Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Max spends an hour behind closed doors with Sarah and Holmes the following morning. I stand in the hallway, silently picking at my hoodie sleeve. When the door opens to Sarah, she shoots me a pointed glare, then saunters wordlessly down the fluorescent-lit hallway of Ignition’s Hungarian office, her long hair swishing behind her. No ponytail today.
The door opens again a few minutes later, and I’m met with a hungover-looking Max and a bright and bushy-tailed Holmes Bianco. “Good morning, Ms. Graywood,” he says with too much enthusiasm for nine a.m.—particularly when, at least for Max and me, the prior evening involved bloody noses and Hungarian bouncers.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m really sorry about all of this.”
“Nonsense. Things happen,” Holmes says calmly. “Arthur’s sorry he can’t join us today. He’s having his own independent review.”
Figures. Since Arthur vanished last night, pulled away from the bar by multiple Ignition staff I didn’t recognize, I haven’t heard a peep from him. No texts to plan what we’re going to say to Holmes, our final boss. No ideas about how to corroborate our stories. No… acknowledging whatever passed between us while we were dancing.
The worst part is, after what Arthur said about respecting our fake relationship, I’m embarrassingly surprised by the radio silence. And being surprised by Arthur not following up with me the morning after he had his body pressed against mine, his hands all over me, on my chin, my ribs… it doesn’t feel good. It’s like I lost a bet I knew I shouldn’t have placed. A hundred dollars on the international playboy texting to ask if I’m emotionally okay after we felt each other up on a dance floor.
At least there are only three possible reasons for his silence. First and most likely, he’s busy. Duh. Second and equally likely, he’d felt nothing last night, so it wouldn’t occur to him to reach out and make sure I knew that he’s just a really good dancer. And last and most of all least, there’s the chance that Arthur did feel a spark at the time, had enjoyed the fit of our bodies, let his mind wander—and then he hadn’t texted me.
I really hope that’s not it.
“So, Max here was just telling me about the misunderstanding that unfolded yesterday evening,” Holmes says. “Let me start by saying nobody is in trouble, and we can step inside the office if you’d like, but this development that transpired between you and Arthur, Lilah… what exactly is it?”
Max starts to say something, but Holmes holds up a hand, gold rings glinting. “It’s her turn to talk, Mr. Black.”
“Oh. It’s…” I fumble for the right words—the thing that will make this conversation end as quickly as possible. This is my moment. I need to keep the lie going. We’re only pretending to be into each other so you fire him is not the answer. I’m not really one hundred percent sure how I ended up held against his hips while David Bowie remixes played also isn’t right.
“There’s nothing going on with Arthur and me,” I say, going for simplicity.
Holmes’s brows lift. “Nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” I reiterate.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, relieved. “Well, then, thanks for stopping by. Max will tell you about the new guideline we’ve added to your stay, but other than that, do enjoy the rest of your time in Hungary, and I’ll see you both after the break.”
That’s… it? I look between the two men, trying to not have the open-mouth stare of someone who was expecting way worse, since that typically ushers in the way worse. “Okay. Thanks?”
Max doesn’t get the message, though. “That’s all?” he says, frustrated. To be fair, he and his girlfriend were reprimanded for an hour, while I got a slap on the wrist that was mostly a high five for saying the right lie.
That’s what happens when you steal a company you don’t know how to run, I guess. Max has to own my mistakes now.
“Sure. Ms. Graywood has said that nothing’s going on between her and my nephew, and Arthur gave the same story during his review.” He did? I blink, then hate it, because of course he did, that’s our plan, go away tiny flash of disappointment I don’t appreciate. “And to be honest with you, Mr. Black, you can’t really expect an F1 driver to not enjoy a dance or two after getting podium. You just keep your eye on your company”—Holmes smiles at me—“and we’ll be good to wrap in September and begin discussing how to incorporate this film into next year’s marketing plan. You may have seen the rumors about the new circuit… I hope you both are prepared to move quickly and loudly.”
Max’s mouth wavers, like he’s contemplating throwing me under the bus to learn more about those rumors. Then he seems to realize he owns the bus.
“Okay,” he mutters sullenly.
I should be happy when Holmes leaves us in the hall to head back into the office, his door shutting us out and away from further repercussions. Only now I’m with Max, and there’s no one else around, and I don’t know what to do. To be honest, I haven’t known exactly how to proceed without Arthur around for weeks, and it’s hitting me that I’d gone from one out-of-control situation to another. Arthur left last night. He hasn’t talked to me since. He told the team that nothing is going on, and that’s true—whatever fever dream I stepped into after those wine spritzers is gone, and I have to start dealing with my own shit by myself.
Nobody else is coming to rescue me, and soon, I’m going to be on my own.
“Can I start?” Max says, his voice thick.
I lean back against the hallway wall, avoiding the framed photograph of an old Ignition driver. “Sure.”
His chest rises as he chews on his already chapped lip. “I’m really sorry about last night. I’m sorry about all of this. I fucked up.” The ground shifts, but Max continues anyway. “I hope you know this, but pushing you was a total accident. That was douchebag behavior.”
I can’t remember when Max last apologized like this. His red eyes seek mine out, desperate, and the remorse in them thuds against the barbed wire I’ve thrown around my heart. Max Black is sorry , and that hits me like the first glass of wine after six months sober, genuine guilt from someone whose feelings once meant more to me than my own.
“The thing is,” he says, “you heard what Holmes said. This documentary is going to be big, and I’ve been putting together a proposal to get Black & Graywood in front of other sports federations. We can make a killing if we keep making movies with teams. Like millions, dude. It’ll be like we’re an ad agency with style. And you can be a part of that if you can just—forgive me. For last night.”
“An… ad agency,” I repeat.
“With style.” He smiles proudly. “Just say yes. Black & Graywood needs you. I need you.”
Magic. I’ve been clinging to the magic rush of documentaries, the ethics and the camerawork, the moral imperative of factual storytelling, while Max has been drafting a proposal to make us—my business, my last name—a marketing gimmick? “I don’t know,” I say. “Would you really want to keep working with companies like this?”
“Don’t you?” Max says beneath his breath. He’s using his interview technique on me: straight to the point, but soft. “It isn’t like we’re doing government propaganda. Making a documentary for a team just feels kind of different than making a documentary about the team.”
Propaganda. There’s the word I’ve been looking for all summer.
“What about Sarah? Wouldn’t this upset her?” I ask, vaguely lightheaded.
“Oh.” Max bites his lip again. “We broke up.”
I put a hand on my chest, pressing my fingers in to hold back a wave of emotion—surprise and anger, relief and pain, always a little pain. Max isn’t with the person he left me for anymore. Max is talking to me again, sorry for how he acted, hoping that we can leave here together…
The next wave floods the shoreline, and I’m wiped out. Max is only talking to me because he and Sarah broke up. He’s sorry because he doesn’t have anyone else. With him, I’m always plan B, and this surprise—the Max pain—picks up the sting of Arthur vanishing again, spits in its face, and takes its rightful place in my aching heart.
“And about that guideline thing Holmes mentioned, let me explain that super fast,” Max says. “The team wants you to stay in the same room as Sarah whenever we travel from now on, since she’s the marketing manager. They said it’s just to keep an eye on stuff. But it’ll be cool, right?”
Right. “Sure,” I say, because I just want to go.
“Cool,” Max says, visibly relieved. “I’ll show you where her room is. And hey, after the summer break, you only need to stay with her in Belgium, the Netherlands, and Italy. We’re almost done. Then the next generation of Black & Graywood can really kick off.”
Once I’m sitting on one of the queen-sized beds in my new, cold, silent room, I realize that Max hadn’t told me why he and Sarah broke up, a question that now seems invaluable and all-important with Sarah sitting cross-legged on the other queen-sized bed. She’s staring at her phone, headphones in, which is all she’s done for the last half hour since I key-carded myself in. Once, when I padded to the closet to hang my charging cables up, it had almost seemed like she might say… something.
It’s been fifteen minutes since then, and that chance is long gone.
My heart beats in my wrists as I struggle with my new suitcase’s zipper. She’s mad. Clearly. But I don’t know if this is the anger of a woman who’s been dumped or the resigned chill of the dumper. I don’t know if—or, more likely, how —Max dragged me into it, since they walked into the club together last night. Which is when I should’ve gone over to them. Next time Arthur gives me interpersonal relationship advice, I’m turning the David Bowie karaoke all the way up.
I stow my suitcase under the bed and sit again. Our flight back to Texas is early tomorrow morning. Maybe—and this is wishful thinking—Sarah is exhausted from the drama and just isn’t up for late-night chats.
She pops out one headphone, rolling it into her palm, and my heartbeat stops.
“Look. I’m only going to say this once.” Contrary to her words, Sarah isn’t looking at me. Instead, she’s staring at the turned-off television mounted by the desk. “I liked you. I know you’re shy, and Max—screw him. But I’m a girls’ girl, Lilah. I would’ve told me, if I were you.”
Seconds tick by as her words click together. This isn’t about Max. She’s angry because of me. I messed up.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my throat already scratchy. “I know. I wanted to. It’s just…” Just what ? I didn’t know if she’d believe me? I wanted Max to grow up and own his misdeeds? I was busy losing myself in a fake situationship with a Formula 1 driver, and telling her that she was the other woman could’ve gotten in the way of my sexy, secret documentary about him? A documentary that will bite Sarah in the ass, too, since she’s the marketing manager. She’s the Ignition employee who’s been in contact with Max from the start. She probably got reamed today for not keeping me in line.
If Arthur and I pull off our plan, Sarah will have to deal with the brutal professional ramifications of letting a scandal explode under her watch. Then throw in the team principal firing a driver, losing millions in revenue, and fucking up plans for a new U.S. circuit?
I’m not just ruining Max and Ignition’s movie. I’m ruining Sarah.
“I’m just sorry,” I whisper.
Her chin wobbles as she shakes her head. She tries to talk, then can’t, and grabs her other headphone from her ear. “I’m sorry, too,” she says, quieter, more heartbroken than before. “I don’t want to be angry at you. I know he hurt you, too.”
“You can be mad at me. I can take it.”
That makes her laugh, then choke slightly, and she grabs her duvet cover and presses it into her face. “Screw him,” she yells into the blanket, the sound mostly muffled.
I wait, and seconds later she has the blanket back on her lap, twin black eyeliner smudges on the white cotton. “I never even liked him that much,” she says in a rush. “But I thought it was safe because he was, like, not a Formula 1 asshole, but surprise, he was just an aspiring Formula 1 asshole, and why is that way worse? I can’t even—Lilah, I can’t even tell you how many guys here have treated me like this. And it’s already so freaking hard to be a woman in motorsports, and my grandfather keeps setting me up with guys who literally want me to quit my job to be their trophy wife and I… I wanted to be happy, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She goes quiet again, staring down at her hands. At one point, seeing Sarah go through the same Max-induced heartbreak that I had would’ve been a toxic fantasy of mine. Like maybe if someone else shared the unique, twisted pain of getting destroyed by a “nice guy,” I’d be able to fully let it go.
Reality is a different story. There’s nothing emotionally satisfying about how tears swim in the corners of her eyes. This misery doesn’t like company at all.
“When did he tell you?”
“Not until yesterday, I swear. I hate cheaters. That was one of the first conversations we had. He told me that we could never meet until he moved to Texas because he had a crazy roommate who…” Sarah claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m going to kill him. You’re going to see me on the news.”
“He isn’t worth it. You’re too pretty for serious jail time.”
A sad laugh bubbles up inside her again, then she groans. “I really, really wanted to be your friend.”
Two months ago, I wouldn’t have known how to react to that. The older version of me probably wouldn’t have believed her. But this me, who’s seen how Max has been able to mess with my head?
When Sarah’s eyes lift to mine, I see her nervousness, that she’s scared of what I think of her, desperate to fix what she didn’t break. She’s another girl trying her best after getting duped, and I want to be her friend, too. It can be that playground simple if I let it be.
“Who said we can’t be friends?” I say, frowning. “Whoever he is sucks.”
Slowly, she turns toward me more. “I… yeah. He does.”
“We probably should be friends, just to really stick it to him.”
“We should?” she says tentatively.
“Definitely. I can’t think of anything cooler.”
“I can, but it’s probably a felony.”
This is the second serious revenge joke Sarah’s made, and that must be why the thought crosses my mind that I could tell her about Arthur and me. Our scheme, that is. Bringing her on board would ensure that whatever we do doesn’t hurt her. And selfishly, the idea of doing this with another one of Max’s ex-girlfriends is the coolest thing I can think of.
Sighing, I grab my phone and send off a text. “Who was that to?” Sarah asks, noting the new air of annoyance suffocating the room.
“Just a guy,” I say, and decide that’s enough. That will be the last lie I tell her.
A minute later, my phone lights up, Arthur’s reply to my We need to talk text glowing gray:
Rooftop, 5 a.m.?