At least there are only three possible reasons for his silence. First and most likely, he’s busy. Duh. Second and equally likely, he’d felt nothing last night, so it wouldn’t occur to him to reach out and make sure I knew that he’s just a really good dancer. And last and most of all least, there’s the chance that Arthur did feel a spark at the time, had enjoyed the fit of our bodies, let his mind wander—andthenhe hadn’t texted me.
I really hope that’s not it.
“So, Max here was just telling me about the misunderstanding that unfolded yesterday evening,” Holmes says. “Let me start by saying nobody is in trouble, and we can step inside the office if you’d like, but this development that transpired between you and Arthur, Lilah… what exactly is it?”
Max starts to say something, but Holmes holds up a hand, gold rings glinting. “It’s her turn to talk, Mr. Black.”
“Oh. It’s…” I fumble for the right words—the thing that will make this conversation end as quickly as possible. This is my moment. I need to keep the lie going.We’re only pretending to be into each other so you fire himis not the answer.I’m not really one hundred percent sure how I ended up held against his hips while David Bowie remixes playedalso isn’t right.
“There’s nothing going on with Arthur and me,” I say, going for simplicity.
Holmes’s brows lift. “Nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” I reiterate.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, relieved. “Well, then, thanks for stopping by. Max will tell you about the new guideline we’ve added to your stay, but other than that, do enjoy the rest of your time in Hungary, and I’ll see you both after the break.”
That’s… it? I look between the two men, trying to not have the open-mouth stare of someone who was expecting way worse, since that typically ushers in the way worse. “Okay. Thanks?”
Max doesn’t get the message, though. “That’s all?” he says, frustrated. To be fair, he and his girlfriend were reprimanded for an hour, while I got a slap on the wrist that was mostly a high five for saying the right lie.
That’s what happens when you steal a company you don’t know how to run, I guess. Max has to own my mistakes now.
“Sure. Ms. Graywood has said that nothing’s going on between her and my nephew, and Arthur gave the same story during his review.” He did? I blink, then hate it, because of course he did, that’s our plan, go away tiny flash of disappointment I don’t appreciate. “And to be honest with you, Mr. Black, you can’t really expect an F1 driver tonotenjoy a dance or two after getting podium. You just keep your eye on your company”—Holmes smiles at me—“and we’ll be good to wrap in September and begin discussing how to incorporate this film into next year’s marketing plan. You may have seen the rumors about the new circuit… I hope you both are prepared to move quickly and loudly.”
Max’s mouth wavers, like he’s contemplating throwing me under the bus to learn more about those rumors. Then he seems to realize he owns the bus.
“Okay,” he mutters sullenly.
I should be happy when Holmes leaves us in the hall to head back into the office, his door shutting us out and away from furtherrepercussions. Only now I’m with Max, and there’s no one else around, and I don’t know what to do. To be honest, I haven’t known exactly how to proceed without Arthur around for weeks, and it’s hitting me that I’d gone from one out-of-control situation to another. Arthur left last night. He hasn’t talked to me since. He told the team that nothing is going on, and that’s true—whatever fever dream I stepped into after those wine spritzers is gone, and I have to start dealing with my own shit by myself.
Nobody else is coming to rescue me, and soon, I’m going to be on my own.
“Can I start?” Max says, his voice thick.
I lean back against the hallway wall, avoiding the framed photograph of an old Ignition driver. “Sure.”
His chest rises as he chews on his already chapped lip. “I’m really sorry about last night. I’m sorry about all of this. I fucked up.” The ground shifts, but Max continues anyway. “I hope you know this, but pushing you was a total accident. That was douchebag behavior.”
I can’t remember when Max last apologized like this. His red eyes seek mine out, desperate, and the remorse in them thuds against the barbed wire I’ve thrown around my heart. Max Black issorry, and that hits me like the first glass of wine after six months sober, genuine guilt from someone whose feelings once meant more to me than my own.
“The thing is,” he says, “you heard what Holmes said. This documentary is going to be big, and I’ve been putting together a proposal to get Black & Graywood in front of other sports federations. We can make a killing if we keep making movieswithteams. Like millions, dude. It’ll be like we’re an ad agency with style. And you can be a part of that if you can just—forgive me. For last night.”
“An… ad agency,” I repeat.
“With style.” He smiles proudly. “Just say yes. Black & Graywood needs you. I need you.”
Magic. I’ve been clinging to the magic rush of documentaries, the ethics and the camerawork, the moral imperative of factual storytelling, while Max has been drafting a proposal to make us—my business, my last name—a marketing gimmick? “I don’t know,” I say. “Would you really want to keep working with companies like this?”
“Don’t you?” Max says beneath his breath. He’s using his interview technique on me: straight to the point, but soft. “It isn’t like we’re doing government propaganda. Making a documentaryfora team just feels kind of different than making a documentaryaboutthe team.”
Propaganda. There’s the word I’ve been looking for all summer.
“What about Sarah? Wouldn’t this upset her?” I ask, vaguely lightheaded.
“Oh.” Max bites his lip again. “We broke up.”
I put a hand on my chest, pressing my fingers in to hold back a wave of emotion—surprise and anger, relief and pain, always a little pain. Max isn’t with the person he left me for anymore. Max is talking to me again, sorry for how he acted, hoping that we can leave here together…
