(ART) How’s life at Leone now, Bernie?
(BAU) Great.
(ART) Grand.
After another awkward silence, the screen flips to post-race interviews with other drivers, and I catch up with Mei right as she pops open a door to outside. Thankfully, she’s too busy to talk, winding through a congested garden. I wouldn’t know what to say if she asked me why I’d stopped. I don’t know that answer, either, and every footstep unleashes a new wave of nerves. I know myself.I always have. That’s my North Star. Can’t pretend to be everyone else if you don’t know yourself.
“I don’t think we can make it to the front-row in time, but look.” Mei nudges my elbow with hers, and I follow her eyes upward, to a lifted stage that soars above the crowd. The winners’ podium.
I watch, mute, as Faust appears from the backstage area first. He waves to the crowd, then hops onto the third-place step. People clap and whistle, and he looks almost—maybe shy? As bashful as a large, wide, championship-winning man can be, with his hands clasped respectfully in front of himself. He hasn’t changed out of his racing suit, and the gray pops against the chaotic Australian Grand Prix screen behind him, flickering through advertisements. His hair still looks good, too. Soft and finger-combed back.
My fingertips sting. I fold my hands into fists.
You and me, Cat. You think we’re not alike?
Bernard comes out, then Arthur, and the traditional F1 celebration kicks off. Trophies are awarded, anthems played, loved ones in the crowd looking on proud, a thick stratum of lucky fans clapping just behind the gathered teams. I know what’s coming, and I still feel like I’ve been knocked back on my knees when Faust grabs the champagne bottle from the podium floor.
With one dramatic thunk against the ground, Faust pops his bottle and turns to Arthur—right as the blond finishes shaking his and turns his spray on Faust. In a second, he’s drenched, dripping, rubbing his eyes, laughing.
The world presses closer to me. It’s as if the air has hands and they’re over my ears, and the sun’s found my skin and burrows in, and as much as life’s holding me, I feel like I can’t move. It’s holding me still, too. Like when you trip and fall, and feel the last pull of leftover gravity tug you in the other direction—two torn forcesneutralizing each other. And you’rehere, suspended between where you were and where you’re going. Only that isn’t right for me, is it? When he’s where I’ve been and where I am and can’t be the ground I’m about to hit, too. He can’t.
But he’s laughing.
He’s smiling.
He’s…
My crush on Fausthadbeen childish, in retrospect. I hadn’t known him yet.
He’s so much better in person.
Faust
Monday, March 17
I’m not “obsessed” with “Cat.” Despite what Eddie says.
I just want to figure out why she acts so
She can’t seriously be into him of all
It’d be fucked if the only woman I
I only think about her this much because someone has to pay attention.
Chapter 12SCHOLAR’S MATE
PARIS
I’ve never had to dealwith this before, during a job. Attraction. To a man. A mark’srival.
I don’t know if I sleep for longer than a minute on the million-hour trip from Melbourne to Paris. Insomnia is nothing new for me, though it typically doesn’t get this bad when I’m working. Then again, as my brain keeps helpfully reminding me, it’s been so long since I’ve felt attracted to anyone that maybe this is normal for me. Not being able to sleep because I keep replaying every moment of my last conversation with them. Startling awake when I’m just about to doze off, terrified, and remembering that I’m afuture WAGwith afucking paper trailand I’m now working for a Formula 1 driver who might actuallydo really well this yearso, surprise! We’re squeezing in an exciting but frankly absurd appearance at Paris Fashion Week. Other surprise! I think the guy whose ex-best-friend I’m going to date is devastatingly hot.
Faust.
Fuck.
How do normal people handle this? Like, if I wasn’t me, would I proposition a random Parisian and bang this virus out of my system? Not that I think that would work. Sex isn’t really that great, the few times I’ve tried it. It requires so much acting, and I was always thinking about the early call-time I had the next morning or what to do with my hands. All for what? A man asking if I came after he rubbed the inside of my thigh for thirty seconds? Obviously, I can’t date-date someone else to get over this because… I am going to date someone else. At least, Faust will think I am. Bernard will also think I am. Most of the world, really.
