Arthur’s cheek flexes again. He rolls one wrist, fingers clenching, then smooths his wide hand down the length of his thigh. It’s a long journey, miles of space to trek.
“You can’t be alone at a hospital, Graywood,” he says. “I’m staying here. If that’s all right with you.”
“But Quali is—”
“In a few hours.”
“But you need to race this weekend.”
“And I will.”
My eyes narrow. His narrow back. Then he looks down at my neck, obviously noticing my collarbones, and then his eyes move down to my hands. The doctor had slapped a white medical bracelet on me, which had seemed like overkill at the time and especially dramatic as Arthur’s passive frown wobbles. For a split second between frowns, I see how much it bothers him to see me here, and I suddenly remember what should’ve occurred to me days before now. Arthur’s accident in Monza, the one Delaney had told me about, had been during a race. He would’ve been carted to whatever makeshift hospital F1 had nearby.
That’swhy he’s here. That’s why he used our fake relationship to check on me; he’d probably claim to be Merlin’s problematically young boyfriend if she got cooped up, too.
That… might be why he disappeared after getting in another accident involving Leone.
“I’m really okay,” I promise him, my voice softening. “And I’ll call you. Next time.”
Arthur’s chest rises. “There won’t be a next time.”
“Right. I’ll never get a cold again.”
He exhales. “Never.”
He’s always so tense. And I want to know why. At this point,with how little time we have left, I need to know. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Delaney mentioned there was an accident in Monza. What happened?”
His eyes skid over to me, surprised. “You don’t know?”
“I couldn’t find anything online.”
On some deep level, I recognize that this is it, my proverbial fork in the road for ignoring what’s happening here. When his lips tick into an unhappy smile, I feel myself land in this trap for good.
“I almost died.”
Fear. That’s all I am as he continues. “It was the Italian Grand Prix, back when I was with Leone. He got me on the thirtieth lap around the Parabolica. Next thing I knew, I was in the barrier. They said it was a freak accident. All the things that could’ve gone wrong, did.”
Died. He—that is so much worse than I thought. I fight the urge to reach over for his hand just to feel his pulse. “I’m so sorry. The videos, it looked bad, but… they all do to me.”
“Don’t apologize. I just wish everyone could move on, like I have. My TP at Leone would bring it up every time I got into a car.Toughen up. Be a man. We can’t keep you if you don’t prove yourself.That makes whatever this is”—he waves to his chest—“worse.”
I’m sick with anger. “What gets worse?”
He waits, the clock on the wall ticking, the silence between us louder. “Sometimes, after something goes wrong, I can’t really breathe.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he speaks. “It happened at Spa, and that day the team talked to me about… us, or whatever. Ever since the accident, when I think about it, I can’t breathe. So I try not to, so it doesn’t get bad.”
Bad. It. He isn’t using the therapy-speak of someone who’s googled all this. “Do you mean you have panic attacks?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I haven’t—well. I haven’t told anyone. If the sponsors knew, or the teams heard. If Leone…”
He trails off, and my heart threatens to break. If the team that already fired him once after he almost died heard that Arthur was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, that’d be it.
It’s an act.
I knew that, to a certain degree. But I couldn’t ever guess that a persona could run this deep. I would never judge him for his anxiety, but I know how the world views someone if their brain deviates from the norm. If the fans knew how their hot, confident, reckless driver is looking at me—like he needs me to save him, like I’m a map in the middle of a maze—his daredevil image would be toast.
