Chapter Eighteen United States
Chapter Eighteen United States
Arthur invites the four of us—Sarah, Delaney, Cameron, and me—over to his two-story house near Austin to discuss our game plan. His house is huge, up a long driveway lined with towering oak trees, the Southern farmhouse aesthetic melting into Mediterranean blues and Zellige tile once you get inside. It’s clean. His throw blankets are folded. The chef’s fridge blends in with his kitchen cabinets. He has a private security guard. The experience is startling.
“Really, the setup is simple,” Arthur says. We’re in one of his three living rooms, a thought I don’t focus on. “I have an offer from Leone Racing, where I would like to go next season. But in order to secure the transition, I needed to get out of Max’s movie. And to break my contract, Lilah and I thought to play up our relationship, so that Holmes fires me.”
Sarah, having already learned all of this our last morning in Budapest, delivers an outstanding acting performance of amazed and supportive friend/coworker. “Wow, you guys are pretending to be into each other, that is so crazy,” she exclaims, flinging her hands out for good measure and almost knocking over the potted olive tree by the couch. “Okay, sorry, Lilah already told me, and I already convinced Ignition not to run any stories about the online rumors. But I’m in. I’m tired of letting men like Max and Holmes get away with this crap.”
Delaney is less sold, predictably. “Sarah, are you kidding? This is a death wish. We could all be fired.”
Sarah pouts. “Then we’ll go to Leone with Arthur. If he—if you—want us?”
She looks at Arthur tentatively, and his smile at her is dazzling. “I’d love that. I was going to ask, but, well, was trying to keep this all under wraps.”
“On that note,” I jump in. “Sarah forwarded me the Black & Graywood contract. It was reviewed by the whole legal team. Everyone signed off on this film—and me—so Sarah won’t take the fall as long as we stay careful until Bob’s wedding.”
“Unlikely,” Delaney whispers.
“I dunno,” Cameron says, somewhere between Sarah’s torch-carrying enthusiasm and Delaney’s thoughtful carefulness. “It’s not a bad idea. Arthur is the only one with a morality clause. Holmes will want to smite him, and then he gets a real seat on a good team.”
Arthur leans forward, looking at Delaney. “Is this about Leone?”
Silently, Delaney purses her lips. “You shouldn’t go back there.”
“I want to.”
“Don’t you want to see if any other offers come through?”
Arthur takes a breath. “No.”
“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”
With a half smile, Arthur drums his fingers on his marble-topped side table and says, “Nope.”
Delaney’s eyes slide to me.
I smile, too.
Mentally speaking, I’m doing really well. According to Sarah, the online chatter about Arthur and me has simmered out, starved by a lack of confirmable gossip. I don’t look at it myself. Nor do I look at my birth mom’s candle website, a sentence that hasn’t gotten less ridiculous in the days I’ve had to sit with this development.
This is new for me— not looking at things that hurt—and I promise myself I’ll read everything before the summer break ends. The comments, her website. I’ll face reality.
Only the last drops of July drip by with dinners, bonfires, swimming. Arthur is an enthusiastic fan of summer and having time off work, and then it’s his birthday and I can’t say no to cake. I bake him my favorite dairy-free berry cake, with the only good vegan frosting recipe I’ve found online, and pipe thirty, flirty, and thriving on the top next to a squiggly Leo symbol. When I bring it over, he grins, and I ignore that distant ache, too. The Arthur-induced kick I’m learning to ignore every passing day.
“Thriving! Is that a movie reference?” he says after reading the cake.
“One you should know.”
I’m wheeling my camera bag into my Glory Run apartment when I hear a quick thump behind me, the sound of a door swinging open without a worry about who might be in front of it. “Gardener,” the voice says, and I turn to find my down-the-hall neighbor, Lucia. “Where have you been?”
“Uh, Europe.” I steady my bag so it doesn’t topple over and wipe my hands along the sides of my legs. I feel exposed, like she caught me sneaking back into my bedroom at three a.m.
Lucia’s warm brown eyes sparkle with her knowing smile. “I see.”
“For work.”
“Sure.”
Giving up, I say, “I’m sorry if you tried to get my help—I don’t even think I told you I was leaving, did I? Is there anything you need? I’m here for a few more days before I head out again.” To Belgium. I don’t tell her this.
She ponders my question anyway, tapping at her chin with a tiny wrinkled finger. “You could tell me all about your European adventures.”
Normally, my relationship with an apartment neighbor wouldn’t extend beyond reciprocating chores or running errands I could leave outside their door. However, talking to someone who doesn’t work with me—or would know who Arthur is—does sound nice. Sucking in a breath, I nod to my door. Lucia lets out a gleeful laugh before following me inside, and I feel myself smiling as the door shuts.
Maybe Arthur and his inability to turn down a good time has rubbed off on me more than I realized.
Lucia walks straight to the cabinets above my oven, hops on my step stool, and begins to rifle through the wicker baskets of tea. “I keep mine in the same place,” she says once she’s found two bags of Earl Grey. “Kettle.”
It isn’t a question. I run my polka-dot water kettle under the faucet as Lucia frowns her way through my meager collection of vegan honey substitutes. Once she politely refuses my shelf-stable almond milk, I ask, “Why tea?”
Lucia gives me a puzzled glance. “You’re getting sick.”
“I feel fine.”
She inspects me. “Either you’re sick or you’re in love.”
“Pass the tea,” I say stubbornly.
After I’ve gotten through my second cup of Earl Grey, I’ve told her about everything that’s transpired between Arthur and me, in layman’s terms: He’s like a coworker but more taboo, we’re in the process of convincing the world that we’re madly infatuated so that I can do an art project and he can get a different job, and now I’ve accidentally developed real feelings for him. Something about Lucia’s amused smile makes spilling my secrets too easy.
“But I can’t actually date him,” I say.
She gives me that impatient look only a grandmother can. The “speed it up, I don’t have all day” twinkle. “Why?”
“He’s only using me to get what he wants. It’s fake for him.”
“Which is why he set up a breakfast for you on a roof.”
“He is extravagant.”
“Coffee and pastries are quite simple.”
“But,” I press on, “the fact of the matter is, I’m only going to be around him until September. There isn’t a future where this works, if he did like me, which he doesn’t. Because if he liked me, he would be pursuing me. That’s his style. You have no idea how driven he is.”
“And him telling you all the ways it could work between you two was…?”
“Him joking around.” I sigh. “That’s what he does. And I’m very serious. To a fault, probably. I want a family. I want stability. I want to…” I trail off with a painful flutter. “I don’t want to rely on anyone like I did with my ex. And if I can ignore my feelings, then I can make this film and start a career on my own.”
Lucia holds out her hand expectantly. “Show me your conversations with him.”
I relinquish my personal phone. She hoists it inches from her face to read the tiny text, then shoots me a judging eye. “So this ‘co-worker’ messaged you that he’s been eating the birthday cake you made him as his ‘guilty pleasure treat’ and you replied, ‘Thanks’?”
“What else could I say!” I sink my face into my hands. “Fuck. I’m so bad at this.”
“You are, dear.”
“I’m better off alone.”
I try to grab my phone back from her, but she’s surprisingly fast. “And why would you ever think that?” she says.
Her question stops me cold in my tracks. I wrap my fingers back around my teacup, nerves contorting, pinching, and slowly pull the truth into the light. “My last relationship messed me up. Which is… an understatement, probably? But that time, it had felt natural to start kissing this person I’d known forever. Like, maybe we were true love like everyone told us we were. And if I can screw something like that up, the easy thing, I can definitely screw up a much more complicated thing.”
My throat tightens. I’m not only talking about Arthur. Like Cameron said way back when, life is complicated, but F1 is worse. I’ve been on the road with the team for weeks and still can’t wrap my head around half of the rules. Like, what the hell is an apex? Then add in Team Arthur, these kind and funny people I might want to keep…
“I’m someone that people leave,” I say softly. “Having him and losing him would wreck me. So why not embrace being by myself? I can’t lose this guy and his world if I never really have it.”
Lucia gives me an understanding look. “You know what your problem is?”
“What?” I say, absolutely curious.
“You said you were making a documentary about this co-worker of yours.”
“Yeah?”
A grin splits Lucia’s soft face, like I’ve fallen into her trap. “You’re not. You’re trying to film your own story.”
“No,” I say slowly. “I’ve been filming Arthur.”
Lucia shakes her head. “I used to be an anthropologist.”
Now I’m really confused, but I wait for her to go on. Which she does. “A friend of mine once told me that she’d read about this great anthropologist who, when asked about the earliest sign of civilization, replied with a story about finding a healed femur bone. See, a wounded animal doesn’t survive in the wild. So, because there was this discovery, this healed bone, we knew that at least one other ancient person had helped that person live. That, to this great anthropologist, was the beginning of humanity. Helping someone heal.
“But here’s my point,” Lucia continues. “I also read that story wasn’t true. Completely made up. And who knows? I wasn’t there to experience it.” She shrugs. “I think that’s your issue. Each story has two sides, and the story we choose to tell says a lot more about us than it does a broken bone.”
Slowly, her words sink into me, past the startled goose bumps ghosting my skin. “I get why you’d think that,” I say, my mouth dry. “But it’s my job to tell the truth, and there’s only one truth. That’s how truth works.”
“Will you be in Arthur’s movie, then?” she asks. “Since you were in his summer.”
That is… a question I haven’t considered. “No.” I laugh nervously. “I mean, maybe a bit, like ‘Maysles Brother in the reflection of a mirror’ bit. But no. I’m…” Unimportant. Forgettable. An outsider. “Not a part of the plot.”
Silently, Lucia takes in my answer, then she reaches over and pats my hand. Her skin is soft as velvet and warm as a hug. “I have an idea.”
“I don’t know if I can handle any more ideas.”
“Just hear me out.” She chuckles. “You said you have an extra camera. Why don’t you give it to Arthur? Let him film you back.”
“But—”
She holds up her hand, silencing me. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker. Maybe he doesn’t like you. Okay, you’ll live. But you need to see yourself through someone else’s eyes.”
“So I can see that I’m not that bad?”
Lucia gives me that look again, like whatever she’s going to say is extremely obvious, but she enjoys saying it regardless. “Maybe. Maybe not. Isn’t that the point?” She winks. “And next time you talk to someone about this, dear, don’t mention that it’s Arthur Bianco. I’ve been following that boy’s career for the last ten years.”