Chapter 15 Check
I try to give him the jacket back. I leave it folded at his doorstep the following day, only when I return from a shopping trip that evening, it’s still there.
Folded. Slightly dimpled, like someone tried their hardest to step around it.
With a frown, I pick it up, find a clothes hanger in my room, and leave it on his doorknob.
Before my morning run, I find it hanging off my door instead. Still on the hanger, zipped.
I give up on the second full day of clothes hanger shuffling.
Safe in the privacy of my own room, I slip the jacket back around my shoulders.
It isn’t the worst thing in the world to have, if Faust is making me keep it.
The collar smells like trees, like him, and there’d been a receipt from a pharmacy in Algarve in the pocket. I don’t translate it.
I’d ask him what he was doing, if we talked like that, or at all.
Who knows what’s going on in his mind? You have given me too many clothes.
Now, I give you my gray polyester bomber jacket that’s vaguely workwear-inspired but decidedly not a Carhartt.
That’s frustrating, too—most of the text has been rubbed off the labels, rendering it brandless and extra mysterious.
At best, the thing looks like he thrifted it for twenty bucks.
Sixty, in a major city. So, I don’t think it was, like…
a pity jacket. If he’d been overly worried about me that night, he would’ve brought out a blanket or woken me up.
Still, though.
It was a nice thing to do.
And I really—really—don’t know what to do with that fact.
So, the night of Bernard’s gala, I do everything that makes me feel like me again.
I put on ABBA and take an absolutely everything shower—clarifying shampoo, hair mask, body scrub, the whole nine yards.
I paint my nails, spend too long blowing out my hair, and find a dress I know will make him die and then die again.
Red silk, vintage Valentino, bias cut, with delicate straps that melt into a neckline almost too cruel to wear out.
The gala is at an event space close to the circuit.
Formula 1–related iconography dots the posters lining the steps up to the building, and while it’s weird to see the fusion of luxury and celebrity and the sports brand itself, it isn’t surprising.
Bernard meets me by a table inside, and he looks as perfectly handsome as any magazine spread—there’s an uncanny-valley quality to how slicked back his pale orange hair is.
“Cat, my dear friend,” he says, holding out his arm. “So happy you’re here.”
Taking a breath, I give him an awkward half hug. “Hi, wow. This place is beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? Tickets cost an arm and a leg.” He winks. “But for you, anything.”
I always wish I could fast-forward through the mind-numbing small talk at parties like this.
Each space is beautiful. All the colorful lighting is pretty.
There are curtains draped off the ceiling, and isn’t that so special?
Don’t they ever get bored of perfection?
Nothing is beautiful when you smooth every rough edge off.
We land at our table. There are five other people seated with us; I assess them long enough to jot their descriptions down later.
We discuss racing, the weather, the cherry blossoms, Bernard, other people’s jobs.
I tune it out as soon as our meals arrive.
There’s a space in the middle of the tables, lit with slowly swirling lights.
A dance floor. I watch a purple spotlight trace across the ground as couples meander toward it, and it’s riveting, comparatively.
“Want any champagne?” Bernard asks. He’s next to me, his arm surprisingly not on the back of my chair.
“None for me.” I drop my voice, tilting my head toward him subtly. “I want to remember tonight.”
He beams like I’ve kissed him. “Maybe I’ll skip it, too.”
I smile—and that’s when I see it. One banner, tucked behind an ice sculpture of an F1 car. There’s a line in Japanese and then, below that, in English:
TONIGHT IS brOUGHT TO YOU BY LOCKLAND PUBLIC.
HEALTHCARE WITH A HUMAN TOUCH.
I stop breathing. Feel a dizzying, needling rush. “Actually,” I say. And then I’m standing, though I’m not sure where my feet are. On the ground? Maybe? I can sort of feel the floor under my heels. “Could we—do you want to dance?”
I don’t meet Bernard’s surprised gaze, only watch his freckled smile from the corner of my eye. “Of course. Now?”
“Yes, please.”
He leads me to the dance floor, though I feel like I’m watching it happen from a hundred miles away, his hand finding mine, his arm slipping around my back.
I’m not really here. When Bernard murmurs in my ear, “Is everything all right?,” I don’t know if he’s asking the actor that’s clinging to his arms or me, the woman staring at this slow-motion car crash.
“I’m—yeah. I’m just. I’m nervous.”
His arm tightens around me. “Don’t be.”
We sway in a circle, and there’s the banner again. Everything else is in shadow, like I can only see those two words. Lockland Public. “How long?”
“Hm?”
“How long have you worked with the sponsor for tonight?”
“Oh, the healthcare thing?” He sounds bored. Fucking bored. “A few years. Do you know them?”
I do. Lockland Public was the name on each letter piled high on Grandma’s table, before all the crisp white papers were swept into a garbage bag and left on the curb.
In fact, I know so much about them. Lockland Public is a publicly traded insurance company, and they say that makes them more accountable to real people—more caring.
With a human touch. They also say they’re based in North Carolina, but their current CEO’s private jet is in Cannes more often than not.
I’ve seen pictures of the sixty-something-year-old guy partying on a yacht with women younger than his daughters.
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re great. Put on this whole gala.”
Tickets cost an arm and a leg. “Wow.”
“Right? I’ve never been the face of a brand before—and they’re making big moves in luxury sports medicine. Really good with investors. Big returns. That kind of thing.”
I swallow, the acid in my throat sweet like ibuprofen. The cheap, sugar-coated kind. “Isn’t the point of health insurance to pay the people who pay for it?”
“God, you’re adorable.” He laughs, squeezing me closer. “People like giving them their money, really. Don’t know why, but that’s not for us to figure out.”
We sway back around. I stare out at the shadow people seated at their tables and wish, hard enough to break a birthday candle, for him to appear.
Faust. Now is when I need that anchoring stare.
An irritating smirk that reminds me that I’m powerful enough to play this game.
I want him to be here, watching me, and that alone is a terrifying thought.
“Are you interested in working with brands—as a couple?” Bernard’s breath is warm on my cheek. “I’m sure they would be interested.”
“Lockland Public?”
“Yes, trust me.” He chuckles. “Everyone will want to pay for a piece of you.”
White envelopes on a table. Grandma sitting for her matching tattoo, a rabbit on her wrist. Maisie begging me to just meet with the high-risk specialists—we share all the same genes.
Ballet on Christmas, Mom stepping behind a long velvet curtain.
Those are my pieces, and no one wants them except me. If I don’t remember them, who will?
“I know you said we were just friends tonight, but I need to ask, officially.” Bernard pulls me closer.
I can’t stop staring at the banner, now tucked behind two illuminated bouquets.
“I’m a very lucky man. My family, well… let’s just say, I’ve always gotten what I’ve wanted in life.
But this feels like something I’ve been looking for.
And I hope it isn’t too soon to ask, but—will you be my girlfriend, Ms. Cromwell? ”
I’m dreaming again. That has to be it. The son of a billionaire dynasty is asking me out, here, at a charity gala lining the pockets of the company I hate the most, and I’m whispering in my tiniest, happiest voice, of course.
And then there’s his hand around my wrist and a soft tug that pulls me into his chest, and I don’t notice that Bernard’s going for a kiss until his lips graze my cheek and I still can’t stop looking at those three words.
A human touch. Here it is. The face of Lockland Public.
My first kiss in who knows how long can’t be with him.
“Sorry,” I exhale, stepping back. Pulse pounding, I trace where his stubble pricked my skin, light enough to burn. “I, I can’t.”
Bernard’s eyes narrow on my fingers. He smiles with great effort. “Right. I forgot. That was too serious, wasn’t it?”
“No. It wasn’t—”
“I didn’t mean exclusive, Cat. You can see other men.”
Fuck, this is so bad. People are staring, trying to decipher what just happened between Bernard Baudelaire and his little date, and he’s back-pedaling, and I should’ve just let him kiss me.
But the thought makes my stomach churn, and then I’m saying, “Excuse me,” and then I’m outside, on a balcony overlooking Suzuka, needing fresh air to calm the dizzying whirlpool that’s dragging me under.
Beyond the railing, the city is nothing more than dark towers studded with thousands of golden windows.
There isn’t any music playing out here, either.
It’s quiet. But I can’t catch my breath; I lean to rest my hands on my thighs, the best I can do in this waist-hugging dress.
Should’ve worn my Issey. Pleats would be so nice right now.
When the door opens, I’m still staring at the pale gray concrete floor.
It shuts as I try to straighten up, my vision swimming with black fuzz. “Hey.” A hand finds my lower back, my center of gravity, and presses in, balancing me. “It’s me. Take a breath.”
He’s here.