“No, but thank you.”
“I know you!” squeals a champagne heiress. Not that one. “I saw you on Reddit!”
“That you did.”
Once we’ve made it to an open table by the dance floor, Delaney goes to find water and Sarah leaves for cake. Alone, I slide a hand up my forearm, surveying the warmly lit, richly perfumed room. Okay. I’m here. With all the rich, powerful people, for one more night. I should… go dance. Or, maybe, stuff as many vegan appetizers as I can in my tiny sequined bag? I bite my lip, the old shame trickling in. I’d told Arthur that I was going to come but hadn’t told him when. I’d just hoped we’d miraculously bump into each other, finale style.
Which feels overwhelmingly immature now that I’m here, waiting to be bumped into.
A hand brushes the back of my arm, and I turn, my heart already in my throat. But it isn’t Arthur. Dressed in head-to-toe glitter is an older, statuesque British woman with the sharpest eyeliner I’ve ever seen. “Lilah Graywood?” She tilts her head, slicked-back bun not moving an inch. “I’m Miriam, the director of marketing here at F1. Do you have a moment?”
Many, in fact. The word that leaves my mouth is, “Um.”
She arches a gray brow. “Is that a yes?”
My brain kicks back into gear, and I nod to the glitter-F1 lady. Once she’s seated next to me, Miriam crosses her legs—revealing an impressively high slit up one side of her silver dress—and smiles. “You’re a hard woman to track down.”
“I am?”
“I’ve been emailing you all week.”
“Oh.” The hamster wheel in my head spins, then stops. “I’m sorry. Ignition probably deleted my work email.”
The edges of Miriam’s impeccably lipsticked smile turn up.“About that. I’ve been following your project with Ignition, and I was wondering when you were going to make that documentary of yours.”
I laugh, then clap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, um, I… I can’t make the movie. I don’t have the rights to the files. Among other things.” Namely, I fell in love with the subject matter. Also that.
Miriam blinks. “But you do. I cleared the paperwork yesterday.”
I’m not following. Paperwork to love Arthur? “Ah-ha,” she says, lightly banging a posh fist against her very smooth palm. “My email must’ve gotten lost in your deleted inbox. Lilah, you do own the rights to the film footage. Or rather, they were purchased in your name.”
I’m… confused. There isn’t anyone here that would want me to have those files. “What do you mean?”
“Arthur Bianco purchased the rights for you,” Miriam answers.
At that, my brain does the same thing it always does: spits out every bad ending like I’m a doomsday algorithm. “No. He bought the footage? Arthur—Arthurwantsme to make a documentary?”
“That is the implication I received, yes,” Miriam says tactfully. “He also noted something about IP theft? I didn’t quite understand that part. Here.” She pulls her phone from her clutch. “Do you have a functional inbox? I’ll redirect his note your way—network admin perks.”
I nod, wait, and whatever else I was going to say vanishes.
Lilah,
I’m sorry.
For many things. Wasting time. Not telling you sooner that I wanted you so badly that I was pacing hotel hallways at night, thinking about knocking your glasses off with my mouth. Forlumping you in with bad journalists and past relationships. For hiding the panic attacks—because you’re right, that’s what they are, and I can get help.
But most of all, I’m sorry for trying to make you, the most honest person I’ve ever met, go along with my lies. I’m sorry that it took me this long to see that, despite what my family taught me, a true man would listen to you.
I was a child when I first drove. My parents and I were out at a restaurant, and a woman had a reaction to her food. Allergies, maybe. But my parents were gone, waiters, too. The keys were on the table. I did what anyone would do and drove her to the hospital. She lived. That’s when I discovered that driving is freedom, but it’s taking care of people, too. When I’m out there on the track, I’m driving for people. They’re in the car with me. When you win, you don’t just do it for yourself.
I’d forgotten that until I met you.
I was wrong when I said you make movies because you want to be invisible. You do this for other people, too. You record the world because you love the world. And I will not be the person who comes into your life and changes that by forcing you to close those big eyes of yours. And I can’t say you can rely on me and not show it.
So, I’ve paid for the documentary footage. For you. My lawyers are in the process of transferring the film rights to your name. You should be receiving an email with the new file links and notes shortly. I’m not sure if you’ve reviewed the footage yet, but—hell, sweetheart. Put a camera in your hands and you’ve made a movie.
Make the documentary you want to make. About Leone, or Holmes, or me. Rip me up. Find some good shots of birds. Dowhatever you want with it. Your work is yours now, like it always should have been.
