I take a deep breath. “Arthur, that is the definition of infantilizing.”
Another host comes by for my breakfast order, and I pick the faux-egg sandwich over a vegetable hash while Arthur graduates to fiddling with the air conditioner above him. He has so much energy. He’s always twisting buttons or tapping his fingers or bouncing his leg. I can see why he hates the media, beyond disliking the articles written about his heiress-dating drama. Arthur’s mouth might be a knife—smooth-talking and sharp-smiling—but the rest of his body gives so much away. He’s full of tells, or body language thatseemslike tells, by-products of needing enough energy to operate a vehicle going two-hundred-plus miles per hour.
And people are quick to judge a documentary subject based on leg bouncing and resting bitch face. Give an interview where you didn’t sleep well the night before, and look “twitchy”? You can’t be trusted, you’re the villain, enjoy this academically dense hate-review from a random electrician in Alabama. Forget the finer details of your own memory and get reamed by people googling the story after the fact? Oh well, you should’ve known your life better than that; faceless internet hobgoblins are going to comment “you’re fake!” on your social media forever.
That’s why I try so hard to get it right and document the truth. I don’t feel bad about asking Arthur to star in my movie, but I guess he’s being… slightly brave by doing it.
When there are footsteps at the front of the plane, Arthur’s attention snaps right over, firework fast. “Good morning,” he says brightly as a small woman appears. She’s older, around the same height as me, with a graying mousy bun and head-to-toe cherry-red athleisure on.
“King,” she says gruffly, not casting one glance my way.
“King?” I whisper once she’s gone to the back.
That one corner of his mouth hooks up. “Nicknames are big in F1.”
“And you’re… oh, no way.” I let out a groan. “Who decided to callyouKing Arthur?”
“My mum—”
“Yourmum.”
“Who’s an Arthurian professor out at Cambridge.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s Merlin,” he laughs. “My physiotherapist.”
“You’re kidding. Nobody would call a nice old woman that.”
“Merlin is not a ‘nice’ old woman. She’s demonic. Lovely, but evil.”
After Merlin comes Arthur’s personal manager, Delaney, a slender Black woman in a mint-green pantsuit that matches the charms in her goddess braids. She’s wearing strappy heels on a plane, and I kind of love her for it. Then there’s Arthur’s race engineer, Cameron. He’s a lanky white guy, maybe in his late twenties, with light brown hair, a surplus of ghostly freckles, and the strings of his oversized black hoodie tied into a bow around his neck. They both say hi to me—I’d chatted with Delaney once or twice in Glory Run, since getting plane tickets had required yet another background check.
Then, in strolls a man who I know instantly, without having to ask, has to be James Hawke. The older Ignition driver is wearing dark jeans and a white shirt, and the way his brown hair is neatly parted and styled makes him look one hundred percent more like a plastic action figure come to life, molded cheekbones and white-toothed smile included. He flicks his sunglasses on as he weaves to the back of the plane, exchanging nods with Arthur and squeezing his shoulder as he walks by.
We’re finally told to prepare for takeoff. The pilot is talking through weather patterns between here and England when Arthur notices my fidgeting. “You good over there?”
Why,why, does he have to notice so much about me? Nobody else does. I don’t know when I closed my eyes, but I squeeze my lids shut tighter, as if I can block Arthur out and the rest of the world with him. “I’m fine. I’ve just, you know. Planes.” I leave out an explanation about what overstimulation is and how I’ve never left the continental United States and—
As if summoned into action by my aerophobia, the plane jerks forward, and I can’t breathe quick enough to stop myself from whimpering. Arthur starts to get out of his seat, but I wave quickly with the hand that isn’t death-gripping my phone. “No, stay there. I—I don’t want anyone to notice.”
We both look behind us. Cameron has headphones in, James is thumbing through a paperback, and Merlin has an Ignition beanie pulled low over her eyes, chin drooping down. Delaney is the only one who feels our eyes on her, and she gives us a polite smile before tapping the sticky note on the back of her laptop.Noise-canceling headphones in, it reads.Scream if you need me.
I’m close to doing just that when the engine begins to drone. Arthur reaches toward me and mouths,Phone, and I’m jumpy enough to hand my personal one over without a second thought, and then there’s another scent besides the plastic plane weirdness. Arthur’s scent, fizzy, floral, and indecipherably familiar as he tinkers around on my phone for a terrifying minute, then passes it back my way. Connected to the jet’s Wi-Fi.
Then my phone buzzes with a single text.
Hi.
I concentrate on those two tiny letters. Block out the sounds all around me, the sensation of nothing beneath my feet other than metal and luggage.
Hi, I text back.
I downloaded an encryption app for you, by the way. Keeps people from looking at our texts.
Could they do that?
Come on, Graywood. You’re on Bianco wifi. Use that big mind of yours.
