I hate hanging up on her but I have to, and then I’m opening up every single social media app on my phone because, what the hell, what is happening,how. It’s Instagram, of course, though. My hands shake so badly that I almost can’t watch the story.
He reposted a black-and-white photo of me from the Day Gala. I’m on the steps in my black suit, watching Faust, smiling a bit, but mostly looking completely in the zone.Missing someone today, Bernard had written on the picture.Have a bagel for me.
And right below that, he’d tagged me.
Trembling, I click back into my main Instagram feed. The new-followers icon pops up at the top of the homepage, and when I try to tap it, it doesn’t work. Then the app crashes entirely. When I finally get it working again, I’m met with an alert that someone’s tried to log into my account, they’ve restricted it to protect me, and I have tens of thousands of new followers. Comments stagger over my screen, glitching just as quickly.HI CATOMG HI, andlmao i thought bernard had meant faust at first???, andARE YOU PARENT TRAPPING MY DIVORCED PARENTS #fernardmarriagecounciling, and—
I tap into the settings page, shake through my email and password, and deactivate my account.
There.
That’s… not enough.
That won’t stop it.
Fuck.
I go to a chair, banging my knee on the arm before I can sink down, my elbows on my knees, fingers pressing into my temples. A second later, I hear what has to be Faust flipping switches, and I’d probably ask him to give me space if I still had a mouth. I’m a cat. We like to die by ourselves.
“Hey, hey, easy.” He’s in front of me, dropping to his knees. “What happened?”
How do I tell one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met that my plan got derailed by his ex–best friend reposting apictureof me? Humiliation makes my throat sticky, hard to work with. So, I do the next best thing, pulling Bernard’s contact up on my phone. The messaging app I use has a call feature, and before I know it, I’m putting him on speaker. I can’t explain it, but Bernard can.
“Cat? What a surprise.”
He sounds happy. And guilty. Good. “Bernard,” I say, unable to cover up how hoarse my voice is. “I thought we’d agreed on a soft launch.”
Faust’s fingers ghost over my knee. I can’t look at him.
“I’m sorry,” Bernard sighs. “You just looked so good in those photos. How was it, by the way?”
He’s lying. I look fine, like a nervous stylist watching her client.He’d cherry-picked the most glamorous picture, one that happened to feature Faust in the background, half-blurred but surely unmistakable to Bernard’s audience. An attention lover, through and through.
I must be quiet for too long. “I really thought you’d like it,” Bernard murmurs. “Faust did the public thing first, in Australia, right? When he said your name? It’s the same.”
Because he thought I was a spy from another team, sabotaging his final year in F1. Not to stake a claim on me to get people talking.“It’s different with us. We’re dating. And you know what I’d said about the team, about this job. You know why I didn’t want you to do it like this.”
There’s more that I want to say—my anger trembling into focus—but I’ve already pushed this too far. A phone breakup isn’t the Cat Cromwell promise. “I’m sorry. I… Let’s talk later,” I add, then hang up.
The silence is startlingly loud once the call is over.
Faust’s palm presses against my knee. “Hey. Let me take care of this.”
He’s blurry when I peek up at him. Still, he gives me this look that makes me think that I’m not that different from the men whose hearts I’ve broken. Soft and open. Earnest and kind.
If I was an idiot, I’d think he loved me.
His hand tightens. “I can make this go away. Okay?”
“I… but…”
“Green?”
My resolve crumbles. I nod, too grateful to give him control of this situation to speak. Faust hums, something of athank you, then stands, presses a kiss to my forehead, and goes to the kitchenette. Within three minutes, I hear him on the phone with someone—notBernard. “It was just a post,” he says quietly. “He’s an idiot. She’s here with me. Crashed after the gala on the sofa. Yeah… Of course. No, I don’t think so.”
He has to be talking to Mei, or Christine. Two people I hadn’t thought of yet, and that makes me go for the tissues on the coffee table. I’d thought, at most, that having Faust as my partner in crime could help keep Bernard’s potential entitled-man anger away down the line. I hadn’t expected this.
I can’t listen to how kind he’s being, but I can’t stop, either.
