Christine is beautiful tonight. Andso, so drunk.
We’re still in Miami, and she doesn’t have a fake ID, but no bartender can resist her “I’m a Formula 1 podium-finisher, you should buymea shot.” She’s in her pink bomber jacket, the Prada one, her curls like a river down her back. Debut anxiety, gone.
Faust switches her to bottled water by eleven p.m., then when he learns that the U.S. drinking age is twenty-one, he sends her and Eddie to the hotel with a lecture they’re far too drunk to comprehend now or remember tomorrow.
And then it’s us adults, on the edge of Monaco.
It’s a whole crew at first. People I don’t know, drivers, staff from other teams, mostly Cavalli for some reason. Faust’s friend and fellow driver, Arthur, is here with his wife, Lilah, who I recognize from the documentary crew; the tiny brunette woman with the glasses. Seems like a breach of ethics to me, F1 documentarian and a Formula 1 driver, but what do I know? And while Arthur’s young teammate, Rafa, whisks most of their group to the dance floor—averysmitten couple named Delaney and Cameron, and a perky marketing director with her doting finance boyfriend—Arthur and Lilah stay firmly relegated to the VIP section. “We don’t dance,” Lilah half yells over the electronica. “Bad things happen when we dance.”
“Oh?”
“Long story.” The music drops into a mellower rave track and she mumbles, “Thank God.”
“So, how long have you all known each other?” I ask, feeling a bit like the odd one out. Arthur has wrenched Faust away for a “look at the stars,” which I’d assumed was a cigarette but neither he nor his wife drink. So again, who knows.
“A few years now, I guess.” While she talks, Lilah picks at the napkin that came with her soda water. “Faust and Arthur used to be on the same team, sort of. Arthur was on reserve while Faust was supposed to be driving, but then Faust was out for basically the whole season because of—you know.”
For once, I do. I guess the migraine stuff isn’t private, but I still don’t want to talk about it. It was supposed to be private, for him. “Was it that bad?”
“That year? Oh, horrible.” She plucks a corner of the napkin straight off with a snort. “That was my first year here, though, and I didn’t get to know Faust until after Arthur and I went to Cavalli. So I didn’t see it from his point of view ’til Arthur started going after him—we’re going to be friends… I have this therapist that can help you… we can hang out now that we don’t have to duke it out for your seat. This was before Faust had come to Stark-Benzin, while he was still on the team that benched him. So they’d stopped seeing each other as competition.”
I roll my lip between my teeth. It’s kind of funny, and so sad,too. “But,” Lilah adds, holding up her paper-dotted hands with a flourish, “I think it was good in the long run. They both realized they deserved better than a team that fucked with their self-worth. And now Faust is here, and he seems happy.”
“Do you really think so?” I wonder if that’s what Faust has told them. If he’s starting to want to stay at Stark-Benzin, or the sport.
“I do.” Behind her glasses, Lilah gives me a suspecting look, and I lean back in the booth under the weight of her surprisingly intense eyes. “Hm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Self-conscious, I cross my arms. “What?”
Without saying another word, she smiles, a dimple in her left cheek catching the overly dramatic club lighting. “Nothing, nothing.”
Don’t like that. Not one bit. And she makes films about us, so whatever she’s angling for, I’m not going to give her. But—I look down at my margarita. I’ve sipped through half of it since we got here, hoping it would make me forget that we’re flying to Monaco tomorrow. It hasn’t worked yet.
I take a dainty lick of salt rim, finish the drink, then say, “I just want him to be happy.”
It’s as much as I’ve said to anyone, anywhere. Because I know Lilah understands what I’m saying; she’s married to one of these frustrating, incredible, magnetic drivers herself. On cue, her smile drops, and she picks the paper bits off her hands. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Do you want my advice?”
No. Yes. “Um.”
“Don’t go.”
I tilt my head. “Go… where?”
“Wherever you think you have to go after this, without him. Don’t go to where you’ve told yourself you have to go. Just stay.”
Huh. That’s not bad advice, on a base level. And it would be relevant if I had anywhere I was running toward. Or, if Faust had asked me to stay, which he hasn’t. There can’t be anyafter thisif there isn’t anythis.
And then I remember that after Monaco Qualifying, Lilah’s going to know that I didn’t end up with Faust at all, not one bit, and my heart goes crashing down. “Thanks. But it’s just a crush, I guess.”
“Sure.”
“Really, like a game.”
Her nose wrinkles. “A good one, at least?”
