“Huh.” His brows lift. “I can bring your meal out here if you’d like.”
“Sure, I’ll eat in the back with the cooks. Class solidarity.”
“You know what you remind me of? We used to feed this angry stray cat out in Rome. Micetta, we called her. She bit me every time I pet her.”
“Masochist,” I mumble.
“You wish.”
Delaney is already inside the private room, next to Cameron and Merlin and a few people I don’t recognize. Orange flowers are draped over the walls, Ignition’s bombastic shade, and the blooms mingle with framed portraits of strangers—and a black-and-whitephoto of Arthur, Cameron, Delaney, and Sarah. It was clearly taken in the same room; they’re standing in front of the glass French doors, Arthur’s arms around Delaney’s and Cameron’s shoulders, Sarah blowing a kiss at the camera, all of them caught mid-laugh.
As I sit, I get that same swoop of longing I’ve felt on every playground I’ve ever been on, watching girls click together and trade laughter. I grew up in a one-school town. Elementary school, middle school, and high school, all in the same big building. For the kids who struck out early, clocked as imperceptiblydifferent, first through twelfth grade was a grand psychological experiment I haven’t recovered from. Then my college years were dominated by Max and his guy friends, and I went along with it, too scared of being alone to realize what I was missing. Those were the years I was supposed to find my people.
But I didn’t, and I don’t blame anyone for that except me.
I chose to be the photographer, not in the friend-group photos.
You are so lucky, I think as Arthur pops the giant champagne bottle that’s ceremoniously delivered to our table. Lucky because he doesn’t look down as froth runs over his fingers, lucky because he gracefully orders food for the table—steaks and onion soup and coq au vin, and then, with a sly glance toward me, a vegetable platter. Lucky because his more irritating quirks are insulated by an inch-thick charm that seems to work on most people; when Merlin leaves after we finish eating, complaining about jet lag, she ruffles the top of his head like a shaggy dog.
But most of all, he’s lucky to have friends beside him as he chases his dream. If I were him, I’d treat us to as many dinners as I could afford.
By the time dessert arrives, it’s only Arthur and me and Delaney and Cameron, and Delaney asks the question I wasn’t brave enough to. “Where’s Sarah tonight, anyway?”
Arthur’s lips press together. “She couldn’t make it.”
“No kidding,” Cameron says glumly. “It’s a total media bloodbath. Uh—” He looks at me. “Sorry.”
I like these two. They feel less plastic than other F1 people. “No, it’s fine. We’re sharks.”
“You admit it,” Arthur says, leaning his elbows on the table, empty champagne flute forgotten by his plate.
“I seriously don’t get why the press goes wild when a reserve driver races,” Cameron continues—saving me from having to reply. “Journalists are lining up times to ask Arthur about which protein powder he’s taking when they need to be looking into what’s going on with Faust. When my uncle was a race engineer, people cared when drivers were sick.”
My eyebrows skyrocket up my forehead. “Your uncle was an engineer?”
“Yeah?” Cameron says, puzzled. “That’s why I started here.”
“And Arthur’s uncle is the team principal.”
Arthur groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“And Sarah’s grandfather…”
“Also raced,” Delaney finishes for me, her glossy pink lips quirking with amusement as I stare suspiciously at her. “Not mine, though. I’m probably the only non–nepo baby in Formula 1.”
“Sure, because interning at Coca-Cola because your dad knows the CFO was bootstrapping,” Cameron mutters.
As Delaney and Cameron descend into bickering, my heartbeat quickens in my throat. The luck didn’t stop with Arthur. They’reallconnected. And I’m very… not. Is this why Arthur and I don’t get along? I’m nothing like the people he’s surrounded by, who radiate the inner, satiated glow of having black credit cards and safety nets.
Which is a good thing, since I’m not here for dinner and friendship. I’m filming.
I get my camera back out, needing the distraction. “Really, Graywood?” Arthur sighs. “One dinner without cameras wouldn’t kill you.”
“It wouldn’t help win that Oscar, either.”
“Touché.”
I clear it with Delaney and Cameron, then dive right in with, “Silverstone Circuit, June twentieth, Lilah Graywood,” giving myself a place to pick up when I’m editing. “I’m here with Arthur Bianco, Ignition reserve driver, along with his Ignition staff team. This will be his first—and potentially only—race of the season.”
