She got her happy ending.
The way only a mother can.
“Sarah?” I say, then swallow to keep my voice intact. “I need to tell you something about Arthur and me.”
August
Chapter EighteenUnited 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 issocrazy,” 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 onlinerumors. 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, starvedby 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—notlooking 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 pipethirty, flirty, and thrivingon 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.
