Chapter 11QUEENSIDE CASTLING
Only once I’m on anempty Paddock Club balcony overlooking the circuit’s starting line do I recognize Faust’s comment for the compliment it is. Then I sink my hands onto my knees and wait out this swell of nausea.
He remembers me.
Me. My face. This whole time, he remembered me.
Is this what a panic attack feels like? My ribs are too tight and my skin is flushed and there’s a rabbit in my heart blinking up at the big headlights as a car barrels toward me, too distracted by the bright, pretty lights to move. And it is a pretty thought—like blinding, white light before asphalt and steel—that meeting me for a few minutes was enough to make a mark on someone. Onhim. That Faust of all people could be the one thing I never saw coming: my match. And…
I had to lie to him.
I had to tell him that he’s wrong about me, and I likeBernard.
My phone buzzes where it’s stuffed into my shoulder bag. Theone shortbzztof a voicemail. A few seconds later, there’s another. My fingers tremble as I slip it out and read the screen. Two voicemails: one from Renata, the other from Maisie.
This is it. Goodbye, Cat Cromwell. You had a really good run, and now you are certifiably screwed.
“If you’re going to throw up, you cannot do it on a Paddock Club balcony. Upper management will sniper-rifle you.”
The choir of voices screamingget the hell out of dodgequiet as Mei appears next to me, a little sweaty, clutching two influencer swag bags and three phones. Does she know, too? Or just Faust? One bag slips from under her elbow and something inside it crunches ominously. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Sorry.” I force myself to a regular standing position, wipe away my panic sweat, tuck back my hair. Just two girls having fun in the Paddock Club! Formula 1 is so great! “It’s the noise.”
“Did you eat?”
“I had… coffee.”
She swipes up the discard bag and fishes out a plastic-wrapped lump of beige. “Vegan Rice Krispies Treat. Apparently, the ‘Mediterranean diet’ is coming back—which, what the fuck.”
Relief feels like a warm, cozy hug. Mei wouldn’t be giving me influencer castoffs if she thought I’d lied my way into this job. Smiling faintly, I grab the broken Rice Krispies Treat from her and dig in. Sugar might help me not pass out.
“I talked to Faust, by the way,” I say between dry-mouthed bites. “He’s, uh, yeah. We talked.”
“Oh?” She pulls an orange can from the bag and holds it out to me. “Drink.”
Nonalcoholic mimosais written on the label. So, artisanal orange juice with fancy packaging. I follow her orders.
“Sorry again he’s like that,” Mei says after a beat.
“Stubborn?”
“Feminist, but occasionally stupid, so it does rebound damage.”
“Ha.”
Maybe if I keep playing it cool, Mei won’t believe Faust when he tells her the truth. She’s already back to typing on her phone, only occasionally looking up at the pre-race show playing out on screens around the clubhouse. Out on the track, workers are starting to move away from the cars, tire warmers removed, the crowd thinning to just the drivers and the circuit. I don’t have that long before the race starts and she’s distracted, and then the race ends and Faust’s free and she might beverydistracted.
“Mei?”
“Hm?”
“Thanks for not letting me vomit around the upper class.” I’m trying to gauge her reaction. So… why does saying that make a ten-pound knot wrap itself around my throat?
She glances up, smiling impishly. “Haven’t even seen your first GP. Are you already getting sentimental?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It happens to the best of us.”
