My throat tightens. I’m not only talking about Arthur. Like Cameron said way back when, life is complicated, but F1 is worse. I’ve been on the road with the team for weeks and still can’t wrap my head around half of the rules. Like, what the hell is an apex? Then add in Team Arthur, these kind and funny people I might want to keep…
“I’m someone that people leave,” I say softly. “Having him and losing him would wreck me. So why not embrace being by myself? I can’t lose this guy and his world if I never really have it.”
Lucia gives me an understanding look. “You know what your problem is?”
“What?” I say, absolutely curious.
“You said you were making a documentary about this co-worker of yours.”
“Yeah?”
A grin splits Lucia’s soft face, like I’ve fallen into her trap. “You’re not. You’re trying to film your own story.”
“No,” I say slowly. “I’ve been filming Arthur.”
Lucia shakes her head. “I used to be an anthropologist.”
Now I’m really confused, but I wait for her to go on. Which she does. “A friend of mine once told me that she’d read about this great anthropologist who, when asked about the earliest sign of civilization, replied with a story about finding a healed femur bone. See, a wounded animal doesn’t survive in the wild. So, because there was this discovery, this healed bone, we knew that at least one other ancient person had helped that person live. That, to this great anthropologist, was the beginning of humanity. Helping someone heal.
“But here’s my point,” Lucia continues. “I also read that story wasn’t true. Completely made up. And who knows? I wasn’t there to experience it.” She shrugs. “I think that’s your issue. Each story has two sides, and the story we choose to tell says a lot more about us than it does a broken bone.”
Slowly, her words sink into me, past the startled goose bumps ghosting my skin. “I get why you’d think that,” I say, my mouth dry. “But it’s my job to tell the truth, and there’s only one truth. That’s how truth works.”
“Will you be in Arthur’s movie, then?” she asks. “Since you were in his summer.”
That is… a question I haven’t considered. “No.” I laugh nervously. “I mean, maybe a bit, like ‘Maysles Brother in the reflection of a mirror’ bit. But no. I’m…” Unimportant. Forgettable. An outsider. “Not a part of the plot.”
Silently, Lucia takes in my answer, then she reaches over and pats my hand. Her skin is soft as velvet and warm as a hug. “I have an idea.”
“I don’t know if I can handle any more ideas.”
“Just hear me out.” She chuckles. “You said you have an extra camera. Why don’t you give it to Arthur? Let him film you back.”
“But—”
She holds up her hand, silencing me. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker. Maybe he doesn’t like you. Okay, you’ll live. But you need to see yourself through someone else’s eyes.”
“So I can see that I’m not that bad?”
Lucia gives me that look again, like whatever she’s going to say is extremely obvious, but she enjoys saying it regardless. “Maybe. Maybe not. Isn’t that the point?” She winks. “And next time you talk to someone about this, dear, don’t mention that it’s Arthur Bianco. I’ve been following that boy’s career for the last ten years.”
Chapter NineteenBelgium
It’s raining. Again.
Ever since the sun rose on the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium, rain has been plummeting from the sky in gray sheets. Sarah gathers the media team in the garage, handing out the bulky headphone sets. “Okay, people, you know the rules. Stewards don’t want anyone out there that isn’t a driver or pit,” she explains. “Social teams, we’ll get footage from the drones—ask me for the password now if you don’t already have it. Video, let’s plan on getting shots of the guys after. Cooldown if we get it, podium if we get it, and anything in between if, God forbid”—she knocks on the desk behind her three times—“we have to.”
Delaney is sitting in a swivel chair beneath the rows and rows of screens already illuminated with the slick track and rainy sky, a bag of Belgian chips open on her lap. I sidle up to her and whisper, “What does she mean?”
Delaney offers me a red-dusted chip. “Spa in the rain has a reputation.”
“It was fine in England, though.”
“Turned into a drizzle while they were out there.” She eats the chip for me and delicately wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. “When it’s coming down in waves like this, that’s a safetyconcern. Visibility is shot. They’re going to try it, but I give it…” Her brown eyes narrow at the open garage door. Rain is pooling on an empty Ignition Energy Drink can. “Four laps before race control calls it quits and has everyone off the track.”
Nervousness lances sharply through my pulse. The cars are already lined up on the grid, tire covers off. The race is about to start. Arthur is near the middle of the pack today; he slid off the track during his fourth lap in the last Qualifying session, which technically broke the track limits rule and got his best lap time deleted. And from the races I’ve seen, middle of the grid isn’t great. Cars will try to get around him, bottleneck, slip around. Chances are already higher during the first lap for a “racing incident” to occur, too—the kind of accidents that happen when there are twenty world-class race cars staggered meters apart, all jumping to start at the same time, with millions of dollars on the checkered line.
And since the David Bowie Night debacle, our group chat has decided that it’s smartest to keep Arthur and my “relationship” under wraps until Bob’s wedding. No more breadcrumbs, plane cuddling, or shopping trips. We’ll stroll into the wedding of Ignition’s owner, Holmes will lose it, Arthur will get out of his contract, and everyone will go to Leone… besides me.
