“No, no. This is—” I lick my lips. “When he first pitched this documentary to me, I’d thought it was a glitch. Like the Max Iknew wasn’t thinking straight, and he’d see that you can’tmakea documentaryfora company, eventually.” This is embarrassing. Admitting I had hope for someone who seems more hopeless with each passing day. Even now, I don’t know what I’d do if Max learned the scale of Ignition’s plan and admitted that I’d been right aboutin-house documentarybeing a Hollywood oxymoron. On some gross level, this summer has proven how much he needs me. Needed me. I was his moral compass, a grounded and detached realist who couldn’t be won over as easily as him.
But you don’t use a moral compass if you think you’re going in the right direction.
Arthur surprises me, though, like he always does when we talk; he doesn’t press into my wound. “You’re loyal. You did it because you loved him,” he says, and then, way too fast, “Love him. Sorry.”
Present tense.
Shit.
I’d forgotten that I’d lied. Arthur thinks I’m hung up on Max. Because I literally told him that. Worse, Arthur must think that Max could win me back—and he’s still holding me. Publicly.
For our scheme, I know. To piss off his uncle, yes. This is fake. He’s fake.
But that doesn’t make what he’s doing any less competitive, fundamentally. And I don’t know, maybe kind of… hot?
“You want to make a better movie than him,” Arthur continues. “You’re proving a point.”
“Oh, yeah. Sort of.” That champagne bottle is around here somewhere. I could conk myself over the head with it. “But it was also, um, you. You never offered to throw the race, and I guess I was impressed by you and—and your drive. Metaphorically speaking.”
There’s a good ten seconds where I count Arthur’s breaths. One, two. He doesn’t inhale that deep. But then out of nowhere, he lets out a laugh so bright and perfect, I feel it inside my bloodstream. Pure golden glitter. “I impressedyou?”
The tips of my ears go warm. “I take it back.”
“No, sorry, can’t be done.” He’s talking with the same tripping-over shock of someone who’s walked into their own surprise birthday party. All his friends are here, and there’s cake. “My driving impressedtheLilah Graywood, professional motorsports hater.”
“I meant your initiative!”
“So my race didn’t impress you?”
“It was fine.”
“Fine.”
“Good.” I muffle a laugh. “Respectable.”
“I’m switching seats,” he mutters.
“No, wait.” I wonder if he’s smiling. If it’s sharp or not. “I’m stealing your body heat.”
Arthur grumbles back a “demanding American,” but he doesn’t actually go to move. So that’s how we stay for the rest of the flight. Arthur puts in his headphones, I stay curled into his side, and at one point, with fuzzy scraping electronic music drifting from his ears, I decide that this can’t be the only time I think about who I am without Max. He broke up with me, but it’s been my choice to remain broken. Apologetic. Scared. I’ve kept his voice inside my head like an imaginary friend, judging me, telling me how to act, a constant and cruel inner monologue because that’s what I thought I needed to survive. Max Black’s guidebook to a better Lilah Graywood. And I don’t need it anymore.
I didn’t love Max, but I haven’t let him go, either.
Now I will.
At least, that’s the massive decision I make as the post-race-weekend exhaustion drags me to sleep buried under Arthur’s arm, my thoughts blurring into one long sentence.Wearing someone’s driver number could be niceandelectronic music sounds like car enginesandI think I’d like to figure out what I like.
Chapter ThirteenMonaco
Arthur doesn’t get angry when he collects his suitcase from the concierge and I just stand there, awkwardly apologetic. “Where are your things?” he asks with a puzzled frown.
“Well. I don’t know.”
Travel has wrinkled his shirt—definitely not the nap I took on him—and he plucks the fabric from his chest as he inspects my closed-book frown. “You don’t know?”
“It’s nothing.” I avert my eyes. “When are we meeting up with everyone else?”
My diversion tactic is unsuccessful. “Did someone take them?”
