I’m attracted to Arthur Bianco becauseI like him.
“I don’t know! Sorry,” I say too loudly and push my glasses up my nose with shaky fingers, and whatever momentary trick of the light just happened splits in two. Arthur clears his throat and I brush past him, going to the low barrier wall and settling my palms against the brickwork. Good, reliable bricks. Solid things to cling to in my time of need.
Okay. So I’m not just randomly, one-off attracted to a professional athlete who regularly wows the general public with his motorsport skills and death-defying confidence. I have a crush. I enjoy his personality. Ilike being around him. This is extremely bad. This is Arthur. Documentary subject. Sports superstar I’ll only know for another month and a half, tops.
I can fix this. I can… I will…
I’ll ignore it.
Searching for a conversational topic that might make it less obvious that I was just staring at his mouth, I look around at the sunrise and blurt out, “It’s the golden hour. Do you know what that is?”
Arthur’s footsteps thump behind me, and my throat squeezesas my body becomes aware that he’s beside me. So close that my arm tingles with his energy, though we aren’t touching at all.
“I’m not sure.” His voice is quiet. “Some movie thing?”
“Yeah, it’s when the light is gold like this as the sun’s rising or setting. The light levels between the sun and man-made lights are more balanced, and the sunlight itself is indirect, so everything feels kind of cinematic. Like magic.”
“I’ve heard the term before, when I was sick once. L’ora d’oro.” Arthur exhales quietly, then laughs. “Our coffee is getting cold.”
He’s changing the topic. Like always, I realize. Whenever one of us gets close to being too real, we spring away from the edge.
I follow him to the table and sit across from him. Arthur’s hair is messier than usual, the longer strands swept back from his forehead, and when he passes me the tiny sugar cube plate, I get this inexplicable urge to ask him if he slept okay. Why? Why is this happening to me withhim? You should be able to switch off your attraction to a person. Twist a knob and get through a conversation with them without losing your breath.
Scowling, I tear the apple strudel on my plate into two clean pieces.
“You had something you wanted to talk to me about?” Arthur says, watching me dust crumbs off my fingers.
“I can text you about it.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“It’s just—details. Fine-tuning our deal.”
“We have an hour until we need to leave,” he points out.
“Isn’t your coffee getting cold?”
I’m attempting to hurry our breakfast up, though my subtle and careful hints are not landing with Arthur. He leans his elbows on the table and sets his chin in his hand, lips curling as he attempts to wait me out.
I set my strudel down and glare back. “I wanted to talk to you about Sarah. She and Max broke up.”
His eyes narrow further. “They did.”
“Yeah, and she’s pretty mad at him. And… I think she would help us with our plan. I want to offer her the chance. But if she doesn’t take it, or she says we should stop, then I don’t know if we should keep going. I’ve already done enough to her.”
Arthur’s mouth has zipped shut, an emotion I can’t read running across his face like it’s being pulled by a string: tight lips, set jaw, a single wrinkle between his eyebrows. When he leans back, folding his arms over his broad chest, his expression reminds me of the way people sit for hours on those benches in the middle of museums, surrounded by art, attempting to decode the shapes and swirls in front of them. I have this feeling that Arthur would gladly, if given the chance, stand me up in a silent room and stare until he understood how I work.
“Okay,” he says, “sure.”
“Okay?” I repeat. “Sure?”
“We can tell my marketing manager that we’re pretending to fall in love. If you want.”
Oh, so now we’re falling in love. I’d make this joke if him sayingin lovedidn’t turn me into a malfunctioning robot, moments before its final computation. “What’s the catch?”
“Well, since you asked.” Arthur smirks. “I want to tell Cameron, too.”
“Cameron?” I’m stuck on repeat. I have to stop echoing him. “Why?” Better. Small steps.
