Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Arthur and I exchange personal phone numbers. I try to not think about how strange it is, texting someone whose face is sold on $120 hoodies, while we trade messages about how to pull off our scheme. If Max has already told Ignition that I’m fired, then you’ll probably need to “hire me” as your own personal videographer , I text him once I’m home, sitting among my cardboard boxes.
Why is hire me in scare quotes?
Surprised you know what a scare quote is. Do you have a better idea?
Could say you’re my new bodyguard.
Haha.
You know, most people use “lol.”
Why is lol in scare quotes?
We don’t make a lot of progress.
I’m not shocked that we don’t figure out what to do as the day turns into night and then day again—it’s weird to attempt strategizing with someone so fundamentally different from me. When Max and I had swapped names in Intro to Film class, it had felt like fate. Max Black and Lilah Graywood. Of course. Even better, we’d actually clicked outside the classroom. Max told me what to do, and I did it. It had been a relief; I just had to do whatever he wanted me to all the time. And getting to call my family and report that I’d met my artistic soulmate and new best friend in college had felt like proof that I was going to be okay, and everything they’d given me was worth it. Their time, way too much money, the doctor’s visits and meetings with teachers and social workers. I’d found family away from home.
Arthur is not family away from home.
He stops replying in the morning. Even after I send him not one, but five different texts asking what the plan is, hello, I’m about to call a cab to take me to the practice facility where Max and Sarah will be . I have no clue what I’m walking into today, or how Arthur and I are going to pull this off.
So I call my mom.
“Lilah,” Mom answers. “I’m just getting out of a hot yoga class.”
“Do you need to shower?”
“Nah, I’ll do it at home.”
“Mom!”
“Do not distract me.” She laughs, and I smile completely to myself. My adoptive mom—or Mom, as I call her—always sounds like a cartoon teapot when she’s happy, whistly and comforting, like everything is going to be okay. “How’s the new job going, pumpkin?”
“Oh. Yeah. It’s interesting.” That’s… mostly true. I look out the window of my apartment and bite my thumbnail. “There’s something going on with Max I want your advice on.”
“What about Max?”
Shit. Tears. Again. I let my forehead thunk against the warm glass of the window as I meander my way to breaking her heart. “Do you like him? Do you think we work well together?”
“I like anyone you like, as long as they treat you well. But”—I hear her take a breath—“it can be hard to work with men, my little Agnès Varda. You have to be careful with keeping boundaries. Does that answer your question?”
“Mm-hmm.” I slump into the kitchen chair. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. But that’s the nice part of having Max around, isn’t it? Knowing that he’s protecting you makes it a lot easier to let you live a million miles away.”
My eyes squeeze shut at the involuntary pain in my chest. Right. This is the worst part of losing Max. Yes, we were Black she’s pretending like she isn’t peeking between us. I give her the same men are so silly look from earlier. “Oh, is this about our fight? I’m sorry about whatever gave you the impression, but I never said I would quit the documentary, or Black if he’s only rising to meet my resentment, if he’s about to call off our agreement, if touching me scalded his skin, too.
“From now on, I’m driving this car,” I say. “I’m planning what we do. I’m calling the shots. And we’re not doing fake dating—fake—whatever the hell that was. Got it, Bianco?”
Pupils narrowing, he lets out a tiny huff. “The little documentarian hates not being in control.”
“Nope,” I lie, because screw him, screw him, screw him. He would make my desire to avoid getting typecast as fragile young woman, rescued by enamored rich man sound like an overreaction. “The big race-car driver loves to treat women like meat. But hey, go ahead. Pretend like the only way to further a woman’s career is by acting like you’re into her. Having a distraction from everything wrong with Max is nice.”
Arthur’s jaw twitches, a sheen running over his skin and a reddened flush beneath it. The sun has hitched high up in the sky, and sweat sparkles across his brow. “You should be grateful that I was raised to lie to the media. Having to pretend that you’re charming enough to want isn’t easy.”
“Good thing I never asked you to pretend.” I take a step closer to him, refusing to let his towering height intimidate me. “In fact, don’t. Don’t touch me. Don’t smile at me in front of other people. Don’t play into the idea that I’m only here because of a man. I already need to process Max doing that to me. Don’t do it to me, too.”
Arthur’s chest hitches with a quick breath. “You don’t get it. This”—he waves down at us, his orange race suit, my cargo shorts and Slowdive shirt—“is going to make people talk. We’re going to be spending time together, more time than normal, and I have a reputation.”
“Of?”
“Liking pretty women.”
His face is utterly serious, too serious, and my back stiffens like there’s an elastic band tied to both ends. Arthur may be able to flirt his way into forgiveness with other people, but not me. “You said nobody would believe we’re working together.”
“And that’s true,” he replies. “Everyone will know that I dislike you.”
“Exactly. So let them think that. We hate each other. Great. I’m keeping my job. Awesome. There’s no need to make this more complicated than it already is.”
Arthur pauses again, and the air around me grows quieter for it. “People can dislike each other and still be attracted to one another,” he says with what must be aggravated stiffness, as if he’s amazed he has to spell this out to me. His voice is lower. Slightly strained. “I’m a Formula 1 driver, Graywood. I get what I want. And they’ll think I want you,” he adds before I can take another breath.
So, I don’t. I stand here, not breathing, and try to grasp what he’s saying. Arthur and me, together? Absolutely not. The idea of wanting to sleep with someone I dislike—whose mere personality makes my nervous system light up like a Christmas tree with rage—is completely and utterly bizarre. Max had always joked that I’m demisexual, that I need some incredible, earth-shattering connection in order to look twice at anyone, but that concept was never a joke to me. I don’t know what I’d label myself as, but I like that my connections start with getting to know someone. Comfort. Safety.
Anyone can see that Arthur is textbook attractive. But he isn’t comfortable, kind, or nice. I’d never feel safe with him. His good looks are just an objective truth, like how it’s objectively true that I’d never trust mixing business and pleasure again.
“Documentarians don’t sleep with their subjects,” I say, pretending like that particular taboo is the most horrifying part of this conversation. “It’s a no. I’d rather be jobless and broke than for people to believe Party Prince Arthur wants me.”
That was too harsh. But I can’t unsay it, and when Arthur scoffs out, “You would read the articles,” I feel a sick twist of satisfaction that I got under his skin. Then he leans down, the tip of his sharp nose inches from mine. “Fine, then. If you’ll excuse me, this party prince has to practice for the British Grand Prix. One of us needs to keep their job.”
He stares at me, waiting for my comeback, but I only stare back, more offended by that insult than I’d care to admit. After too much quiet, his shoulders drop, tension uncoiling, and he says, “Are you done now?”
There can’t be any worse question for a man to ask. I don’t deign him with a response, and Arthur lets out an irritated sigh. “You know why I didn’t have time to chat with you this morning?”
This is a trap. He’s trying to restart our fight. I let my weight settle back onto the balls of my feet, defensive, and angry, and slightly nauseous from this whole conversation… but curious. Forever curious. “Why?”
“Faust is being put on leave,” Arthur says with a tense excitement I don’t understand. “I’m racing for Ignition at Silverstone.”
Apparently, knowing what that means was a test, because when I repeat back “Silverstone?” Arthur gives me a long, annoyed look. “England, Graywood. You and I are going to England.”