“Touch me?”
“Ask you questions.”
Definitely blushing now. “You already know way too much about me,” I deflect.
Real surprise colors Arthur’s voice. “I know what you do for a living and your last relationship.”
What else is there?
The thought slams into the side of me and oh. Oh no.
I did the thing.
You know those people who fall for everything? Billboards advertising the world’s best chocolate pie, ancient Facebook screenshots about nonexistent scams? That was the woman I spent sixteen years with, who made me the cynic I am. My birth mom was the world’s biggest believer in happily ever after, in good things happening for good people, sweet as synthetic chocolate pie.
Problem was, she hunted her happy ending down every day. There was always anotheramazingboyfriend who couldn’t remember my name. Anotherwonderfultrip to Lexington to bet on horses and play cards and feel like she was the main character, if only for a night. It was a miracle her job at the Bicycle card factory out in Erlanger kept her employed during her “dark spells”—the inevitable aftermath of catching Prince Charming with another woman and gambling away our savings. Then people would notice I was skipping school again to take care of her, and a nice stranger with a fake smile would take me away, and I began despising the beautiful promises she made about our life but never kept. Eventually, anyone would start hating happily ever after. You realize people drive themselves crazy dreaming about the last minutes before the credits roll.
And sometimes, I catch myself doing it, too.Maybe I can trust the professional race-car driver who’s largely my polar opposite and has 100,000 articles written about his failures to commit. Maybe none of these very serious motorsports people will find out that I’m secretly filming my own documentary and effectively undermining their multimillion-dollar marketing plan. Maybe agreeing to move to Texas with my best-friend-slash-boyfriend-slash-business-partner won’t be a mistake. Trust him. He’ll always be around.
But now he isn’t, and I’m sitting next to an objectively interesting and complex person like Arthur, defining half of myself by a man who dumped me, just like my birth mom would’ve. Relationships with men were her favorite narratives, the fables she worshipped:One day you’ll meet your own Prince Charming, and you won’t have to think about yourself anymore.
“I do like to fight,” I blurt out.
“Oh.” Arthur sounds confused. “Right. Okay.”
“Your text. On the plane to England? You were right.” I inhale a tight, painful breath. “Not like our fight in Texas or after that interview but—bantering. Arguing. I don’t know. There’s a line, and I like it before the line. It’s… fun.”
Arthur is taller than he was a second ago. He’s sitting up straighter, paying attention. “Okay.”
“And gardening. I like plants. I won my county’s largest tomato competition two years in a row.”
“Tomatoes.” All three syllables are soft in his mouth. “Got it.”
“And sad movies. Andnotpop music unless it’s really good. AndThe X-Files. I’m picky with TV romance, butX-Filesis perfect. It took them seven seasons to really kiss, and then Mulder got—”
I stop myself before I ruin it. But then Arthur says, “Abducted, I know.” And I must be diffusing my surprise, since he adds, “I had a thing for Scully.”
“You did?”
His thumb brushes my shoulder. “There’s something about a smart, serious careerwoman who won’t take your bullshit.”
I nod enthusiastically. Well, as best as I can against his shoulder. “Completely agree.”
Arthur does his wind-chime laugh, and I’m embarrassingly pleased. I shift until I can see his face again. “Do you think I’m weird?”
Arthur looks down at me with a half smile. “Not as much as you want me to.”
I consider that for a moment, then decide I like it. I shift again, so I can’t meet his eyes when I say, “Sorry. Max was my first big relationship, and he kind of just… told me what to like.”
“How did that work? You made movies together.” He’s annoyed at Max, not me. I can tell.
“Dating him was like dating the cultural zeitgeist. Max is into whatever’s popular. So I guess Formula 1 is in, and documentaries and politics are out,” I explain, thinking how retrospectively funny it is to meet someone as they’re passing through your life’s passion, a pit stop on their way to other trends. I remember Max’s first proposal about this project, him attempting to explain Formula 1, me utterly dumbfounded. “Maybe that’s why he cheated. He said he knew I’d wanted to tell him to quit making this film.”
Arthur stiffens. “He’s not worth your psychoanalysis.”
“I know. But it’s hard not to.” Saying this feels like a confession, like I did something wrong. Pulled into the black hole once again.
Arthur shifts. The motion pulls me into him. “Do you regret what we’re doing?”
