“Has he tried to…” She glances at Rowan and Ahmed, who might be twenty-one years old, collectively. “Get suggestive? Since you’re in a text-based relationship for the time being.”
I snort. “Weirdly, no. I kind of feel like his therapist. It’s a lot of F1 talk, when I’m going to meet his brother, how we’re going to announce our relationship on Instagram, blah, blah, blah.”
She cocks her head, curls bouncing. “Is that the plan?”
“At this point, yes. I’ve talked him into soft-launching—you know, a picture of my elbow in a mirror, two plates of spaghetti at the restaurant.”
“I know what soft launch means.”
“And then I think I can break up with him at the following race.I’m meeting the team in Miami, and then it’s Monaco after that.” I bounce my knee, my heel clicking against the floor. “It’s perfect. A Monte Carlo breakup.”
“Isn’t that like…theFormula 1 race?”
I nod. Renata frowns. “You don’t think he’ll crash out?”
I nod again. “Not literally, no. But mentally? Yeah.”
Her frown deepens.
And I know, there’s a slight risk of additional emotional devastation and all the masculine backlash that comes with the territory—but isn’t that what Imogen is paying me for? Smashing his heart to pieces in the town that Formula 1 took over is poetic. “He really, really, really sucks, Ren. More than most of the men I do this with.” My eyes drop to my coffee. “And I might have a backup plan if he spins out on social media.”
“Which is?”
I press my fingers into the side of my coffee cup. “Faust?”
I don’t know why his name comes out like a breathy question. Renata’s eyes widen, and she leans forward so quickly that her elbows rattle the metal bistro table.
“The guy.”
“Yeah.”
“He knows?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No.”
“Hefound out?”
“Mmhm.”
Her mouth snaps shut. Opens. “That’s…” Shuts again. “Wow.”
I drop my voice to a whisper, though Rowan’s talking so loudly,I don’t think Ahmed will overhear me. “He said that he wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yeah?”
A muscle in her jaw twitches, and my stomach curls in on itself. We’ve never talked about this. Our past and who gets to know is our white whale conversation, and while I’m keenly aware that Renata would cry actual tears of joy if I quit my hard-boiled life of crime to join her in domestic bliss, not telling anyone what we do has always been our one most important, most unspoken rule. A rule she still cares about, I’m realizing.
“He doesn’t know about you,” I whisper. “I mean—he saw your account, so he knows we’re friends, but he doesn’tknowabout you.”
Hurt flashes across her face. “Oh.”
I’d thought that’d be comforting. Clearly, I’d been wrong. And this conversation isn’t getting any easier, the longer we have it. How do I tell her how lonely it is to be a Robin Hood without my Little John, or how many times I’ve wished nothing between us had changed, even though I understand how happy her new life makes her? We were like a fairy tale. Two single women against the world. I think a part of me has been waiting for someone like Faust, desperately, though I never would’ve said that to her.
