Page 9

Chapter Nine

“Arthur isn’t texting me back.”

“Oh, he will!” Sarah tells Delaney reassuringly. “I bet he’s just asleep. He crushed it at Quali today.”

I take a sip of my San Pellegrino.

Am I in the mood to be sandwiched between Delaney and my ex-boyfriend’s secret new girlfriend as they trade stories about childhood vacations to Barcelona and the Cotswolds? While seated at a huge family-style outdoor dining table on a stunningly beautiful evening at a farm-to-table Michelin-star restaurant? With aforementioned ex-boyfriend, Max, stealing glances at me from where he’s been plopped across the table?

Nope. But I’m sipping sparkling water, nodding accordingly, and playing nice. This is my first Ignition team dinner, and I’m planning on stubbornly sticking it out until the after-dinner espressos have been downed and the fairy lights swaying above us have been turned off. Unlike Arthur, who’s been incognito since he left the media pen.

Ergo Delaney’s texts.

But it’ll be fine. It’s her job to track him down and make sure he isn’t drinking himself under a table, or any other early-2000s paparazzi faux pas. Truly, I shouldn’t go running after him.

Fine. I’m a teensy bit guilty that he’s skipping dinner after I snapped at him.

Okay, maybe a lot guilty, since he did well today and deserves to be celebrating with his team after winning Qualifying or however that’s phrased. But that annoyingly buzzy guilt operates on the assumption that me pushing Arthur away would be the reason he isn’t here, which is presumptuous and, based on my past experience with him, super wrong. Arthur loves to be pushed so he can spring right back up, like some sort of anthropomorphized punching bag that wins every fight by never backing down. On a normal post-argument evening, he would’ve been the first one seated at this table when I walked in, knife and fork in hand, grinning while he waited for our proverbial boxing bell to go ding-ding .

I can’t be the reason he isn’t here.

So, I don’t dwell on it as Max passes me a plate of smoked salmon, which I then pass to Sarah. “Oh,” Max says. To me. “I thought you ate fish?”

“No worries,” I say, surprised that he’s initiating conversation. Here, and at all.

“Was today…” He pokes his salmon lump with a fork. “Did you manage to record Arthur’s last lap today? We’ll need that for the film.”

Ah yes. This is why we talk now: the film. I nod, keeping my eyes on my glazed carrots, despite my frustration kicking to life like a wind-up toy. “Yeah. I managed.”

“Nice. Can I take a look at it—”

My saved-by-the-bell moment comes in the form of a man with a cowboy hat, standing by the head of the table, tapping a knife against his wineglass. I flash Max an apologetic look, then turn along with everyone else to the toast-giver.

“Howdy, folks. Some of you may know me as Robert, the owner of Ignition Energy Drink Racing,” he says, thick Texas accent twanging in the breeze. “But my friends just call me Bob. Let me start off by thanking y’all for coming. It’s always a pleasure to see my team all in one place.”

My eyes flick down the table of people on instinct.

Still isn’t here.

“Some of you guessed it, though—we didn’t just have this dinner to feed y’all.” Forced laughter, some louder than others. “I’d like to cut to the chase and invite up our team principal, Holmes Bianco, to discuss our driver strategy for Hungary.”

Pause.

I need a second. I need my camera. But our friend Bob keeps talking as Holmes Bianco shuffle-saunters to the front. He’s slightly shorter and older, with dark hair combed away from his round face and a thick gold pinkie ring glinting in the light. There are traces of Arthur woven through his features: identical Roman nose, same critical shine to his brown eyes. Weirdly, I haven’t seen him often.

“Salve, everyone,” Holmes says with a smile. “Yes, the rumors swirling today are true. Since Faust has, sadly, needed to step back, we’ve decided to preemptively schedule Arthur to drive Hungary, Belgium, and the Netherlands.”

Three more races? Shocked, my gaze sticks to Faust as he manages a weak smile that lasts as long as the clapping. He’s a large man, sloped shoulders, ruffled brown hair, deep tan skin. Fake happiness looks wrong on his face, as if he doesn’t have the same smile lines everyone else picks up in their mid-twenties.

When the noise dies down, he excuses himself from the table.

Max had been seated next to him. Now that the chair is empty, he leans ever so slightly forward and catches my eye in that way we always used to communicate on location, when subject matters were going bonkers and we needed to realign our wavelength.

What’s going on? I can read all over Max’s tuned-in face, previous conversation forgotten.

I blink back, No clue.

Our Morse code is cut short.

“Now, I love my nephew with every beat of my heart,” Holmes continues from up front. “And I can’t be more thrilled to see him competing again. I was the one who taught him how to drive, after all.” He pauses to let that showstopping history tidbit sink in. “So you can imagine the pride I feel when he’s out there. But this decision has been made with the team and the Constructors in mind. As always, the clock doesn’t lie, and the best man wins.”

Said no rich man ever. Anxiety swells in my gut, my mind replaying every school-of-hard-knocks lesson I was taught too young about men like Holmes who clamor into the spotlight with big smiles and bigger promises. And as he vanishes in a cloud of applause, I notice Delaney’s hands are folded neatly in her lap. “Fuck this,” she mutters.

Blame my sleep-deprived brain and lack of vegan protein for not expecting that to come out of her usually tight-lipped mouth. “Yeah, that was weird. Are you okay?”

“No.” She picks at the single chip in her shiny pink manicure. “This isn’t about Faust. It isn’t even about dangling Monza like a carrot in front of Arthur. Have you seen the news yet?”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond and slips her phone out. With a tap, there’s an article on her screen: Ignition F1 Team Negotiating for New U.S. Circuit. “What? Where? ” I blurt out, stealing her phone. Why haven’t I seen this yet? This is—this industry moves too fast.

“Between Los Angeles and Palm Springs,” she says dryly. “Right where they think Americans will pay the most attention to F1. Also, right by Ignition’s California factory, which is surely a coincidence.”

“But what does that have to do with Arthur and the seat?”

“It’s the movie. I’ve heard whispers about this all year. Ignition is desperate to build the U.S. fanbase as the only American team on the grid. Holmes is going to use the profits from your documentary as a bartering chip with F1’s media division—they’re the company that holds the commercial rights to the sport itself. And now that Arthur’s healthy and winning again?” She lets out an angry laugh. “Unless he can get out of his contract, Holmes is going to force Arthur to be the face of the film and Ignition. It’s a win-win for him. Millions of dollars from your film and the new circuit, the Bianco family legacy on screens across the country, and never letting his nephew go. Arthur certainly won’t see any of that money.”

All my blood exits my body, leaving behind an iceberg of guilt. This was what Arthur wanted to discuss earlier.

This is why I need to remain emotionless toward him.

“But what if—theoretically—Arthur had another offer from a different team? Can’t they pay for him to leave Ignition? Arthur’s contract has to have some kind of release option.”

“Lilah,” she says in a low but patient voice, “Arthur doesn’t have a good contract. There was nothing I could do—he wouldn’t listen to me and signed it anyway, back when he thought no other team would want to take him. Before he knew Holmes had taken the team principal position—”

“But he can still get out of it, can’t he?”

“As of tonight, Arthur’s release clause is set at sixty million dollars,” Delaney whispers. “And any time he drives a race for Ignition and wins points for the team, that number goes up by ten percent. That’s how much another team would need to pay to get him.”

Oh shit. Oh— fuck . I swallow, then swallow again, slightly sickened by hearing that number said out loud. I can’t comprehend that much money. That’s one million dollars, sixty times, and when I think about it like that, my breath begins coming out too fast. I’m disembodied as Sarah leans over, whispering, “Would they really treat him like that?”—her surprise and hurt making me feel worse. And just as Max appears, a concerned expression on his face, I excuse myself and walk away, past him and Sarah and Delaney and this tangled Shakespearean mess.

Out on the cobblestone street in front of the restaurant, I put my hands on my knees and force my lungs to work. This isn’t just about ruining Max’s shitty pseudo-documentary anymore, or even making my own film. Unless Arthur and I can figure out a way to pull off our plan with this much money at stake, Arthur is doomed by the narrative—and my last name will forever be associated with the film that trapped him in his gilded cage. Why didn’t Arthur tell me there was a real Faustian bargain at play here? I would’ve been taking it easier on him. I would’ve understood that his cocky attitude and brash humor were ways to deflect.

Probably.

Maybe.

Either way, before now, I’d thought of Arthur as an unstoppable force, and me the sole immovable object accidentally placed in his path. Like he’d said, Formula 1 drivers get what they want.

Was that a lie, too?

“Hey.”

I look up.

Arthur’s standing in front of me.

Warm light filters down from tall black streetlights, painting him in dappled yellow and shadows. His thumbs are hooked in his pants pockets, back sloped, shoulders loose and relaxed. He’s the picture of English countryside: crisp white cotton shirt, airy pants, leather belt, leather shoes. He looks unsurprised to see me here, in front of the restaurant, spiraling by myself. It’s like he knew I’d be melting down as the sun set, and timed his entrance accordingly.

“Did they make the announcement?” he asks softly.

I straighten up. Push my own emotions to the side and say, “Yeah. I’m sorry.” And then I remember how sorry I am, and add, “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have bailed on you earlier. Delaney told me what’s going on.”

Arthur’s eyebrows pinch in the middle, mouth folding into an unreadable expression. Either he’s touched that I’m apologizing for Holmes’s treatment or his mind is somewhere completely untraceable, since he says, “Leone had agreed to pay what my release clause was set at before, but if the price keeps going up, I’m worried I need to make Holmes fire me—well, not worried, but with teams, driver prices can be a matter of pride, and now that Faust is out and I’m in…”

He’s not getting to the point. I haven’t seen Arthur at a loss for words before, looking at me like he needs me to figure out what he’s trying to say, and something about his vulnerability is like an espresso shot straight to the mind. “It’s okay to be worried. What can I do to help?”

Arthur’s eyes dance over my features, and I might be wrong, since daylight is fading and my brain is scrambled, but he looks grateful for my quick affirmation. “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?”

My question makes Arthur smile with one corner of his mouth, like fully committing to grinning is too exhausting. Unfortunately, it’s slightly attractive. Blame the absent birth father, mostly absent birth mother of it all, but there’s just something about a tired man. My worst, most basic primal instincts scream that he’s worn out from taking care of a large family and/or farm.

And… no. That’s not a real thought I just had. I’m just not used to people—men, Arthur—coming to me for help. It gave me a minor contact high.

“I need you to give it to me straight, Graywood,” he continues. “What’s the thing that gets me out of the contract, without a doubt?”

My heart isn’t beating faster. It isn’t. “Shouldn’t you ask Delaney or Cameron or—or Sarah?”

“The granddaughter of my uncle’s best friend and the manager of my public image?”

“Right, forgot everyone’s related.”

He laughs quietly. “That’s your power. You’re an outsider.”

Lovely. Outsider is code for temporary . Disposable. As Dad would say: They’re not from around here. At the same time, though, Arthur isn’t wrong, and I worry my lip as I go to stand next to him below the restaurant’s cream awning. “Okay, so clearly, you need to get fired. That makes it so Leone doesn’t have to pay anything, and with Holmes being your uncle, there’s got to be a way to piss him off that wouldn’t endanger your professional reputation. Something personal. That way, if Leone does hear about it, they wouldn’t care. You could… crash your yacht? Tell him you’re not having kids? What makes him mad?”

Arthur actually smiles, all the way. “Besides me not doing what he wants?” He tilts his chin into his hand, thinking. After a moment, his eyes find mine, and a tiny thrill shoots across my collarbones at the way he focuses on me. “We could play our ace.”

“I, uh.” Great. Stammering. “What’s our ace?”

He takes a breath. “I believe you called it ‘fake dating.’?”

Thankfully, nobody else has wandered outside, so when I make an extremely weird gasp, only Arthur hears it. “No.” The shock flooding my system drags the word out into five unique syllables. “Sorry, but… I, that would be—no.”

“I get it. You hate me.” As Arthur talks, his gaze shifts to my hand. I’ve pressed a palm against the restaurant for stability. “And you don’t want to play into my reputation.”

“Play into me being a poor, younger woman and you being a rich, famous man, so of course, we have to be falling in love.”

“It’s a narrative, and the narrative would work for our plan.”

“You’re forgetting that they’d fire me . Not you.” I stare at him, more than incredulous. “And there’d be nothing you could do about it.”

“Only if we aren’t careful,” Arthur says, leaning to put his hand on the wall, too. But unlike me, he’s confident and clear, eyes bright, and I realize with startling clarity that he’s put thought into this plan. “Holmes needs Black & Graywood’s documentary to come out. You told me that a documentarian and a movie star—”

“Subject matter—”

“—can’t date. So we don’t date in a way he can prove until you’ve finished filming your movie. It won’t be fake dating, more like… fake courtship. Things they can cover up and scrub off the internet, which they will, because this film is a cornerstone of the marketing budget for the next five years. Everything’s riding on it. The new circuit, new fans. And they hired Black & Graywood specifically because of how you spun that congressman’s image. They want me, but they need you, too.” Arthur looks at his hand. Mine. Ours, inches apart. “And Holmes would fire me for being with you. He’s always had a plan for how I’m to live my life, and that—it doesn’t include a scandal.”

It’s a nice way to phrase it. A painful truth, but nice. We would be a scandal. Arthur has a reputation for dating beautiful, rich, famous women, many of them, and if I were his fan or sponsor or overbearing uncle, would I really want to see him pick a broke camera fiend from Kentucky, who was hired to watch him but never touch? No. Things like Formula 1 work because they’re closed off from the rest of the world. Self-sustaining ecosystems, like glass terrariums or Hollywood. As badly as us common folk may think we can break into their glamorous world, we can’t. It has to remain elusive. If anyone normal pierces the veil, it ruins the illusion that these people are special, inaccessible, important.

Arthur and I are from two different worlds. He’s fast, I’m slow. He’s rich, I’m not. There’s no happily ever after here, even for the most optimistic dreamer. That’s the point.

He’s destined for a Delaney or a Sarah or whoever he was talking about on the radio.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you,” I say carefully. “Our movie was going to be great—I really felt that today. But this is real, scary money, and I don’t know if I can trust that gossip about us won’t leave the F1 containment zone. It’s unethical to help you and really unethical to date you and… if anyone in my industry found out, either way, no one would take me seriously anymore.”

Arthur’s face falls. Fast, like the houses of cards I’d make at my kitchen table as a kid while the adults played poker in the other room, kings and queens and aces fluttering to the floor. Then it’s gone. “Sure,” he says. “Your reputation is more serious.”

“And after what happened with Max…”

How can I trust Arthur Bianco? He’s infinitely more dangerous than Max. More dominant, more taboo, more aware of exactly how to get under my skin. And he’s chasing his own dream—one that doesn’t include me, like Max’s used to. Formula 1 seems to be an exceptionally expensive game of musical chairs, and I’ve seen what happens when I stop being useful to my partner. Who’s to say that the second the music stops, Arthur won’t pull out my chair from under me, so that he can sit with Leone?

Arthur pushes off the wall to stand, and I almost expect him to leave me here, now that I’ve shot him down. Then he sucks in one cheek and says, “Sleep on it. Don’t make a decision until the race. I know this must be hard.”

“Hard?”

“I’m sure you were in love with him. Max.”

I blink.

Oh.

Arthur isn’t the first person to throw that statement at me with utter certainty: You’re in love with Max Black. Well before we tried dating, my best friend and I had been thrust together by every mutual acquaintance. He liked movies. I liked movies. He was kind of cerebral. I got stuck in my head for days. We made romantic sense, according to professors, fellow students, and congressional interns. Max even preferred audio, and I preferred visuals.

But had I been in love with him?

I’d loved dating Max. I’d loved the certainty about myself that I got from being with him. I felt like I knew who I was by way of how he saw me, like how you can only look at a solar eclipse after the light is twisted and thrown by a pinhole camera. My niche interests and burning dislikes, how much of my true self anyone else could tolerate. Having such an outspoken neurotypical partner who ticked everyone else’s boxes was my own camera obscura, a bellwether for how much of myself I could get away with showing the world.

“I…” I blink at my dusty sneakers. “Yeah. I loved Max a lot. I still love him.”

I don’t know why I say something that feels like a lie the moment it leaves my mouth. Other than a deep-rooted fear has kicked in and I want to hide as much of my personality as possible. Scramble, tuck my soft underbelly beneath the shell of compulsory best-friends-to-lovers heterosexuality, and sidestep Arthur’s bizarrely sharp observation skills. Because I should have been in love with Max. I should want to be with my best friend again.

Only I don’t. The realization hits right here, in front of this fancy restaurant. I was never in love with Max Black. I only loved working with him. Him breaking up with me would’ve been a welcome relief, if he just could’ve done it without destroying everything else.

A hundred light bulbs turn on.

No, literally. On the awning above us, the string lights awaken for the evening, warm gold light flooding Arthur and me. That’s my cue. Arthur’s good at bullshit, but I doubt even he could explain to the team why we’ve been talking out here, alone, for the last ten minutes.

“I’ll think about it.” I straighten up, my knees wobbly. “And about what you said?”

Nodding, Arthur rakes a hand through his hair, and I’m treated to the dark circles under his eyes, more apparent in the bright light. “Yeah?”

“I don’t…” Love Max. Love. Max. I have to say it. I’m not like Arthur and Max and the people in this luxurious motorsports wonderland. I’m someone who tells the truth, a documentarian, and if that changes, I don’t know who I am. “I don’t hate you. ‘Hate’ is a strong word.”

I couldn’t say it.

I watch, strangely numb, as Arthur shoots me another tired smile. “I’m disappointed.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Figured you felt the same way,” he says noncommittally, and that doesn’t sound like any version of him I’ve met so far.