The tiny balcony overlooks the track and the water, and the waiter promises fast service so Mr. Baudelaire and “the Miss” can get back to his busy day. “Everyone knows you,” I say, crossing my legs. I’m in a white beaded dress that’s mostly thighs and arms. With love, to Imogen.
“Yeah, they don’t pretend not to here.”
“That’s fun.”
“Sometimes. Hey—thanks for meeting me. I really am sorry about, uh, the post.”
I shrug. “Thank you for the patience while I considered how I felt.”
It’s an ideal setup. He must know it’s coming. Bernard goes for his ice water, scowling. He’s in the standard pre-race getup, a Leone Racing polo shirt and slacks, and the gold looks dreadful next to the beige of his pants. But other than that, he’s cleanly shaven. This probably won’tdestroyhim.
God, I need to exit this situation. I’m starting to consider shitty men’s feelings.
Behind him, another couple is seated on our balcony. The older man smiles knowingly at Bernard, while the young woman peers curiously, then whispers to her date. Bingo. More public.
Rip the Band-Aid off. Get paid. Leave.
I can do this.
My fingers tingle as I slide the tube of Revlon’s Fire and Ice out of my pocket and swipe the bright red on.
“Hey, Bernard. There is something that I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Me, too,” he cuts me off. “The, uh, the—it’s so nice out. Can’t remember a better day for driving.”
“Oh, right.” I take a perfunctory look around me. “It’s really pretty.”
“And you are, too. You’re so…” His lashes flutter as he thinks. “How’s Faust?”
“Oh! Fine.”
“Yeah?” He leans toward me, thrilled to be on a topic that makes me sound surprised. Surprised equals excitement, excitement equals happy, or something. “He’s a shoo-in to win today.”
“Seems to be the case.” Does he think he can just wordsmith me away from dumping him? “And about—”
“I was really happy to hear from him when he called. Not that I was happy about why he called, but to hear from him. We’ll always be brothers, whether he likes it or not.” Bernard’s fully rambling now. He barely stops when the waiter brings us a complimentary appetizer; twin quiches with red sauce piped on to look like tire treads. “He’s talked about this to you, too, hasn’t he? That he’s happy to reconnect with me?”
“Not really.”
“That’s fine. Not like my family basically had to raise him or anything.” He looks up, waiting for me to laugh at Faust’s expense, like I used to. But I don’t, and Bernard grabs a quiche, popping it into his mouth and swallowing hard. “I might need to, uh, get back to the garage soon. Would you want to walk with me after we eat?”
Weird. Though my warning bell dings, he’s delaying the inevitable. He knows it. I know it. “Sure.”
And I could dump him here. Would’ve, if he hadn’t made those comments about Faust.We’ll always be brothers? Had to raise him?Suddenly, a walk back to the garage sounds wonderful, with all our Formula 1 friends milling about. Best weekend of the year.
Bernard tries to be a gentleman throughout the remainder of brunch. He orders me orange juice, asks about how my job is going, only mentions brand sponsorships once. When we get up to leave, he waits for me by the door and smiles at the other couple. Little do they know, but it’s fine. He can pretend this is okay until I break the illusion.
“I was surprised by your text the other day, too,” he says as we walk back toward the paddock. We’re only one street and some green space away, though it’s crowded, fans of all types stopping to point at us.
“Which one?”
“The picture of you and, and Imogen?”
“Oh yeah. We go way back, like I said.”
“Small world.”
He doesn’t sound suspicious, just pallid. His worst fear has been made real: women knowing each other and potentially discussing him.
