“Do you need to shower?”
“Nah, I’ll do it at home.”
“Mom!”
“Do not distract me.” She laughs, and I smile completely to myself. My adoptive mom—or Mom, as I call her—always sounds like a cartoon teapot when she’s happy, whistly and comforting, like everything is going to be okay. “How’s the new job going, pumpkin?”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s interesting.” That’s… mostly true. I look out the window of my apartment and bite my thumbnail. “There’s something going on with Max I want your advice on.”
“What about Max?”
Shit. Tears. Again. I let my forehead thunk against the warm glass of the window as I meander my way to breaking her heart. “Do you like him? Do you think we work well together?”
“I like anyone you like, as long as they treat you well. But”—I hear her take a breath—“it can be hard to work with men, my little Agnès Varda. You have to be careful with keeping boundaries. Does that answer your question?”
“Mm-hmm.” I slump into the kitchen chair. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. But that’s the nice part of having Max around, isn’t it? Knowing that he’s protecting you makes it a lot easier to let you live a million miles away.”
My eyes squeeze shut at the involuntary pain in my chest. Right. This is the worst part of losing Max. Yes, we were Black & Graywood, and I’ve never made a real documentary without him, and like every other twentysomething professional, I have short flashes of utter confidence between long stretches ofwhat the hell am I doing with my life.But honestly? I’ve been pacing my kitchen floor all morning, desperate for a plan, because I don’t know how to tell Mom about the breakup. That I once again lost everything, just like I’d lost my birth mom. What does it say about me as a person that I’m this easy to leave?
I try and manage a breath, but I’m so—I don’t even know. Sad, angry, frustrated, blown out, a dandelion stripped bare and scattered, the dream all gone. And… it’s only been one measly day. I can wait a little bit longer to confess what’s going on to her, can’t I?
“Yeah, everything is great.” I wince as the lie leaves my mouth. “I’ll call you next week, okay?”
“Okay. Love you.”
Once we get off the phone, I head to Ignition with renewed determination. Boundaries. I’m going to make boundaries with these men and protect myself. Screw Max and the perpetual treadmill that is life and guys who don’t text back. Arthur doesn’t have time this morning to finalize our plan? Okay. I’ll stand up for myself onmy own. And I won’t forget that this is how he treated me on the first day of our agreement.
The cab’s air conditioner can barely keep up with Texas in June, so I roll the windows down and blast my angriest hype playlist—the all-surly-Britpop one titledBig Emotions. Between the wind whipping my skin and my crackling headphones, I almost forget that I’m walking into the emotional slaughterhouse.
The front-desk guard nods as I flash my badge, and I loop the neon orange lanyard around my neck as I head to the back. So far, so good. Badge still works. According to Arthur’s schedule on my phone, he’s practicing outside today.
Sarah’s eyes land on me as soon as I join the group of marketing and media folks gathered by the tall chain-link fence flanking the track. I don’t know what freaks me out more: the gigantic, curving black racetrack that Arthur might drive a car on, how every single person except for me is wearing Ignition orange, or how Sarah’s gaze explodes into saucers once she registers I’m me.
“Lilah?” she whispers. “You’re back!”
She grabs my arm, and I tense my muscles to keep from flinching. She doesn’t know, I remind myself. I can’t be mad at her. “Yeah. I’m back.”
“But Max said you quit?”
“Max and I had a bit of a… creative disagreement, but I didn’t quit. He can be a bit overdramatic, though, so I get why you’d think that.”
Sarah studies me, ponytail swishing as she looks between my eyes. Then she grins knowingly. “That makes total sense. I’ve seen that side of him.”
I hate Max for making someone smiling at me hurt this much. I hate that I have to stand here, swallowing my pride, wonderingwhen it started, guessing how he described me to her. But… I’m pretty good at strategy games. Poker, Monopoly, Settlers of Catan. Also, being neurodivergent in a small town had me attempting to memorize how to emote during conversations or arch my eyebrows just right so that people knew I was listening to them. Sometimes, I still think in flowcharts when I talk:Ask question, nod during answer, ask another question that’s more specific, nod and laugh. Did you remember to do eye contact? Shit, too much eye contact.
Lying can be another strategy game. How to Not Let a Man Ruin Your Life, the newest interactive motorsports adventure!
“I would never quit a contract. Ever.” I stress this last word, because I’m sure this won’t be the only time Max tries to shake me. And it’s just true. “By the way, if he ever says anything weird about me, check in with me first. Sometimes, I think it’s hard for really smart and talented guys to work with other people, you know?”
Sarah laughs, blushing, obviously happy that I think her secret fling—boyfriend? Acquaintance with singular benefit?—is really talented. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says as we both turn back toward the meeting. “We F1 girls have to stick together.”
She truly has no idea what’s happening, and a slithery coil of guilt begins to wrap itself around my neck. I can’t tell her what Max did to me—to both of us—if I want Arthur and my arrangement to fly under the radar.
Resigning myself to this gross new secret, I flash Sarah a final smile and tune back in to the meeting. The older man in the center of our group explains that the team’s “number 1 driver,” Faust, has been having migraines again, and that they’re working with his neurologist to make sure the mid-season stress isn’t getting to him. There’s something about his diet, and neck workouts, and Austria, and I really don’t comprehend any of it but everyone else is takingnotes, so I do, too. I don’t notice that more people have joined us until scratchy fabric grazes my elbow and I jump.
Arthur is inches to my left, dressed head to toe in a deep-orange race suit. The key-shaped Ignition logo is emblazoned across his chest, with a smattering of other brands peppering his wide shoulders. This is the first time I’ve seen him wearing his full racing gear, and my stomach flips with the sudden reality that Arthur, aspiring morning drunk and perpetual joke machine, really does drive cars competitively. Presumably at fast speeds. How do they let him do that?
