Oh.
Arthur isn’t the first person to throw that statement at me with utter certainty:You’re in love with Max Black.Well before we tried dating, my best friend and I had been thrust together by every mutual acquaintance. He liked movies. I liked movies. He was kind of cerebral. I got stuck in my head for days. We made romantic sense, according to professors, fellow students, and congressional interns. Max even preferred audio, and I preferred visuals.
But had I been in love with him?
I’d loved dating Max. I’d loved the certainty about myself that I got from being with him. I felt like I knew who I was by way of how he saw me, like how you can only look at a solar eclipse after the light is twisted and thrown by a pinhole camera. My niche interests and burning dislikes, how much of my true self anyone else could tolerate. Having such an outspoken neurotypical partner who ticked everyone else’s boxes was my own camera obscura, a bellwether for how much of myself I could get away with showing the world.
“I…” I blink at my dusty sneakers. “Yeah. I loved Max a lot. I still love him.”
I don’t know why I say something that feels like a lie the moment it leaves my mouth. Other than a deep-rooted fear has kicked in and I want to hide as much of my personality as possible. Scramble, tuck my soft underbelly beneath the shell of compulsory best-friends-to-lovers heterosexuality, and sidestep Arthur’s bizarrelysharp observation skills. Because I should have been in love with Max. I should want to be with my best friend again.
Only I don’t. The realization hits right here, in front of this fancy restaurant. I was never in love with Max Black. I only loved working with him. Him breaking up with me would’ve been a welcome relief, if he just could’ve done it without destroying everything else.
A hundred light bulbs turn on.
No, literally. On the awning above us, the string lights awaken for the evening, warm gold light flooding Arthur and me. That’s my cue. Arthur’s good at bullshit, but I doubt even he could explain to the team why we’ve been talking out here, alone, for the last ten minutes.
“I’ll think about it.” I straighten up, my knees wobbly. “And about what you said?”
Nodding, Arthur rakes a hand through his hair, and I’m treated to the dark circles under his eyes, more apparent in the bright light. “Yeah?”
“I don’t…” Love Max. Love. Max. I have to say it. I’m not like Arthur and Max and the people in this luxurious motorsports wonderland. I’m someone who tells the truth, a documentarian, and if that changes, I don’t know who I am. “I don’t hate you. ‘Hate’ is a strong word.”
I couldn’t say it.
I watch, strangely numb, as Arthur shoots me another tired smile. “I’m disappointed.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Figured you felt the same way,” he says noncommittally, and that doesn’t sound like any version of him I’ve met so far.
Chapter Ten
As rain plummets down the Silverstone racetrack, transforming the regularly slick asphalt into a glossy ice-skating rink, I wonder if my anxiety has somehow affected the local weather.
I keep going back and forth with my options: save Arthur from a $60-million-and-counting bear trap, and trust that it won’t swing shut on me once he’s free. Stomach the inexcusable lying, the attention from Ignition staff who do witness our “fake courtship,” the inevitableahhwhen he fake-dumps me, because of course that’s how our story would go. Withstand months of worrying so I can create another award-winning documentary and keep Black & Graywood from becoming a sticker slapped on undisclosed sporting sponsorships.
Or shoot down Arthur’s unhinged idea and continue being the documentarian that I know I am, who would never, ever tell this many lies in order to make a truthful movie. Remain firmly outside the F1 terrarium. Don’t invite the wrath of a man named after Sherlock Holmes and his millions of dollars.
The clock ticks.
The rain keeps coming.
The garage fills with people. I have to decide. Do this for Arthur, and trust that the scandal won’t reach my industry circle. Or let him face the music on his own.
Help him. Stay alone.
Kick-start the strangest, fakest F1 rumor ever. Don’t trust a liar again.
Thanks to the rain, the only camerapeople allowed near the track are Formula 1’s own media team and the Ignition staff who work directly with the drivers and cars. I busy myself in the back of the garage with the rest of the Ignition media crew, and lo and behold, that includes Max. I feel his eyes as I mechanically run through my pre-filming routine, too immobilized by decision paralysis to deviate from the task at hand: water bottles, supply check, extra batteries. He and I used to share this ritual like it was sacred, and the irony of having to cautiously step around him to plug in my backup power supply isn’t lost on me.
After ten painfully awkward minutes, he unceremoniously clears his throat. “Hi, Lilah.”
That is… my name. Max is talking to me again? Glancing from my camera, I’m met with his folded arms, floppy hair, sad eyes. He’s in one of the orange Ignition polo shirts that look like they’re made out of plastic. “How are you doing?” he asks gently, eyebrows sympathetically arched, and oh, he must think I bolted from dinner last night because he spoke to me. Funny.
“I’m fine. Just kind of tired—my sleep schedule is wrecked. You?”
“Mine too. Melatonin every night.” He laughs. “This is crazy, huh? We’re about to film a real race.”
