Epilogue
It was a rainy day in Brazil when Faust won the World Drivers’ Championship.
The media swarmed before I could get to him—asking how the comeback feels, if he’s going to nab the “number one” driver number from Arthur Graywood.
He gave them short answers. Polite. I think he was saving his words for me.
He was endless when I found him by the podium, sweaty and grinning and talkative, his hands on me, his lips on mine.
It wasn’t the first time we’ve kissed in front of the whole world. It won’t be the last.
“So, are you?” I ask.
“One piece, one question,” Faust tuts.
We’re in Monte Carlo, at the coffee shop down the street from our apartment.
The district’s dressed up for Christmas; this year’s theme is Sugar Plum Fairy.
I could laugh. Imogen did when she visited.
But the weather’s perfect—fifty degrees and sunny—and Faust has started wearing coats when we go out, because he knows I’ll want to sit outside when we play.
“Fine.”
I scowl, and slide my pawn closer to his rook. He’s had it hanging out there on the board, in the open, like he’s waiting for me to steal it. Strange. Feels like a trap.
With a glance my way, Faust moves the rook one square closer to my pawn. He’s within striking distance. I glare at him.
“What are you doing?”
“So testy.”
“You want me to take it!”
“Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
He doesn’t. He crosses his arms, leans back in his bistro chair, and levels me with a smirk.
Ignoring him, I take in the board, his bait, my options.
He has a bishop in the back, pointed my way.
If I take his rook with my pawn, he’ll take my pawn with his bishop, but who cares?
I’d be up on material. Unless he’s planning something I can’t see.
Or, reverse psychology? My eyes narrow, I take a breath, and then I take his rook.
“What’s your number going to be next year? Eight or one?” I say before I can even clear his defeated piece.
Faust hums, as if he hasn’t given this extensive thought. “I think I’ll be number one. It has a ring to it.”
I’m mad at him for tempting me into what feels like inevitable chess destruction, but—still. My face goes warm. My partner, number one in Formula 1. It’s… hot. “And you and Arthur do love sharing things in F1.”
He laughs. “He’ll be fine with going back to nine. He has enough on his plate.”
“With the baby?”
“Babies.”
“What?”
Faust nods, ever stoic. “Twins.”
I whistle. Lilah and Arthur haven’t divulged this update to me yet, so I don’t text her.
But they would’ve known Faust would tell me.
It’s kind of our thing; no secrets. Or, sharing secrets?
Sharing other people’s secrets? All of the above.
I mirror Faust, leaning back in my chair, and cross my arms. The sun’s warm on my shoulders through my soft wool sweater.
It’s a thrifted piece, tagless. Chic. Faust’s in all black, though, so really, who’s the more stylish one?
The old me might’ve asked him, then. If, secretly, he’s been pining for two kids and a million-dollar minivan and a lush retirement with an inevitable team principal position.
But we’ve talked about it all—the big topics, the ones I previously never broached with men.
Religion, taxes, family. We’ve always been on the same page.
Sometimes, it feels like we’re writing together.
He purses his lips, eyeing me. “You’d leave your pawn out in the open like that?”
“For your rook? Sure.”
“Rookie mistake.”
“What? Hey!”
I watch as he swaps our pieces, nestling his bishop where my pawn was and setting my shiny white soldier to the side. Then I look at the board. I’m still winning. I’d slaughtered his battalion early on, and now I’m sitting comfy. This game’s going to be over before my coffee goes cold.
With a huff, I say, “Okay. One question.”
Faust’s dark eyes narrow back at me, the sun catching on his hair, tucked back behind his ears. “Do you remember when we were first here?”
In Monaco. Of course I remember. My chest starts to go cold, but he’s talking before the freeze can set, his hand sliding over mine. “I said I’d ask you something one day. And today’s that day.”
“Okay?” I’m not following, but he’s smiling, sort of.
He looks nervous, his eyes flashing between the table behind us and me, and then he’s going to his pocket, and then there’s a small box sitting next to his bishop.
A small, red, velvet box. And he doesn’t say anything.
Just watches me, and what must be a million emotions playing out on my face as I take this in—him, our favorite café, a perfect winter day. Private but not. Just like us.
I snatch his fingers in mine. “Yes.”
“Do you want to look inside before you—”
“No, it’s yes. It’s yes. It… it could look like anything. It could be empty.” I laugh, and that makes him really smile, and then we’re both laughing. Quietly, together, as the world goes on. “Is it empty?”
His jaw shifts, eyes gleaming, and he stands. Leans over the table, and kisses me. “No,” Faust murmurs against my cheek. “It’s very full, Arcadia.”