9 China

9

CHINA

PHAEDRA

Pardon the bad pun when I say F1 Dracula sucks .

One thing hate is really good for: I haven’t had such an energetic workout in weeks. I run like Forrest Gump on Adderall and lift weights like the Jaws of Life heroically prying minivans open.

Every time I get mopey remembering the look on Cosmin’s dumb sexy face when we kissed—

It was tender and cautious and passionate, oh my God…

—I bring up the image of him sending that housekeeper out the door at seven a.m., asking her name like a goddamned afterthought. Next thing I know, I’m back in beast-mode, flexing as if in the grips of ’roid rage.

I need to get my head straight, because I’ve invited Natalia to meet me for breakfast, and I’m going to call this game of chicken we appear to be playing and just straight-up ask her about the Klaus thing. I let it slide in Bahrain, trying to give her space, but we’re not going another grand prix weekend without talking about it.

When I’ve finally hit the wall, I go to toss the squeezy pouch for my protein gel into the trash and accidentally throw my towel in instead. I consider digging it out, but the bin is deep and gross looking. This is why I have the hem of my shirt pulled over my face—mopping up sweat—when I wander into the elevator and lean against the wall.

Someone else steps in and the doors shut.

I yank my shirt down and Natalia and I stare at each other in shock. I’m almost positive she says “Oh crap,” but my headphones are still in.

I pop one earbud out. “You’re hella early. Like by ninety minutes.”

With a nervous smile, she shifts the strap of her Prada bag. This is when I notice she’s dressed far too fancy for eight thirty in the morning—a gauzy, high-neck halter dress and heels with gladiator laces.

“Surprise!” she sings, lifting her hands with a jazzy wiggle.

“Why’d you say ‘Oh crap’ when you saw me?”

“I didn’t.”

“And why are you so dolled up?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m dressed normal. Jesus, just because I don’t share your depressing ‘I slept under a pile of leaves’ fashion sense?”

My eyes narrow, because I know she’s throwing insults to set me on the back foot. Mentally, I hear an echo of Cosmin’s words in Melbourne: Miss Evans did not wear that dress for me.

Lying to me is becoming a habit for her, and that in itself makes me far more uncomfortable than whatever’s going on with her and Klaus.

Trust has historically not been easy for me, growing up so nomadic, in a sporting world where uncertainty is the rule. Nat was my first—and is still my only —truly close friend. This recent dynamic is worrying. I’m both dreading and clamoring to clear the air between us.

“Okay, well.” I lift the neck of my shirt and mop my face again, just to briefly hide. “I hope you’re not starving, because I have to shower first.”

“No problem.” She holds up her phone. “I’ll just answer some emails.”

The doors slide open at my floor, and we step out.

“You look like a high-buck call girl in ancient Rome,” I say.

“Oh, for heck’s sake. Thanks, but not really.”

I lead her to my door, and as I’m opening it, she’s already on her phone. She passes me and when I try to peek at her screen, she wings it away.

“Nat…”

“What?”

“You’re hiding something. Don’t make me tackle you.”

She darkens the screen and drops the phone into her purse. “It’s just a message from my editor.” She plants a manicured hand on her hip. “Now go clean up.”

I take a shower, bathroom door cracked an inch. When I’m done washing, I leave the water running to fake her out, then wrap myself in a towel, easing the door open to sneak up on her.

She’s sitting on the foot of my unmade bed, typing, thumbs flying. Before her peripheral vision warns her, I spot the contact name at the top: Charcoal Suit .

“Aha!” I crow.

She shrieks, and the phone flips out of her hands and spins to the carpet. “What the crap is wrong with you?”

“You’re not dressed up for me , you lying monster.”

She dips to retrieve her phone, giving me a bland smirk. “Aww, were you hoping I wore something special just for you? Are you in wuuuuvvv with me?”

I bite back a snarky retort about how I could never fall for someone with half my IQ, but for one thing I’m not supportive of the IQ scale—it’s fundamentally flawed—and for another it’s too mean-spirited, like bringing a howitzer to a BB gun fight.

I go into the bathroom and shut the water off, then return and sit beside her on the bed.

“Nat, you left the Park Hyatt in Melbourne with Klaus. I know because Cosmin saw you guys.”

Her composure wavers for a moment, then returns. “So what? We talked —that’s all,” she says with a careless wave. “Walked a little and had a conversation. He apologized for having been rude that time I mentioned.”

I scoff. “And that’s all?”

“Jesus, Phae. Stop. ”

“Fine, whatever. But then why have you been lying to me? Are we friends, or not?”

“That’s a dumb question for an alleged genius.”

I don’t bother pointing out that she’s not answering my “dumb question.” I force myself to articulate my biggest worry.

“Okay, look. You’ve only had the job at Auto Racing a few months, and when you took it, we both thought it’d be this endless slumber party for you and me, traveling to the same cities and hanging out a ton. But you seemed to like me more when you were in New York working for the literary magazine and barely ever saw me in person.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

I wait, and her silence speaks volumes.

“Are you, like… sick of me?” I prod.

“No! You’re kind of a jerk sometimes, but—”

“Um, hello ? You can be a total Regina George yourself. And now you’re lying too.”

She gets up and goes to the closet as if to find me something to wear, sliding the hangers side to side with no real aim.

“Holding back isn’t the same as lying,” she grumbles. “And I have a good reason: you’re judgmental. I’m an adult, and not stupid. I have a danged MFA from Queen’s U Charlotte.”

“You are smart, which is why it kills me to see you making the same mistakes over and over. It’s dangerous to keep believing the tired lines of all these thrilling married douchebags.”

She wheels around. “ Klaus. Isn’t. Married. ”

“He also isn’t emotionally available!” I cry, flipping both arms up in exasperation. “And you obviously have a crush on him.”

Nat’s eyes narrow. “I wonder why you care so much. Do you have a crush on him?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. No. He’s like my cool uncle, and you know it. You’re also stonewalling me right now. What are you hiding?”

She flops onto the bed with a grumpy sigh. “Okay, I slept with him once last December in Abu Dhabi.”

My mouth drops open. “He was that rando you mentioned—the one-night stand?”

“I neither confirm nor deny,” she replies primly.

“Nat, you can’t get involved with Klaus. I know I told you about what happened with the woman from Chalk Talk . There was an actual lawsuit, for fuck’s sake. He hates journalists.”

She delivers a smug look. “I don’t think he hates this one.”

“Nat…”

“Let me effing enjoy a simple flirtation!” she almost shouts. “This isn’t your business, Phae! Can you see now why I never want to tell you anything? You’re so superior.”

I recoil as if slapped. “You ‘ never want to tell me anything’? Seriously? Wow.” I spring to my feet and go to the closet, yanking a shirt off a hanger. “Wanna know what your problem is?”

“Oh, this should be priceless.”

“You pin your hopes to bullshit. Like how you pay a hundred bucks for your tubes of miracle face cream with, like, seahorse jizz or whatever in them. Same ingredients as my giant bottle of Dollar Store hand lotion, most likely.”

I wrench the shirt over my head.

“Christ almighty,” I growl, “did you pretend to believe in the Easter Bunny until you were sixteen just so you could keep getting baskets of free candy?”

I don’t know why I’m taking the gloves off now, but I’m too mad to hold back. I’m unpleasantly reminded of all the times Aislinn tattled on me when we were kids, running off screeching, Mama, Phae’s being spiteful! I had no way of explaining then—or even understanding myself—why it was worse to let Aislinn have her way than to ruin it for myself.

I know I’m fucking this friendship, but I can’t seem to rein it in now that I’ve started.

“Nice to know what you really think of me,” Nat bites out, getting to her feet and grabbing her purse. “You just think it makes you sound smart to be cynical all the time.”

This is the point where I should apologize, right? Stop her from leaving?

“I’d rather be cynical than delusional!”

Wow. No.

Fuck my stupid noise hole. Is this like throwing the last oatmeal cookie to the birds so neither Aislinn nor I can have it?

Holy shit, Morgan, shut up! I warn myself. What are you trying to win?

“Really helpful, Phae,” Nat snaps. “No wonder everyone says you’re so brilliant.” She slings her purse on. “You know what? I take it back: I am sick of you. ”

With that, she strides to the door and flips it open, then walks out. And because I’m a piece of shit who perversely can’t resist making it worse, I run after her, sticking my head out and shouting down the hall, “I hope you mean it, because I’m over your bullshit!”

She lifts a hand and flips me off, and she’s only ever done that as a joke, so it really hurts. I shut the door and sit against it, head in my hands.

My dad is sick, I suck at my job, I’m falling for a man I can’t have, and my best friend has dumped me…

I say it to myself again and again—twisting the knife enough to let the tears leak out—and then cry for everything I can’t fix.