Sorrt.
Typo.
It’s okay. Take your time
Thank you.
I guess you have to ask yourself what you’re okay with losing.
???
People will think you dated him.
I sit up.
Yes?
I stare at my screen, waiting, not breathing. This is his in. A clear, open door where he can sayI don’t want you to date my rival, I want you to date meas plainly and earnestly as he says everything else. Because Faust isn’t the type of person to care about the dating-Bernard’s-ex gossip on a personal level, and he’d never let his circle run some patriarchal “sloppy seconds” bullshit, but like he said earlier—the media is brutal. The Formula 1 universe would inhale anything we did after I’ve gone public with Bernard. An influencer hopping between childhood friends-turned-rivals? Movie deal.
My phone dings and I feel like I’m standing on the platform of a train as it derails, and also I’m in front of it.
I’ll follow your lead.
But Mei? Christine?
The train hits.
Right. Yes. Mei will be betrayed and Christine will hate me and I’ll be fired, without a doubt. And he’s being very considerate, approaching this topic with me, typical honest Faust. But my throat feels like it’s closing up anyway. I’ve never had to learn what normal people do when their hearts collapse, but if our situation wasn’t working for him, wouldn’t he tell me?
He keeps texting.
Yeah, he would.
Sorry. This isn’t my place, I know.
I just worrt
Worry
I worry about what you will do after you leave.
You like fashion. You like Formula 1.
My emotions get to me before my rational, logical mind can.
I like what I do, too.
You wanted to be a designer.
And I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I like it. Not that that matters.
But what would you do now, if you didn’t have to worry about money? What would you want to do?
This isn’t something I want to talk about. That I don’t know what I’d do in this dream post-capitalism scenario that also isn’t relevant. I do have to worry about money, always. Giving my family the life I never got is the lowest, biggest level on my Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
So, I pull a trick from the Cat Cromwell book of smoke screens and deceptions, and steer us back to fun territory.
Can we talk about us?
