“Oh yes, ‘the same thing’ he says.” Matthieu scoffs, but he still looks soft. After a moment of silence, he asks, “Are you okay?”
Julien looks down, towards the race suit bunched up around his ankles. He works one leg free, then the other. “Thomas and I have never really gotten along.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“But today?” Once he’s free from the thick suit, Julien kicks it over to his wardrobe. “It’s like if someone asked a sommelier to spit on your dish so you wouldn’t get a Michelin star. It’s—it’sbad.”
“That’s Thomas, though. He plays dirty. He always scratches and bites to get ahead.”
“Iknow.” Julien rolls down his Nomex underwear and flings it as hard as he can at the pile of clothes. It doesn’t help. “I know.”
“I don’t think you’re mad at Thomas.”
“No?!”What a laugh.
Matthieu shakes his head. “You’ve always hated Thomas. You can’t get mad at him, because every bad thing he does helps justify your hate.”
“I definitelycanget mad at him.”
“I think you’re secretly happy whenever he fucks up. You like having a reason to complain about him.”
“I don’t like complaining about Thomas,” Julien grumbles. “And I don’thatehim.”
“Well, you don’t like him either. That’s why you’re so upset at Rafael.”
“They werehugging.”
“Rafael’s a good friend.”
“After Thomas tried to take my win?”
“That’s not Rafael’s fault.”
Julien falls back onto his massage table with a thud. He’s only in his boxer briefs, but no amount of clothes would make him feel any less naked in front of someone who knows him so well.
He curls up and holds his legs tightly to himself. “I think Rafael loves Thomas,” he whispers to his knees.
Mattieu hesitantly perches next to him on the edge of the massage table. “That would suck.”
Julien doesn’t know what else to say but, “Yeah.”
“You should’ve stayed with me in the restaurant world.” Matthieu knocks into his brother with his shoulder. “I know a couple of chefs who are exactly your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” Julien answers on reflex. “And why would you encourage me into a job you hate?”
“Because you seemed happier back then.”
“I’m happy now!” Julien just won the French Grand Prix, for crying out loud.
“Yelling ‘I’m happy’ isn’t as convincing as you think it is.” Matthieu kinda sucks, actually. “Could you put some clothes on? Also, your celebratory dinner is mandatory for you and a guest. Make up with Rafael and pregame before you get there. Alcohol should help.”
“Copy.”
When he’s dressed and alone again, Julien digs out his phone and types out a text.
Wanna suffer through a celebratory dinner with my family tonight?
He sends it before he can think twice and scrolls through social media while he waits for a reply.
