“Fantastic!” Sarah’s smile made it through her star’s marathon ego-massage, but her energy is flagging. “Lilah, I put Arthur’s daily schedule on your new phone. Today let’s just get to know each other, then maybe tomorrow we can start filming?”
“Oh! I… Max and I might need to touch base about that. I—I usually like to research for a few weeks before I—”
“You don’t need toresearch,” she interjects. “This is going to be a cakewalk after the movies you’ve made. It’s Formula 1, the coolest sport in the world. Fast cars, hot guys”—she beams at Max, who’s been standing behind us as silently as a discarded mannequin—“the story tells itself. And if you get confused, just grab me and I’ll tell the story for you. That’s marketing’s job. You two are just here to make the documentary that Ignition wants you to make about our brilliant boys. Don’t worry about it!”
With that subtle threat in place—Why do neurotypical people act like it’s possible to not worry?—Sarah exchanges a few more cheerful pleasantries with Arthur, hugs him, then leaves, dragging Max away to discuss travel itineraries. I watch the door to the pool room open, Max’s shoulders squeezing through it, the door closing. He doesn’t look back.
And all of a sudden, I’m alone with the stone-faced Formula 1 driver I’m supposed to be attached at the hip to for three months… but not research. Because I’m an educated, award-winning political filmmaker here to make a direct-to-digital public-relations puff piece.
About sports.
No, worse than that—aboutcars.
Brushing back my short brown hair, I turn my attention to Arthur, who has his muscular arms neatly crossed over his bare, wet chest. He looks at me, eyebrows raised, and I look at him, repressing a shudder, and for a good moment, we stand in the chlorine-fogged silence like two silent movie characters, sans player piano.
“Well. Okay. What kind of cars do you—?” I start.
“I’m not doing this movie,” Arthur finishes.
“This… movie?”
“Your documentary.” He waves two fingers. “I’m not doing it. I’ve told my uncle that. Told Sarah that. Now I’m telling you.”
Ah.So this was why Sarah was apologetic. Arthur Bianco, reserve driver and team-principal nephew, thinks he can do whatever he wants. “That’s fine. I don’t want to make this movie, either,” I say quietly.
Quiet is a bad choice. Arthur leans closer to hear me, a habit I hate. I’m short, I look like Velma searching the floor for her glasses, and I don’t like being loud. Men are alwaysleaning.
“What did you say?” he mutters, eyes sharpening on me, laser focused.
“I said that I won’t make you be in this movie.” I mirror his crossed-arm stance. “But you should really take up your complaints with your boss.”
He snorts. “You have no idea how Formula 1 works.”
My eyes narrow from a surprise rush of irritation. Normally, I’d ignore a subject matter’s bad attitude; it isn’t appropriate for a documentarian to talk back or show that we’re humans with emotions, too. But none of this is normal, and hopefully my time in Texas will be very short-lived. Might as well be the one person per calendar year who treats this man like a privileged asshole instead of a god.
“Dang, you caught me. I don’t know Formula 1. Please, tell me all about driving cars super fast on TV.”
Actually, this might be the first time in Arthur’s life that someone dared to be sarcastic in his presence, since he lets out a noise that’s half surprised laugh, half infuriated huff. “You think Formula 1 is just driving fast.”
“It’s not?” I think back to what Max told me. Weird-lookingcars, unnecessarily spread-apart competitions, a convoluted set of racing rules mystifyingly called the “formula.”
“It’s…” Arthur is silent for a beat, thoughts twisting behind his guarded expression. “When was the last time you felt alive? Not existing. Not breathing. Alive.”
His question grinds my sarcasm to a halt. That, and the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are uncomfortably hazel. Green with mostly golden brown, like an old bourbon bottle held up to a sunbeam, left on the shelf to age.
“I don’t know,” I answer, defaulting to honesty like always. I’m not used to being on the receiving end of probing questions. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me that you feel alive when you drive in circles and everyone claps?”
Arthur blinks at me, tiny reflections of my irritated face disappearing and reappearing from his pupils. Then he looks at my mouth, for a second that unspools for hours. Then he looks over my shoulder. “Are you dating him? That guy you’re with. Is he why you’re here?”
I swallow roughly and avert my gaze, too. No. He didn’t just—there’s no way this guy is perceptive enough to clock that Max and I are together. He’s probably just another sexist athlete who assumes I’m here to please a man. And while that’s not necessarily untrue, I’d rather eat my vintage camera collection than admit it.
I force my eyes back on Arthur’s scowl and say, “I’m not answering that question.”
“So it’s a yes.”
“It’s a nothing.”
“Right.” His scowl deepens. “You don’t want me to know your personal life.”
