That’s right. Arthur was going to handle the legal side of the documentary. Without him to help me do this…
There’s really no movie.
It hurts to breathe.
A file folder sits at the bottom of the email. I click into the attachment against my better judgment.For your review, if you choose to purchase the footage back, the email said. The files must’ve been grabbed from my cloud, since everything is still organized exactly the way I left it, stored on Ignition’s server so they wouldn’t get suspicious.I click into the folder labeledJune, find the British Grand Prix subfolder, and click.
Arthur on the podium lights up the screen, beaming and laughing and holding his trophy. Listening to his national anthem. Talking with journalists. My ridiculous heart pounds at the sight of him, failing to register that he’s only one inch tall and absolutely not real.
The reporter’s voice drifts from my phone.“But how did you feel out there today? What was it like to be back on the track?”
On-screen, Arthur is looking at the journalist. But when he’s not, he’s looking at me. Not the camera, me.“I’m looking forward to the rest of this season and next year.”
I remember this moment. I remember holding my breath. Next, the journalist is going to ask him how he can be this hopeful about his chances. Only—that isn’t exactly what happens.
From behind the camera, I laugh.
On-screen, Arthur’s smile dips, that funny expression I hadn’t been able to read at that time. His eyes find me as he leans forward, almost like he wants to come closer—closer to me and the laughter—then he settles back, smiles, and answers the question.“There’s still time.”
No. He hadn’t meant…
I flip through the other clips from June. July. August. Interviews, B-roll, shots of Arthur while he was on live television, when I thought he’d never notice me. Except he does. There are flashes, when he looks at the camera with utter concentration and a little half smile. The B-roll footage that should’ve been moving stock images of him looking cool and contemplative break the fourth wall—he’s always glancing over at the camera, my camera. Me. I’m everywhere. When Arthur isn’t searching me out, there’s my voice or a hand, me laughing in the background, me talking to Delaney or Cameron. And as the weeks fly by, the emotion in Arthur’s once-guarded face crystallizes, growing and shaping into gentle eyes and a barely hidden smile, the most unmistakable story that’s ever been written…
We had pulled it off. Wehadruined Ignition’s documentary.
I’d filmed Arthur falling in love with me.
Hysterical laughter fizzes up my throat. They can’t use the footage now, any of this, because he had loved me,me, and I hadn’t even realized it. And now it’s too late, he’s picked what he loves more, and I’m alone, and this is so horrible and absurd and catch-22 that I can’t stop laughing. If I stop, I might sob, and if I start crying, it’s over. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I ask my phone screen. “Youidiot.”
When I’m all out of laughter, I wipe my sticky bangs from my forehead, barely catching my breath. Maybe I should go into extreme debt to buy this footage. I could keep it as proof that I really had caught this man’s eye for one summer around the world.
One summer.
And August is almost over.
The thought makes me want to burrow under my blanket pile until the hotel concierge kicks me out.
But I can’t. So I pick my phone back up, open the contact list, and do the next best thing. “Lilah, honey, hi,” Mom says when she picks up, and yeah—she’s been waiting for me. I calculate the time difference between an Italian noon and a Kentucky morning, and wince.
“Sorry for calling so early. Are you with Dad?”
“He’s right here. Do you need him?”
“No. Just…” A sharp pain needles beneath my ribs, the first indication that the emotions I’ve been putting off are about to eat me alive.
“It’s okay,” Mom says gently. “What’s going on?”
There’s so much I haven’t told her that I don’t know where to begin. So I start from the very top of the list. “Max and I broke up.”
“Oh, Lilah.”
Her sadness punctures me, just like I knew it would. How my name soars out of her mouth. “It’s okay. He didn’t… want to be with me anymore.”
It’s such a stupid, childish way to summarize a breakup, complete with cheating, international travel, and competitive motorsports. Still, I can picture Mom’s loving frown in my mind’s eye when she tuts disapprovingly. “He’s always been a fool.”
“Mom.”
“No, pumpkin. I mean that. I was happy you both found what you did when you did in each other, but he never could keep up with you. Who could? You’re my little alien. You deserve someone who’ll never hold you back.”
