“Great incense. More martyrs.”
“But the dying girls get to become saints—that’s nice.”
“The hermits, too.”
I cock my head. “Your other calling?”
He tilts his head back at me. “Not as popular these days.”
“So, you’re nonpracticing.”
“Exactly.”
I wonder if he knows that’s one of my favorite words—exactly. And I wonder for too long. Faust has an in. “Bernard’s practicing, by the way. Though that wasn’t clear from the wedding.”
Rolling my eyes, I dust one of his knights and decide to even the score. “Fine. What doyoulook for in a partner?”
He hesitates, and reminding him that I can also prod intrusively into his love life feels oh so good. “Honesty. Take what you do, forexample,” Faust says, and my heart stops. “I bet you get shit from guys about having to lie online, to sell things.”
“I do have to be slightly private about my personal life, yes,” I say, because I’m not about to admit just how often I lie for work. Or that there are no men in my life, generally speaking. Or ask if he’s looked at my social media and, excuse me, is he following me?
“And I wouldn’t care about that. Really. I get it,” Faust continues. “I wouldn’t care about a lot of things. But honesty is—” He stops again, looking for the right words, eyes scanning the table. “I want someone who wants to be seen with me. Known as mine. If anyone thought she wasn’t, that’s on them. But I’d want that… partnership. We’d know what we have.”
It’s a beautiful sentiment—trusting and loving and idealistic, almost old-school romantic. The idea of two people who can let the world watch them, want them, tempt them, then always go home to each other. I’m also highly skeptical he’s telling me the truth. “You would be okay dating an influencer who never posts you?”
He gives me that stomach-flipping smirk. “One question.”
“You’d be okay if other menflirtedwith her? You wouldn’t be jealous?”
“One.”
“Faust.”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Jealousy,” he says carefully, “can really turn a guy on.”
And—okay. Hm. Yes. I’m now imagining Faust enjoying watching other men flirt with me, because then he gets to be the one who takes me home and… I take a long sip of water before I forget my current chess strategy. “You are surprisingly perverted,” I grumble.
He sounds like he’s amused, but I refuse to look up. “You asked.”
We continue to play. Faust is a better opponent than I initially gave him credit for, and I hate that I keep having to learn this lesson. When he sniper-shots my bishop from across the board with his, he asks, “Why are you so defensive?”
“I’m not—”
“Cat.”
From food to this? I inhale, my throat tight, turning the captured knight between my thumb and forefinger. “I wasn’t always… like this.” The glossy wood feels like the only thing standing between me and losing my train of thought. “I guess I learned that it’s easier to defend the things you love if no one knows you love them.”
Faust listens attentively, waiting for any follow-up thoughts. “That isn’t a full answer. I asked why.”
“I answered,” I say. Defensively.
“Butwhattaught you? Remember. The deal was honesty.”
In other words: he’ll notice if I don’t give him as much info as he just gave me about his pseudo-voyeur kink. I have to say something substantial. And even though it feels like I’m trying to wrench the lid off a dusty old cardboard box while it’s still packing-taped shut, I clear my throat and say, “I wanted to design clothes. Which is so hard to get into, you know?”Particularly when you’re a nobody from nowhere.“So, I guess that’s why I learned to keep secrets. I didn’t make anyone sad when my dreams didn’t come true. And if you were Sigmund Freud or something, then you could say I’ve usually chosen other people over…”What I want to do, my brain fills in. But that isn’t right. I love doing this. “Yeah.”
For a long moment, Faust just looks at me, and I feel this tiny, maniacal excitement that he’s listening to me. He understands. “If no one ever knows what you want,” he says softly, “then no one ever knows if you don’t get it.”
And that’s the downside of glitter: it has a habit of sticking around in places you don’t want it to. “Wow! We do have Freud over here.” I laugh. Then I take a big drink of water. Then I murder his offending bishop with my king. “My turn. Why did you use my work as your girlfriend-preference example?”
