“Don’t sound so shocked.”
He tilts his phone toward me, and sure enough, the screen is covered in text. “I like autobiographies,” he says. “It’s just sports.”
“No, that’s cool.” I turn to face him more. “I love memoirs. I’d read a sports one, probably.”
That one treacherous corner of his mouth perks up.“Really.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I tease.
“But it’s you, willingly reading about sports. Wow.”
“Maybe if I was in an airport and they only sold one book?”
“Reading in general, really. I didn’t peg you for the type.”
“It’s weird, I know. The glasses trick you.”
He laughs again. I love winning his laughs, even more now, when it’s like a wall between us has dropped away and he’s stripped down to the real him.
“What about car docs? Have you ever seenHands on a Hardbody?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Oh man. It’ssogood. Best movie about cars ever made.”
I glance at the ancient television that in no way can access a streaming platform. Arthur follows my eyes, also assessing that we’re stuck with local channels for the foreseeable future.
“I could pull it up?” he says. “It’s probably online. If you wanted.”
My own phone is sitting in my backpack on the ground next to him, chock-full of internet and entertainment. And I actually like the grainy tube television and incomprehensible Dutch commercials. And I should probably take a nap and sleep off this cold, so I can get back to filming him tomorrow. Which is something we need to discuss. His secret. My documentary. Unstoppable force, immovable object. How are we going to figure this one out? How will I?
But watching another movie with Arthur is undeniably tempting. And maybe—secretly—this could be good for me. For both of us. For the rest of August, or however long we have, I can keep my walls down and be here for Arthur and enjoy this sunshine while it lasts.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
When he finds the documentary online, he angles himself so we can both see the teensy-tiny screen, his phone resting on his knee. Minutes pass. We sink together. The side of his ribs against my shoulder. My arm, brushing against his thigh, then resting on top. After he chuckles at something, the bed sags more and my cheek finds his chest, like he’s supporting me, and then his cheek is on top of my head, like I’m supporting him. And neither of us moves.
“Arthur?” I say after a minute.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner. I—this… You’re worth knowing. Just in case no one’s said that to you lately.”
His chest stills, as if he’s holding his breath, waiting. Then he lets it out, long, soft.
“Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
To everyone’s surprise except mine, Arthur wins the Dutch Grand Prix.
It’s a stroke of luck; Cavalli and Leone had penalties, Static screwed themselves over with pit-stop strategy, and one of the midfield teams, Wusch, dominated second and third place, inadvertently creating a barrier that protected Arthur’s solid lead.
Notifications light up my phone before Arthur can pop the ceremonial podium champagne.King Arthur Back on Top With Dutch Victory—But Will He Drive Italy?is the title of the first blog in the queue. Even without Arthur’s full Monza story being public knowledge, the next race is a big deal. For a global sport where a driver might switch to a different team in a different country depending on wins or controversies, an Italian driver winning in Italy means something major. The fans lose it, storming the track afterward in an impromptu parade.
At least, that’s what Cameron explains as he picks me up from the hotel.
“Where are we going?” I say, watching a long stretch of beach and water zoom outside the open car window. Zandvoort, apparently, is a beach resort town nestled by the North Sea, and the weather is so perfectly toasty that I have to pinch myself.
