I get up. Put my phone down. Pick it back up.We?Her and a man I’ve never met? Them and their two happy, smiley, candle-sniffing children? I’ve been here. I’ve been waiting. She never contacted me before now, but the second photos of me and a famous, rich man hit the internet… here she is. My Hollywood happy ending is plastered all over social media, and I’m her daughter again.
She wants me back.
A phone starts to ring—it’s Arthur’s.
The door opens. Arthur’s in his sandy clothes again, phone against his ear, listening to someone speak, a bowl of fruit in his other hand. There are beads of water dotting the back of his neck. He must’ve already worked out. Run off the news. His eyes meet mine, and he nods, and that one gesture, acknowledgment, is the hug I needed.
“I’ll call you right back,” he says, then he’s off and setting the fruit on the nightstand. “Hi, have you looked at your phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you all right?”
Last night, I was terrified by the inevitable what-are-we conversation. Now it feels like the lock on my life has been cracked, and anyone with internet access can see my soul. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been so worried, all summer, about this exact moment, and now it’s here and we’re alive. And—did Holmes fire you?”
His eyes skitter away from me, back on his screen, scanning something. Scrolling. “Not yet.”
“Are you meeting with him soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
His phone rings again. With a frown, Arthur begins to drum his fingers on his leg.
“Sorry, are you busy?” I find myself saying, and Arthur flinches, shaking his head.
“I have meetings tomorrow with Leone and Holmes, in Italy. I’m heading out this afternoon with Cameron.” He’s stilted, cold. Drumming his fingers. “Stay here. Sarah and Delaney turned their room into a war room. They’re going to wipe this from the internet. Things are going to be okay, I promise. But it will take time.”
Leone? He’s going to Italy already. I close my eyes, unable to think straight when he’s tapping his fingers, his eyes desperately searching my face for my thoughts. “Why would you talk to them right now?”
“Because I have to assure them that I’m still the driver they want next season,” Arthur says, and it’s easier this way, when I can’t see him. “You weren’t—you’ll understand next year. Once I’m back at Leone, competing with them, I’m going to be myself again. My life will go back to the way it was before the accident.”
“No. It won’t. That isn’t how life works.”
His phone starts to ring.
“Sorry. Shit.” He goes to silence it. It’s in his hand, his thumb onthe side switch, when we both see the nameCavallilighting up the screen. Under that is a missed voicemail from someone at Static. And Wusch. And other names I don’t remember.
My breath hitches. “What’s going on?”
“They’re just circling the water,” he says, and he’s using his smooth voice on me, camera Arthur,everything’s fineArthur. “Teams that want a different driver for next year saw the pictures and assume Holmes is going to bin me.”
Ironic. The happiest sentences are the most devastating, too. “You’re… getting offers from other teams?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change what I want to do.” Arthur touches my arm. His eyes are dark, and last night comes rushing back into my memory. All that forever right within my reach. “I need to fix what happened. I need to prove to myself that I can drive with Leone again.”
Prove himself to who? Me? His faceless crowd of fans? While he leaves me here, abandoned, with messages piling up, my own life crumbling down. “I’m coming to Italy.” Stress makes my voice stretchy, and I swallow, trying to sound stronger than I feel.
Arthur pulls his hand back. “You don’t need to.”
“You don’t have to face this on your own.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Would me going make it worse?”
He drags in a breath that doesn’t reach deep enough. “I don’t know.”
“Then what can I do to help?”
