He makes another big show of leaning over, scanning the long passport check line in front of us, and settling back next to me. “You should’ve let me buy your radioactive coffee, then.” He frowns. “Since you’re on your last dollars and all that.”
“I think if we’re going for the whole ‘you’re so into me that you’re forgoing flying on your family’s private jet to travel with me, a peasant’ thing, only buying me coffee is vaguely insulting.”
“The whole coffee shop?”
I squint at him. “What would I do with an airport coffee shop?”
“It’s important for WAGs to have hobbies,” he says, already ducking away from an arm smack that isn’t coming.
“Do I want to know what that means?”
“Wives and girlfriends.”
I groan. “So, literally reducing someone to their relationship to a man.”
A corner of his mouth turns up. “A very important man?”
“Try again.”
The corner goes down. “Yes, you’re right and I’m wrong.”
“Very good. Gold star.”
It’s been forty-eight hours since Arthur won first place in England, and the black espresso he’s clinging to says that the post-race debriefs and interviews and closed-door meetings are wearing him down more than his constant camera smile portrays. Earlier in the airport, I had to hold his bag while a crowd of teen boys holding back tears took one hundred selfies with him. Arthur Bianco is back and better than ever, according to every sports publication I’m now subscribed to. Once we get to Monte Carlo, Arthur is booked for back-to-back luxury-watch photo shoots, then a two-hour cardiovascular workout session, then a meeting with his uncle and other Ignition “stakeholders.” Will we get to sleep before we’re sent to Hungary? Questionable.
Though Holmes has preemptively emailed Arthur that, thanks to his win at Silverstone, his contract is now worth a breezy $66 million. Just like the fine print had foretold.
Sadly for us, Arthur’s groundbreaking victory as a reserve driver and comeback kid swallowed up any conversations around our pre-race PDA. Which is why I’d had the brilliant idea to have Arthur fly withmethis time. What says subtle romantic interest louder than “willing to squeeze into a tin can with you”? And it’ll give us time to discuss how we’re going to go about doing this, too. I need clear, understandable rules for our “courtship” that we both consent to.
Boundaries, if you will.
I take a video with my phone of Arthur walking to meet the stewardess outside our plane. We’re flying with Ignition crew, and I need to look half documentarian, half secret fling. The worst combo.
“Your bags?” the air stewardess asks us, the last to board.
“Already checked,” Arthur says. “I only have a carry-on. Same with her.”
Cold air coats the inside of my throat as I look down. I had a suitcase earlier. I now… don’t have it. And I can’t remember thelast place I saw it. Did I put it down when Arthur was taking selfies? That was miles of airport and a passport check away.
Frozen inside, I grab at my neck, feeling for the locket I wear every day. There’s just enough space in the heart-shaped charm to keep my daily ADHD meds; I restock it each morning for emergencies like this. It’s the only thing I’ve kept from my birth mom.
My pulse drums with relief when I feel the silver chain.
Okay. So I don’t have my clothes, toiletries, or books. That’s fine—I’ll be fine. I nod to Arthur, agreeing that it’s just me and my backpack, refusing to show any sign of panic on my face. As an adult, I’ve learned enough about how my brain works to stow my essentials on my body when I travel. I’m not a little ADHD kid handcuffed to symptoms I can’t name, trying to explain how I could possibly lose my favorite library book between all the houses I lived at.
At least I have my anxiety medication.
Don’t I?
Slowly, I shift my backpack around and search the front zipper. There’s my big orange tube of ADHD pills, some Dramamine, a toothbrush, and… Negative. I’m about to fake feelings for a Formula 1 driver on an airplane, sans Klonopin.
Numb from the face down, I follow Arthur onto the plane. Our first-row chairs are twin overstuffed recliners separated by iced champagne in the armrest, and he takes the window seat, then pats the chair next to him. “Your proletariat seating, mademoiselle.”
I don’t move.
“Lilah?” he says, sarcasm dropping. “I meant you.”
Right. Me. I sit and immediately go for an anti-nausea pill. I have the tiny plastic pack half open with the champagne bottle in hand when Arthur gingerly touches my wrist. “I’m not sure you can take those together,” he murmurs, easing the bottle from my icy grip. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
