“But whatever. I’m doing my best to ignore him,” I say, running a hand through my hair to hide how my fingers are shaking. “It’s, like, sorry it’s literally impossible for you to smile and we’re all having fun, right?”
My segue works. Bernard nods. “Exactly. You know him so well already. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize.” I let my roaming fingers brush against Bernard’s damp arm. He’s warm, flushed pink from the sun. “But thank you.”
“For?”
“Making it up to me.”
There’s that look again: enamored bewilderment. “Pleasure’s all mine. When were you going to tell me, by the way?”
My heart skips a beat, lips stuck together. “About…?”
Bernard nods at my watery spritz. The stirring did not help it. “That you don’t like Aperol.”
Thank you, Loki and Hermes and every other trickster god.“Never?”
“Let me go get you something else, and then you can tell me about what you do. Though I think I’m the most un-fashionable Frenchman you’ll ever meet.”
I smile as Bernard leaves, watching him walk by Faust without as much as glancing at the dark-haired man. Perfect. They actually hate each other. On the extremely slim chance that Faust does know that I’m here to decimate Bernard’s heart and, for some godforsaken reason, tries to convince Bernard not to date me—Bernard won’t believe him. I’m Mr. Wickham to Faust’s Mr. Darcy. This is good for me. Or, well, I thought it was good, but…
As Bernard disappears inside, Faust slowly turns back to look my way. His blackout lenses glint silently in the sunshine, his full frown fixed in place. He’s giving me that intense, disorienting look again, the same one from when he’d had his hand on my chin. From when we’d met—the second time.I’mdisoriented under the weight of it. His attention makes me feel scrambled and slightly erratic, like the loud and incoherent mumbling between radio stations, when you’re lost in the middle of nowhere. I think that’s what I dislike most about him and his staring. It knocks me off-balance.
And he doesn’t look angry, per se. Not that I was trying to make him angry when I touched Bernard. Or jealous. Or anything. But I can feel Faust’s eyes on me, even through the sunglasses, all the way over there. I can feel hisjudgment.
Hear his pretentious voice in my head:
What are you doing with him?
Crossing my arms, I stare back his way, hoping my face fullycommunicates theleave me aloneI’m too dignified to yell across a pool.
And it might, since he leans forward, one hand slipping the paperback off his leg. Then he slides his sunglasses up his forehead, his dark hair pushing back to reveal his eyes. Brown. Critical. And focused directly on me.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
Not when his impossibly intense face yells back,No.
Fine. Two can play this game. With an irritated push, I haul myself out of the pool to sit on the concrete lip. I’m not going to stay in the water like a sitting duck, bobbing around for his amusement. I flick my wet hair behind my shoulder, subtly double-check the knot keeping my bikini top secure behind my neck, and then go to push my sunglasses up my face. Because I can judge him, too. All silent and panopticon-like, out in the open. Why not?
Only, when I finally look back to Faust’s chair, he isn’t there. He’s walking to the door, book in hand, his back to me, taking long, hard, angry steps. Like he saw something thatinfuriatedhim, when a moment ago he’d been an impassive wall.
Why? What did he see?
And why do I care so much, if I know there’s nothing he can do to stop me?
My fingers curl around the edge of the pool at the telltale thwaps that signal Bernard’s return. “Oh good, you scared him off.”
“I’d love to take the compliment, but it wasn’t me.” I take the new drink from him, still distracted. “Could’ve been the sun?”
Bernard takes a swig from his beer. “Same difference.”
Chapter 10KOTOV SYNDROME
As the race week ticksby, I effectively avoid Faust.
I email wardrobe ideas to Mei, cc’ing him in. Wait until I hear him leave his room before going on my morning runs. Fortunately for my bank account and Bernard’s eventual doom, Faust seems busy with the beginning of the F1 season, media and interviews and surreal social media videos that border on absurdist humor. (In one, he, Christine, and Eddie try to name as many Australian foods as they can in under ten seconds. Faust gets five; Christine gets three; Eddie remembers that they call sprinkles “hundreds-and-thousands” here and gets thoroughly distracted.)
Mei’s too busy to check if I’m at the free practices on Friday. I end up emailing with a brand during Qualifying, the Saturday sessions that determine the driver lineup for the Sunday grand prix. I just need to get to Japan a few weeks from now.
