“Correct?”
“And yet you’re here to film mine,” he says with a crisp noteof self-righteousness. “All of you media people are the same. You sweep in, sell a bit of our souls, and leave. At least Sarah’s grandfather was a driver. She makes an image for me because she loves racing.”
Woof. This is exactly why I need to talk Max out of making this film. After living half a decade in D.C. and clawing my way for respect in one industry that idealizes toxic masculinity, I know the work that goes into making your own seat at a table that doesn’t want you. Sports is a boys’ club, too. Arthur Bianco, with his eye-rolling and uncle connection, is no different than the congressman I’d filmed, who’d thanked his male mentors during his election-night speech while my camera had been glued to his wife’s happy tears.
I adjust my glasses and decide that a stronger approach is necessary, slipping on my best and iciest documentarian demeanor. The Lilah who manhandles politicians. Wins awards. Gone is my quiet sputtering, a bubbling-over teakettle right before it starts whistling. I’m all boil now.
“Fine. I hear you,” I say. “You feel as if I have power over you in here, and that you haven’t consented to being in this film. But you need to talk to your team, not me. Because you’re rich, yes?”
Arthur blinks. “I… yes.”
I nod, unsurprised. “And famous?”
He frowns.
“So you still have all the power in real life. My—Max, he signed the contract for us. Unless I’m able to change his mind, I can’t stop making this movie.”
“Your Max,” Arthur echoes, parroting my slipup.
“Mm-hmm. My Max.”
His throat bobs, sending a droplet of water running down,down, down his neck, his collarbone, his bare chest. “You never answered my question,” he says. “Do you like Formula 1?”
Had that been the question? “Oh. Well.” I shrug and look away so he can’t see the hurt circling around my throat like a sad dog begging for attention.No. I’m a vegan Buddhist who hates sports and loves politics and will never own a car. I think this whole facility is a mockery of the human condition and waste of wealth, along with this reality TV sham of a documentary. Along with, probably, your entire life. And clearly, that doesn’t matter to the one man who matters to me.
“I don’t think I could ever enjoy a sport where—”
I’m winding myself back up for verbal sparring round two, only then Arthur whispers, “Quiet.” And I’m quiet.
“Hello, my new favorite duo! Did we have fun getting to know each other?”
Sarah’s back with her clipboard and her bouncing ponytail, and I realize that if Arthur hadn’t cut me off, she’d have heard whatever I was going to say about Formula 1. Which would’ve been bad. If I don’t act like I’m standing in the Pentagon, every little thought in my little head dedicated to safeguarding this race-car driver’s precious public image, Sarah might sniff out that my intentions aren’t pure. And I need to be the one to talk to Max, not her.
And I will. I’m going to stop hiding what I really think from him and tell him the truth. That selling out was a mistake, and we belong in D.C., together, doing important work—even if we never make millions or land a Netflix deal or whatever it is that he’s after. Even if I have to withstand being his girlfriend, because that’s what he decided one day he wanted me to be. He’s still my best friend. Myonlyfriend. And having a friend like him, who teaches me how to be me, is a one-way ticket out of never staring at a porch light again.
I will fix this.
“We’ve been having a blast,” I promise Sarah, ignoring Arthur’s incessant frown.
“Gosh, that’s awesome.” She giggles. “You guys are going to be perfect for each other, I swear.”
Chapter Two
Max’s phone is off for the rest of the evening, my “can we talk please” texts going unread. So the next morning, I haul my iced coffee onto the stoop of my new apartment building and do the one thing Sarah asked me not to do.
I research Arthur Bianco.
Chalk it up to natural curiosity… and needing a backup plan in case I do have to get through a few days of filming. It’s eight a.m.—not too hot yet—and condensation drips down my fingers as I tap through his train-wreck documentary interviews, carefully filed away on Ignition’s server. Every question, any angle, Arthur shuts down the conversation. He’s marginally polite at first, allowing Sarah to go so far as setting up a nice talking-head angle with him in a chair, the tacky key-shaped Ignition logo blurred behind him. Then she asks for him to say his name and he stares back at the camera, an empty smile fixed on his face.
And thearticles. The press has lovingly and expertly torn Arthur Bianco to shreds. Running an internet search on his name yields half a billion results, give or take. I click through the childhood driving prodigy years, the seven-year stint with Leone Racing—thatLeone, the luxury sports cars nobody can afford—then stumble on a treasure trove ofParty Prince Arthur.So many photos of him in clubs, massive and hazy-smiling, a cocktail in one hand and his other arm around two models. According to the tabloids, thistwenty-nine-year-old man is an international heartbreaker; there’s one story about a champagne-brand heiress who was so bereft that he couldn’t commit, she told her family she’d never touch alcohol again.It reminds her too much of him, says the unnamed source.
True love, right there.
Briefly, I wonder why Arthur doesn’t want to be in the glitz-glam-danger movie. He’s been in commercials. Magazine spreads. It isn’t like he’s camera shy. I wonder what his angle is; as Tolstoy put it, each overly controlling man is controlling in his own way. And being in a documentary does cleave you of a certain amount of agency. He’d be putting his life story into my hands—does he not trust people he doesn’t know well? Or is there a reason I wasn’t supposed to research him?
“Hey, new girl.”
I look up at the voice. An older woman in a striped dress is on her balcony, next to a withered tomato plant. She smiles and motions for me to walk closer.
