She smiles at her phone, resuming typing. “My parents have a British bulldog. I think of him like that. Sad, bow-wow. But sweet underneath it all.”
I can’t get over Mei using “bow-wow” as an adjective and that I know exactly what she means. That, and this new reveal. Faust mentoring a young woman driver into Formula 1 is objectively… cool. I will give him those points, and then give Christine five thousand more points plus a trophy and a brand-new car for being the person who did the work.
“In the future, you’ll be able to primp Faust before he hits the circuit. That way, you can mostly relax during the races and see why we voluntarily go insane most weekends of the year. It’s—” Mei stops. Suddenly, she’s out of her seat, attention snapping to the main television screen. “There he is. Oh—shit. Did you pick that out? He looks good.”
Yes, he does.
Faust is wearing the exact outfit that I put him in the last time we spoke. When he called me… yeah, that time. Dark jeans, white shirt. The camera pans down to his feet and fuck me, he’s wearing the new Doc Marten Oxfords? Before a race? They aren’t broken in. Did I get so wrapped up in Ted Talk–ing fashion at him that I didn’t warn him not to wear new Docs without a death wish?
“Faust, hello, you look dapper today,” smirks out one of the broadcasters, a young man with an old-school microphone.
For a split second, Faust only looks annoyed to be stopped mid–paddock walk. People look his way as they walk around him, some younger fans pausing to watch the interview. Faust draws a breath, pushes back his hair, and tries a smile. “Thanks.”
“New clothes for a new season?”
His smile widens. “I’m working with someone new, yeah—”
Mei leans forward. “Oh no. No, he isn’t supposed to mention your—”
“Cat Cromwell.”
Surprise shoves into my chest, clearing everything else out. It’s glacially cold, freezing time to a standstill. “What the hell,” Mei exhales. “This breaks the illusion.”
She continues talking. I only half hear her. The same for the phone buzzing in my pocket; I only feel it through layers and layers of icy confusion. Faust just said my name. Connecting me to him.On the international Formula 1 broadcast. I haven’t even posted online that I’m in Melbourne. My family…
Is watching this. They would literally be watching this, right now.
“Cat Cromwell!” the broadcaster says, infuriatingly chipper. “Well, we always love hearing about a new woman working in motorsports.”
Faust’s smile turns mischievous. “Why I named her.”
“And I should’ve noticed the woman’s touch—bit of aRebel Without a Cause, cool-guy thing you have going on, right?”
Holy hell, can this guy not just ask Faust about his job? The race?Cars? Faust glances at the broadcaster, then straight to the camera, and the serious, quiet man I’ve grown to detest is nowhere to be found. He’s been replaced with pure, targeted chaos. “Cat said it was more likeThe Bear.”
“What is he talking about?” Mei groans, dropping her phone to rub at her temples. “Train wreck. Awful. He can’t be name-dropping influences. I’m sorry, Cat, I’ll talk to him, this is completely inappropriate.”
“No, don’t—I’ll handle it.” Against the back of my sternum, my heart makes a valiant effort to excavate itself from my body, adrenaline vibrating every rapid-fire beat. “I’ll just… when I do his… excuse me.”
I’m entirely wobbly knees as I leave to pace down the hall. This can’t be as bad as I think it is, right? There isn’t any way that Faust figured me out, and I can’t blow my cover by accusing him of intelligence he doesn’t possess. I’ve been caught one time.Once. Because I got sloppy and dated two brothers from Florida who hadn’t spoken to each other in years but got locked into the same hurricane party that genuinely scared them. Florida men. Scared.At a hurricane party. It had taken a literal act of God to get people whispering about the “Hilton Heartbreaker,” and that was years ago. My record’s expunged, that original judge got caught taking backdoor parking ticket bribes, and I haven’t heard a peep since I changed my name legally.
If anything, Faust is antagonizing me for fun. Period. That’s all.
When I get to the tiny, screenless, windowless room I’m supposed to meet him in, my pulse has gone from drum solo to symphony orchestra, tubas and trumpets and trombones blaring at the same time. I close the door and sit on the white bench, the only piece of furniture here under the fluorescent lights. Could I hide under that if I had to? Pretend I’m not here and ambush him like he just ambushed me? Or, I don’t know, hide forever?
With a creak, the doorknob twists.
The door opens.
Faust walks in, looks at me, and shuts the door behind himself with one flat palm. He’s changed into his racing uniform, a skin-tight shellac of gray on gray on gray. “Cat,” he says by way of a greeting, eyebrows slanted with faux sympathy. “Something wrong?”
My mouth is a pile of sawdust and yet, words do happen. “No.”
“You watched the broadcast?”
“You mean the thing on every TV in here?”
The skin of his cheek grows taut, like he’s biting behind his lip to keep his face still. This is funny to him. Ruining Mei’s plans, making me uncomfortable. Acid burns in my throat, years of anger I’ve channeled everywhere but here. To a man’s face.
