“Don’t.”
“No, Mei is evil for that. It’s such a good song.”
“Sorry, boss’s orders.”
But before Monday, there’s Sunday. The Miami Grand Prix.
The weather is downright steamy, sunshine beating down in a way that’s difficult for me to comprehend as a Chicagolander. Mei is busy today, so I hide in the Stark-Benzin hospitality by myself, and it feels a little on the nose—literally hiding in the shadows for my final race. Alone, I curl up in a white leather chair, enjoy a singleglass of champagne, and alternate between peeking over a balcony to the starting line and watching the action on a seven-foot screen surrounded by miniature palm trees.
The bubbles sting my throat.
I won’t miss the in-your-face luxury of this space, F1 advertising plastering every square inch, the car-shaped sugar cookies, the bored Paddock Club guests. I will miss the excited ones, though. Two women sitting by me explain that they won their tickets in a contest, then splurged on the plane tickets themselves. I meet a motorsports influencer who’s just getting started—her eyes pop out of my head when I introduce myself asthatCat. “You’re a legend,” she whispers. “I heard you’ve got Bern wrapped around your finger. You should snap him.”
I’ll miss watching Faust drive, too.
He starts third from the front today, after a turbulent Qualifying leaned in his favor. Near the last laps, there’s a kerfuffle with him and both Baudelaire brothers—I miss the replay because I’m reading Mei’s texts;NOandWTFFFFandI’M GOING TO THE FIA MYSELF I WILL BECOME A RACE STEWARD WATCH ME. The race ends with me on my feet, yelling at the screen, the two fans and influencer screaming alongside me. Bernard won. His brother, Jean, got second.
Christine got third.
And I’m so freaking excited for her. “But it should’ve been Faust on the podium, not Bernard,” the influencer hisses. “Bernard swung for him! The stewards missed it! Cat, go destroy him.”
I laugh, something stuck in my throat.
It’ll be too hard to watch F1 after I leave. Do any reality TV stars watch the show after they’ve been written off?
I tell myself that I’m going downstairs to check that Faust’ssartorially prepared for the media pen. This is my job, after all. He’s going to have to talk to reporters asking why he let Bernard drive him off, over and over and over, and he should look really good during that. Also, today he’s supposed to wear a certain watch, so I need to help him put it on. It’s hard to put on men’s watches by yourself.
But when I see him, a tall splash of gray with his black helmet tucked under his arm, I’m just excited. And sad. And feeling things that have nothing to do with work.
We’re in a crowded outdoor breezeway, the sun hot overhead, staff milling around with the occasional fan. “Hey,” I yell.
Out steps a man in a golden racing suit.
“Cat?”
It’s Bernard. Here. In front of me, on his way to the podium, I assume. “Oh. Hi.”
His face is so red and sweaty. He looks like a mess, but his eyes are bright. “Were you trying to talk to me?”
Oh my God. No. “Sorry—I. Um.”
It’s been a while since I’ve felt this slow, trickling awareness, but I recognize it. From across the crowd, Faust is looking at me, stopped, as people walk around him. I feel his eyes on me, just like mine had been on him all morning.
“Congrats,” I tell Bernard, flashing a smile. “You did good today. But I really do have to go.”
My grand-prix-winning boyfriend steps closer to me, smiling himself. “Not so fast, little dove. You know I can sneak you into our podium section with my crew. Come watch me—”
“Hey.”
My gaze flicks over Bernard’s shoulder, like, directly over. And there’s Faust, still in his racing suit. The gray fabric curves with the outlines of him—his thick, muscular body like a promise underthe stiff fabric. And his eyes. I meet them, two brown doorways, and I can read everything on his mind. This must be why Bernard hates him. When Faust is unhappy, he can’t hide it.
When he wants something, he craves it.
He puts a hand on Bernard’s shoulder. “Not here,” he murmurs briskly. His hand drops. “Cat. I need help with that watch. Come with me.”
His staccato tone goes straight to my core, and before I know it, I’m nodding, apologizing to Bernard, then following Faust into Stark-Benzin’s hospitality wing and to a tiny drivers’ room. At this grand prix, it’s nothing more than a white-walled box with a doorless closet, a television, and a stiff-looking bed. Theoretically, Faust could take a nap here. Catch up onDrag Race. Or.
Or—
