Chapter 9 #2
“It’s true!” she says cheerfully as we get in the car. “If I could teleport everywhere, I absolutely would. Lucky for you though, I love being a passenger. So congratulations, you’re now officially my chauffeur.”
“Happy to be of service, ma’am,” I say, adjusting the seat and mirrors while she buckles in.
“Just drive, Jeeves,” she says with a grin, and I’m laughing as I start the car.
As I navigate through the winding roads that lead away from the track, Lark fiddles with the radio dial until she finds a station playing something indie-folk that I don’t recognize. She hums along quietly, seeming perfectly content and completely relaxed.
“So that’s really what you do,” she says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “Day in and day out.”
“More or less,” I say. “Though Formula One is a whole different level. Way faster, more intense, more technically complex. But this part of the job is fun too. Testing, giving feedback, problem-solving.”
“I can’t even imagine. What a cool job.”
I glance over at her, feeling oddly pleased that she enjoyed it.
I’d been showing off for her all morning like I couldn’t help myself, wanting her to be impressed, wanting to steal all her attention and keep it.
Which is dangerous, a voice in the back of my head warns.
This is how people get confused, how fake becomes real, how someone gets hurt.
We pull into the restaurant parking lot and I push those thoughts aside.
The restaurant is one of those elevated gastropubs Seattle does so well, and we slide into a booth near the back. The waitress brings menus and water with a friendly smile.
“Ooooh, they have mac and cheese with Beecher’s cheese!” Lark’s eyes widen as she scans the menu. “That’s my weakness.”
“Get it,” I tell her. “Their burger’s incredible too, I’m getting that.”
“Done,” she says, closing her menu. “And I’m stealing bites.”
We order, and after the waitress leaves, Lark starts playing with her straw wrapper, folding it into smaller squares. “Can I ask you something?” she says, looking up at me.
“Shoot,” I say, leaning back.
“How did you really get into racing?” She looks up. “I mean, you’ve told me the basic story about going to a track once and falling in love and all that stuff with Robert sponsoring you. But I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to hear more.”
I consider deflecting with the usual polished lines I give reporters and sponsors. But something about Lark makes me want to give her the real answer. Maybe it’s because she’s shared her own shit with Brandon, her own struggles. Or maybe it’s just her.
“I was a pretty angry kid,” I start, staring at my water glass.
“Had serious issues. My brothers were all adopted younger, but I was six when I arrived at the Midnights and just furious at the world. Not at them specifically, though I took it out on them plenty. My birth family was…” I trail off.
“They weren’t good people. Drugs, neglect, some physical abuse. The state finally stepped in.”
She nods, her expression softening, but not with pity.
“So even with my adoptive parents being incredibly patient—my mom Susan especially tried so hard with me—I was a terror.” My throat tightens thinking about her.
She never gave up on me, even when I gave her every reason to.
“When I saw that first karting race, I fell in love immediately. Then behind the wheel, it was like something I could finally control. When everything felt chaotic, in a car it’s just me and the machine. ”
Lark nods. “Having that one space where you’re completely in charge. Where skill matters, not your history.”
“Exactly. Plus it gave me somewhere productive for all that energy. Kept me from worse trouble. My parents were saints to put up with me.” I take a drink. “The racing became where I put all of it. The anger, the fear, the need to prove I was worth keeping.”
Our food arrives, her mac and cheese bubbling golden, my burger looking perfect.
I watch her take a bite of the mac and cheese, closing her eyes briefly in pure appreciation. “So since we’re opening up here,” I say, “how did you actually get into music? Anything beyond the loved-theater-when-you-were-in-school story?”
She sets down her fork, considering her answer. “My mom taught piano and guitar when I was little. She taught lessons out of our house for years. I was a lonely kid, so music and songwriting just always felt so safe and like my way to connect with people.”
“You’re definitely good at connecting,” I say. “I’ve been listening to your stuff pretty much non-stop this week.”
She rolls her eyes. “Flatterer.”
“No,” I insist, leaning forward. “Listen, Lark, and hear me. Really hear me. You’re the real deal. This fake dating thing is helping you get followers, sure, but you would have made it without me. You’ve got that special thing—talent, magnetism, honesty, and ability. You’re the whole package.”
She looks down at her food. “Thanks. That means a lot. Most people think it’s better as a hobby, apart from Maren and Calvin. They’re my cheerleaders.”
“I had plenty of people telling me racing was a pipe dream,” I say. “Even after Robert started sponsoring me, coaches said hardly anyone makes it to Formula One. That I should focus on NASCAR or IndyCar instead.”
“What did you do?” she asks, taking a bite of her mac and cheese.
“Used it as fuel. Every time someone said I couldn’t do it, I trained harder. Though it helps when you have someone like Robert who believes in you and writes checks to prove it.” I take a bite of my burger.
“Yeah,” she says, “money always seems to be the deciding factor.” She pushes her mac and cheese around the plate. “Maybe this Tidal thing will work out. Though my mom’s still asking when I’m getting a job with benefits. They’re good people. Supportive. They just don’t think music is realistic.”
“My parents had similar concerns. They always wanted to make sure I had a backup plan,” I say. “Do you talk to yours much?”
“Yeah, they’re in Southern California now. They’re from there originally and moved back to help with my mom’s parents.” She twirls her fork in the mac and cheese. “We FaceTime every Sunday.”
“That’s nice, to stay close like that.”
“They’re great, just practical. They worked hard for stability, so me chasing music at twenty-six doesn’t compute.” She smiles. “Mom cried when I told her about the label interest. Happy tears mixed with relief that maybe it’s not just an expensive hobby.”
“Makes sense they’d want security for you,” I say, dragging another fry through ketchup.
“Yah, I understand it. Especially since my mom’s parents came here from Mexico with nothing. Built everything from scratch. So the idea that I’m choosing uncertainty when I could have a steady job?” She shakes her head.
I watch her for a moment, the afternoon light catching her hair. “Can I ask you something?”
“Seems fair since you’ve been pretty open. Go for it.”
“What happened with performing?” I ask. “You said you loved it as a kid, then it all changed?”
She shrugs. “Before Brandon, I loved it. I still had pretty bad nerves, but I could push through. And when we first got together, he acted kinda supportive.”
“What changed?”
“Started with subtle comments. How I was being ‘unrealistic,’ needed to ‘think about the future.’ Then it escalated. My voice was too shaky. My lyrics too personal. My stage presence was awkward.”
I clench a fist under the table. How the fuck did Brandon even get Lark? She’s so far out of his league it’s laughable. And then he spent their entire marriage making her feel small? “Sounds like he was deliberately trying to tear you down.”
“Exactly,” she says, meeting my eyes. “And the worst part is, it worked. I started second-guessing everything about myself. By the end of our marriage, I’d almost stopped playing music altogether. Just worked at the bar and came home.”
“What a complete asshole,” I say, not bothering to hide my anger.
She takes a sip of water. “The night I finally decided to leave, we had this massive fight because I’d told him I wanted to record some of my songs professionally. Nothing fancy, just book time at a small studio in Seattle.”
“What happened?” I ask, though I have a sinking feeling I know.
“He laughed. Said, ‘Lark, be serious. You’re a bartender who likes to sing. Let’s not pretend it’s more than that.’” The hurt’s still raw in her voice. “Something broke inside me. I realized I’d spent years with someone who fundamentally didn’t believe in me.”
“I’m glad you left him,” I say, resisting the strong urge to reach across the table and take her hand. No cameras here though, it wouldn’t be appropriate for our arrangement. “He was dead fucking wrong, about all of it.”
“I hope so,” she says. “But even now, almost two years later, I still hear his voice sometimes when I’m about to perform. I still feel myself freezing up. I’m mad at myself for letting him get to me still, for letting him have that power over me.”
“Emotional shit sticks around,” I say. “It just means you’re human and he was an effective manipulator.”
“I guess,” she says, picking up her fork again.
“The fake dating thing is helping though, weirdly enough. Seeing my follower count go up, getting that excited email from the label… it’s like proof that he was wrong.
Though I guess we’ll really find out at the open mic in a few days. ” She fiddles with her fork.
This time I can’t fight the impulse and I do reach across and take her hand. She looks up in surprise. “You’re going to do great. I mean it. You have real talent, Lark. And if it doesn’t go exactly how you want, I’ll personally kick anyone’s ass who makes you feel like shit about it.”
She smiles, studying me for a long moment. “You know, you’re not what I expected, Jack.”
“Is that good or bad?” I ask.
“Still deciding,” she says with a teasing smile. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
The conversation switches to lighter topics, with her eventually quizzing me on which wild online stories about me were real versus completely fabricated.
“Okay,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The Monaco afterparty incident with the champagne fountain? The one where you supposedly rode a motorcycle through the hotel lobby at three AM?”
“It was a Vespa, not a motorcycle,” I say with a grin. “But the champagne fountain? Unfortunately true. Though the damage wasn’t nearly as expensive as reported. And I did pay for absolutely everything.”
“I knew it!” She points her fork at me triumphantly. “What about the fistfight with that Ferrari driver? The Italian one with the perfect hair?”
“Marcelli? Completely false.” I take a sip of water. “We argued loudly after he cut me off in qualifying, but no actual punches were thrown. The media loves a good rivalry though. Makes for way better headlines and clicks.”
“Disappointing,” she says. “Okay, what about the thing with the married Swedish model and the yacht? The tabloids were all over that one for weeks.”
I shake my head emphatically. “Completely fabricated from start to finish. I’ve never even been to Sweden. Never met the woman in my entire life. I think they just photoshopped two separate pictures together and hoped no one would check.”
“Really? Honest?” she says, wiping away a tear from laughing. “But the pictures looked so convincing!”
I place my hand over my heart solemnly. “I swear on my Formula One car, and that’s how serious I am about this. It was such a ridiculous rumor. I was in the UK for a race that weekend, then flew straight to Barcelona for testing. My alibi was broadcast on international television with timestamps.”
Lark is still laughing. “The stuff they make up about you is absolutely wild. Being your fake girlfriend is very educational,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m learning so much about the jet-setting lifestyle.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to include you in my next fabricated scandal,” I promise. “Maybe we can stage a dramatic public argument in the middle of Pike Place Market for maximum attention.”
“Ooh, I could throw a fish at you,” she suggests eagerly, her eyes lighting up. “That would definitely make TMZ.”
“See? You’re a complete natural at this fame thing already.”
After lunch I drive us back to the track, though every part of me wants to keep this day going, to stay in this bubble we’ve created. The parking area is mostly empty now, just a few crew members loading the last of the equipment into trucks.
My motorcycle sits waiting in the late afternoon sun, exactly where I left it. I pull up next to it and we both get out. I pass her keys back and she takes them, leaning against her Honda. Neither of us seems ready to end this. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“Thanks for coming today,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “The Instagram stuff obviously, but also just… being there.”
“Thanks for the terrifying ride,” she says with that smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “And lunch. I had a really good time, Jack.”
“Thanks for listening,” I say, hoping she understands I mean the real stuff, the family history and vulnerability I rarely share with anyone.
She gets in her car and rolls the window down. “I’ll text you details about the open mic?”
“I’ll be there,” I promise without hesitation. “Front row. Cheering embarrassingly loud.”
“Good,” she says, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. “I’ll need a friendly face in the crowd.”
She starts the car, gives me one last smile, and drives away.
Then I’m alone in the empty lot with my bike and this feeling I don’t know what to do with. My dates with Lark are feeling less fake each time, and it’s getting harder to convince myself that I’m not falling for her.
Then again, Lark deserves better than me. Someone stable, someone who stays in one place, someone whose relationship history isn’t three weeks of fun before moving on to the next thing.
I watch until her Honda disappears around the corner, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?