Being beautifully average is a safeguard. And maybe I’d take it harder if being a few degrees away from beautiful didn’t help me—but it does.
At least… I thought I was done taking it hard.
I say goodbye to Renata and return to my internet research. This time, though, there’s a knot in my throat. At thirty-three years old, Faust is only four years older than me, which is news to me. Portuguese and Spanish, also raised in England by the team, a Taurus; not news. And he’s either “washed-up” because of his age or “the greatest driver of all time,” depending upon which online article you click on first. I find an older one—from before yesterday’s shake-up.After a spectacularly dramatic and low-scoring stint with Ignition Energy Drink Racing, Faust is back with Stark-Benzin, racing alongside his childhood friend–turned–rumored rival, Bernard Baudelaire … leaving many fans to speculate if the infamous “Stark-Benzin project” was ever put on hold.
Dramatic stint. Rumored rival. I don’t particularly like either phrase, on first glance. I click through a bullet-point breakdown of Faust’s time with his prior team—something about a documentary calledSlipstream, and a scandal, and a team principal caught in a seat-swapping/car-crashing conspiracy, and wow, F1 hasn’t changed a bit since I was tuned in. Faust had a bad year. He could be the one looking out for any hiccups, e.g., me.
Then I get to the pictures of Faust and Bernard during their karting years, and my pulse ticks up a half-step. Two boys, a stocky brown-haired kid with his arm slung around the shoulders of a lanky strawberry blond. They’re both in Stark-Benzin gray. Bernard is grinning, Faust isn’t, but I notice that Faust’s the only one looking at the camera. Bernard is looking at him.
And I blink. Maybe thisisokay.
Might even be perfect.
They’rerivals. Bernard doesn’t like when Faust is getting attention from someone and he isn’t.
Feeling a bit triumphant, I go for another bite of Nando’s, but I’d left the lid open and the chicken’s gone cold. And my room only has a mini fridge, no microwave. That’s my sign, I decide, stashing my leftovers before I grab my tarot deck and polka-dot rain parka.
I have a ritual whenever I’m at a crossroads. First, I go to a restaurant. Family owned, preferably. And the one built into my rental house’s first floor fits the bill—old pub vibes, big windows overlooking the dark rainy garden, hunter-green and aged-white wallpaper. A boyish waiter recommends the roast beef—“a little bit of Sunday on a Saturday!”—so that’s what I go with, paired with a cup of coffee and practically melting into my plush chair. They’ve got a fire going in the stone fireplace a few tables over, and heat bakes the air, making all the people and chatter in here a touch cozier. After I’m finished with my non–Sunday roast, I’ve almost relaxed via osmosis. Too many life problems are invented by people who are actually just hungry.
Mine are more complicated today, though, so I move to my ritual’s second and third steps: run the numbers and then rip them up.
Using the napkin that came with my mug, I start scribbling out statistics. There are three ways I could move forward now that Bernard’s on another team. One, I give up. Nope. Not an option. Chance of success: zero. Two, I call Imogen and let her decide how I proceed. But why would I call her if so much is up in the air? I don’t want to rebreak her heart by offering her revenge on asilver platter, then bailing when it gets tricky. Plus, she’s volatile. I remember her angryNutcrackerpirouetting. Chance of destroying Bernard when left up to her: fifty-fifty.
Third option. I could just… keep going.
It’s the best odds. The only odds, honestly. Like Renata said, I already have this job. With this much chaos, I can easily get to Australia and coordinate a perfect secondary meet-cute with Bernard. It’s like a game of chess. Nothing too extreme—around 1300 ELO, tops. When you can still bluff your way through, rather than go through the movements of rote memorization. Bernard leaving is a dramatic bishop sacrifice, right at the beginning. My pawns are doubled. The middle game will be harder for me. But the endgame’s the same, isn’t it?
I tap my pen on my neatly outlined possibilities. Clearly, there’s my answer, if I was the type of person who respects numbers. But I’m not, so I fold the napkin up, rip it in half, and pull out my tarot deck. My own personal “screw you” to statistics everywhere.
“Should I leave?” I whisper at the gilded stack.
I knock on top of it, set three cards down in front of my empty plate, then flip the one that’s calling my name. Far left, feels right.
The Tower.
“I know that one,” says my waiter, who’s reappeared to fill my water. He frowns at the illustration of a burning tower, lightning sizzling from the top of it, people leaping from the window. “Not a good one.”
“It is for me,” I say, smiling. I’ve got most of the Major Arcana memorized by this point. “It means no.”
He squints at me. “All right, then. Are you done with your coffee?”
“No, actually, can I—”
My words stumble to a standstill.
Because right then, like the rolling thundercloud he is, Faust walks into the restaurant.
It’s like my neurons are trained to his silhouette already. Like I know big shoulders, brown hair, dark clothes,thatoutline means trouble. My back stiffens as he slouches to one of the small tables, way across the dining room, and slips into a chair. And I wait. He’s going to look up and see me, right? I might not be memorable or intriguing, but as of today, I am someone he officially knows. A name and a face and a coworker-slash-employee. He’ll look up, I’ll wave, he’ll scowl, that’ll be that. It’ll be polite. Quick.
He leans forward. My breath catches.
He—leans back.
Pulls out his phone.
And… starts clicking around.
“Miss?”
