“Oh?” I say, pretending like I agree.
Our bartender returns with a tall, pale yellow beer for Arthur, and he waves him off with a tip. “Sure. Nobody can makeyoudo something you don’t want to do.”
I like that version of me. She’s better than the real one, who tried everything to make people like her, then gave up. “Thank you. I think.”
“You’re welcome. Anyway, we should be enjoying ourselves tonight.” Arthur takes a sip. “I’ve missed getting to do this with you.”
His words run over me like water, a clear film over my skin.Missed.He’s missed spending time with me? Or he’s missed us bread-crumbing our fake relationship around other people? I take another big sip, and the knots woven into my legs from the million-hour days under my camera start to loosen. A few more sips, and I’ll be able to handle Arthur just fine.
“Has anyone talked to you about us?” I ask.
“No.” Arthur frowns. “Which is strange.”
“It is?”
“I would’ve bet anything on Delaney or Sarah confronting me, but it’s like they’re too distracted by the season.”
Like clockwork, I hear the Delaney warning that’s been on my mind the most:Liking a driver is pointless. You’ll only get hurt when they pick racing over you.
I think about Arthur, too. At night. When I pace. I think about what I do know about this person who’s slid into the most important facets of my life. Like how I know he lies and has secrets and keeps things to himself, since he never acts like a human who’s being crushed beneath the hydraulic press of an iconically destructive career move, so that overwhelming pressure has to go somewhere else. Since I also know that we don’t talk about Leone, or Holmes, or the money, or how any of this affects him.
I steal another bubbly sip of the spritzer. It’s good, fizzy without being too sweet, and slightly irritating—since heknewI’d like this drink. Somehow. That’s the other thing. Arthur pays attention to people. He looks and watches and listens all the time, and still acts detached and irreverent about anything that isn’t F1, like life is one big joke until we drive off this mortal coil. And I can’t puzzle out why. Why does he care about people but act like he doesn’t? Why is he always pretending?
Two weeks. The clock is ticking.
“I’m going to ask you something personal, and I really want you to start being honest with me, and it’s whatever, obviously,” I preface. “But do you usually… not date? Like long-term relationships.”
Arthur’s forehead creases. Only for a second, then he lets out an incredulous chuckle. “You say that like I haven’t been honest.”
I slip onto the barstool behind me and wait for more, silent.
He rolls his eyes and sits down, too. “Fine. Yes. I usually don’t date.”
“Why?”
“Well.” He sucks in one cheek, his regular swagger dimming as he thinks. “It can be difficult as a driver.”
My pulse picks up a notch. “How so?”
“I don’t want to sleep around during the season. And if I’mnot sleeping around, then I’m usually not dating.” His eyes skid over to me, alarmed, like he said too much. “What I mean is—it’s hard. Getting to know someone when you’re always traveling and the press is putting labels on you. It’s hard to make it serious. Too much of a distraction, according to Merlin, and I can’t let the noise get in my way.”
There it is. Exactly what Delaney had said; Arthur will put driving first. “That’s an interesting thing to call a relationship,” I say, then go cold. “Sorry. Documentary mode. That was—”
Arthur laughs. “It’s fine. It was noise, though. Women in my life always wanted more, or they wanted less.” His eyes swivel to the skylight. “But they never seemed to want me.”
His confession jolts me. Is this the truth? “Well, you seem universally wantable to me.” My mouth slaps shut. “To a certain type. Not, you know. Everyone.”
Arthur gives me a tired smile. “Strangely, most women don’t want to fall in love with the race-car driver who’s never home. They just want to fuck him.”
I’d been taking another sip of my spritzer; it turns into a firecracker on the way down. “Sorry,” I sputter out, coughing into my elbow as Arthur passes me napkins.
Arthur has sworn around me. But not when it’s been just us, at a bar. Not when his hand has gone to rest on the back of my seat and I know what his fingertips feel like, warm, rough, and curious, how’d he found the scar on my arm like a dog with a scent for personal history. Not when he’s talking about himself fucking. What a word.
He’s right. People are distracting.
“Then the articles about you,” I start, trying to get back to the subject at hand.
“Some were true. Some weren’t.” His jaw shifts. “I wasn’t alwaysa good man. Probably still not. But I’m always a good time, you know? Always a laugh.” He spins his knees my way and drops his voice to a playful whisper. “What’s with the questions, anyway? You haven’t gotten yourself a real crush, have you?”
