says, his voice heartbreakingly small.
“Yeah. Breast.”
“Have you…?”
“No.” I force a laugh. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know the odds. And a lot of the coverage is denied. Tests or whatever. I, uh, I used to have Bernard’s health insurance. The company he works with. Turns out, testing if you’ll get cancer is not always preventative cancer care. And I know that I could afford it now, that I’m supposed to once I turn thirty—start getting MRIs and mammograms all the time—but I only have one sister who’d have inherited all these genes, and she’s doing okay. So…”
I trail off. A few seconds pass, and I just listen to his heartbeat. Then Faust wraps my hand in his and pulls it closer to himself, the side of my palm cupping against his chest. I shift, watching as he lets out a breath, his lashes fluttering; then he tilts his forehead against mine and we’re skin to skin, mind to mind, his dark bangs pressed against and curling around my bleached mop, like thin brown vines cling to leaves wherever they touch.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I just wanted to explain why I do this. I donate a lot of what I make, and I buy a lot of clothes, but I might cost my family so much money one day. Or I might not, you know?I could get sick and they could fix it, or maybe I’ll never get sick at all. I don’t think about it.”
That might be my worst lie to him yet. I’m always thinking about it, in trying not to. Fearing death might define my life.
“You don’t—they won’t—” Cutting himself off, Faust lifts my hand to his mouth and ghosts his lips over the only patch of skin not covered up by his fingers. “Can I say something?”
“Only if it isn’t ‘go see a cancer specialist who will tell you how statistically likely you are to kick the bucket young.’?”
“I don’t want you to die.”
It’s been ages since I felt sadness sweep into a buzz behind my nose, right where my tear ducts must’ve set up shop between my brain and heart. “I don’t want to, either. For the record. And there’s no way I will, right? Like three in three would be so sick and twisted.”
Not laughing, he looks at my hand, then me. “I’m going to ask you one day,” he says, very serious, and my heart squeezes tightly. There are so many things he could ask me right now, and only now. Does he actually understand that?
“To?”
Faust’s eyebrows knit together, like he’s confused that I’m confused. Then something moves behind his eyes, and I don’t understand that it’s a cloud and here’s the sun until he’s giving me this perfect, perfect look.
“To go see a doctor,” he clarifies. “I won’t ask today. But someday, I will. Then”—his lips find my hand again—“if you don’t do it on your own, I’ll schedule it. And it’ll be so easy, you might as well.” His nose nudges against my pinky, gentle. “Sorry, in advance.”
“Faust. I’m not—I won’t go.”
“Yes you will.”
“Why?”
His eyes narrow like he’s going to say something insane.Because I’m not going to let you go after tomorrow, or the day after that, or even, I’m sorry, the day after that one. Because I love you and I want you to stay and I don’t care about anything else.
Because you love me.
“Told you.” He unwraps my hand, setting my palm against his sternum. “I’ll make it easy.”
Chapter 27TACTICAL ERROR
When I meet Bernard forbreakfast at a restaurant across from the pit building, he looks so intensely sweaty and nervous and disheveled that I almost feel bad for him. There isn’t any separation between the Monaco Grand Prix and Monte Carlo—and everyone waiting to speak with the front hostess is staring. He pulls at his shirt collar when it’s our turn to speak. “A private room, please.”
“I’m so sorry, Bernard.” She frowns. “All of our private dining rooms are taken.”
I shift. My fault for canceling last night. This is going to be a very public breakup, then. “Are you sure?” Bernard leans to look over the seating chart, and the hostess pulls the laminated paper away from his view with a polite grimace.
“Positive. How about a balcony with only two other tables?”
“Well…” His eyes flash to me hesitantly. “Okay.”
I follow behind them, looking at my fingernails. By the time I’d woken up this morning, Faust had been gone, with only a note on the bedside table.
Need to prep for race. Call me after.
No kiss goodbye, then.
