Epilogue One Year Later
Epilogue One year later
Three seconds. Four. Five.
I watch the five red lights, refusing to blink.
They go black. The cars kick forward.
I lean forward in my chair, too, brace my elbows on my desk, and suck at the ginger candy Merlin gave me.
“Back in Monza!” Arthur sings over the radio. “How’s everyone feeling?”
“Focus, King,” Cameron orders. “This one’s yours to lose.”
Usually, the Cavalli garage is a finely tuned machine. There’s Cameron tuned in to the telemetry, ordering Arthur through the races. Merlin in the back, tracking his vitals. Sarah and Delaney, juggling his social media second by second. And me, Cavalli’s newest junior strategy analyst, doing what I do best: watching life through a screen.
Only here, I get to do it for my team.
But this race has us a bit stressed. It’s Arthur’s first Italian Grand Prix at Cavalli, and after my film about last summer catapulted him to bona fide racing legend, Leone has been nipping at our heels all weekend. Sadly, dear uncle Holmes isn’t here to see Arthur kick their asses. After getting charged by the FIA for conspiracy connected to Arthur’s accident—and getting suspended from Formula 1—the police began sniffing around. A wild month and some tax evasion evidence later, and F1’s famously careful driver-turned-team-principal is currently sitting in a white-collar prison somewhere. Which is nice and all, but giving our documentary the perfect, most poetic ending was icing on the cake.
Also, the millions of dollars as payout from Holmes’s estate, Ignition, and Leone. Money I’ve thoroughly enjoyed sending home to Kentucky.
“I saw that!” I hiss beneath my breath. We’re only on lap fifteen, and Jean-fucking-Baudelaire just pushed Arthur off the track. My fingers fly as I tap my rewind key—back, back, cars flowing in reverse, sun shining backward. There. “Arthur was ahead at the apex,” I tell Francesca, the senior analyst and my boss, who will go and tell her boss, who will tell his boss’s boss, all the way up to Cavalli’s team principal.
I watch the communication flow. People talking to people. Rules being monitored.
Pride swells in my chest as I swivel back to Arthur’s screen. He’s already gotten his position back. “Oh, we’re so calling Jean out online,” Sarah mutters at her phone, apparently watching the clip back for herself. “Should I share that clip of him from that Wusch afterparty? Is that evil?”
“Chill.” Delaney frowns. “We should wait to see what the stewards say.”
“Heck no, you heard Lilah. She never gets these wrong.”
“There was that time, in Monaco.”
“We were freaking robbed! They got Arthur’s and Rafael’s cars confused!”
While I’ve been waiting on my next film inspiration to strike, so I can take Miriam up on her offer for more Formula 1 movies, I’ve enjoyed this. Us. Using my eyes to keep Arthur—and our team—safe. Rolling up the sleeves of my number nine jacket and getting down into the camera work that keeps this sport going.
And when he wins, it feels extra good.
Today more than ever.
As Arthur pulls into the spot marked for the Italian Grand Prix winner, the garage pours into the pit lane to meet him and fans pour onto the track, a sea of Cavalli red, flags, streamers. An ambulance is parked next to the track, and the blue lights on top of it shine through the confetti, guiding me to the right fence. That was another string my film had pulled; after Arthur stepped forward and demanded better mental health support for drivers following traumatic accidents, there’s now additional, optional cooldown time following each race for the athletes to recover before they’re forced in front of fans, media, the world.
I see him in profile at first. The strong slant of his nose, his balaclava-tousled blond hair going every which way, his dimpled cheeks as Merlin frowns through taking his pulse. Above him, it’s yellow and clouds, gray birds turning into black shadows against the sky. Around him, it’s summer. It’s warm. The whole world cheering as the sky turns gold again, like it always does. Even when it feels like it’s going to be dark forever, the gold never goes away for long.
That’s it, I realize. That’s the magic of the golden hour. It reminds us that there’s one moment in all the seconds of the day that’s better than the ending, the in-between light that exists seemingly only for those bold enough to notice it. It’s audacious. Cocky. It dares us to be something besides another second ticking on the clock, spiraling toward the world’s end credits, waiting for the curtain to drop. It’s a moment that’s more than the sum of its parts, more beautiful for no reason at all.
And it always comes back.
My headset slips down my neck as I stick my hand through the gaps in the chain-link fence. “Arthur!” I yell, waving. This is our ritual: either he can wave me over to meet him by the ambulance, to relax with him and help him catch his breath. Or—
I’m not close enough to hear them over the roar of excited fans, but Arthur’s mouth moves as he pulls a startled-looking Merlin into a quick hug. And without the help of a zoom lens, I can’t really see his eyes as he spots my tiny, frantically waving hand. But Arthur points at me. He waves back just as wildly, then motions to the pit lane.
I turn and run.
There are stairs and a dark hall, people and photographers, and then the door swings open and the light spills in and I’m out in the pit lane with our team, our world, my husband. Arthur tosses his helmet right before I jump into his arms, and I want to kiss him. He’s messy and sweaty and I want to kiss him. So I do, and then he’s sweeping me off my feet, and I’m screaming with delight, and there’s the click-click-click-click-click of cameras and our friends calling for us and him, him, him.
“Hey, Graywood,” Arthur says. “Good race? Did your team win?”
“Obviously,” I reply, out of breath. “Did yours , Graywood?”
He laughs, all wind chime, all mine. “Obviously.”