“Why do you keep doing this? You don’t need to race.”
“I don’t quit,” Arthur says, cracking a smile. “I’ll either die in a car or they’ll kick me out of Formula 1.”
I get it then. When we first met, Arthur hadn’t just wanted me around because I could help him. He saw me about to quit on myself, and he couldn’t stand it.
This is him, dying on his feet.
“But the person who hit you, are they still out there? Do you still have to compete against them?” I hesitate, needing to know. “Was it Jean?”
Arthur’s eyebrows knit together, and he gives me a look that’s too long. “You’ve never seen my uncle race.”
“That isn’t—”
“Holmes Bianco only drives carefully,” he says, reciting an equation he’s memorized. “He was the pragmatic king of Formula 1. He retired a few years after I started.”
“You… competed against him?”
My pulse quickens as Arthur’s mouth pulls in. “He won therace I crashed. It was nice for him, I’m sure. Teaching me one more lesson. You’re… supposed to let someone pass if they’re faster than you. When he did, he bumped me off the road. Tires blew. Something was wrong with the halo that was supposed to keep my head on. Funny.” He lifts one forefinger and lets it fall on his knee. “He says I’ve never gotten it back on straight since.”
His—uncle. Hisunclewas the one who caused Arthur’s accident? Ruler of the family fortune. Arthur’s team principal.
Commissioner of the documentary.
“How?” I clench the blanket on my lap. “How can he get away with this? Is it legal? How—how can you work with him?”
“It’s only illegal if I have proof he did it on purpose. Otherwise? It’s just another crash. And he became team principal after I’d signed the Ignition contract.” Arthur says this like it’s a fact of life, and maybe it is; men in positions of power continue to reposition for power. “This is how I know they’ll cover us up, Graywood. He’s been covering my hospital stay for years. Called you in to help him, even. Set his narrative in stone and line his pockets doing it.”
Holmes is the reason I’m here. He’s the reason why Arthur has had to jump through hoops to get out of his manipulative contract. Moments loop back in my memory like rewinding footage: Arthur saying he doesn’t want to do the documentary, Arthur finding my scar, Arthur disappearing after David Bowie Night. Every time he’s vanished. His secret, angry smiles. He’s been hiding this pain in plain sight, and I’d missed it. Me. The bloodhound.
And then there’s the images I’ve kept spooled and hidden in the 35-millimeter film can of my mind: Arthur in that Texas dive bar with a half smile and an untouched beer, telling me to stay, the first person who ever has. Arthur at the airport, saying that I don’t have to put up this much of a fight when people want to help me,because he knew what it was like to hide from the world. He’s been here since day one, helping me, and I’ve been too wrapped up in my own life to see it. And now I do.
I see all of him.
Struggling to swallow, I look down at my fingers. They’re shaking. “Thank you for telling me. Do you… want to lie down?”
I don’t know why I say it. The question comes out of nowhere. My face goes warm, and I really hope he thinks it’s a cold symptom. Flushed cheeks, could be a fever. “Just, if you’re driving later. This bed is really wide, and that chair looks uncomfortable. And you’re here, visiting me when you don’t have to, so you should be—”
“Yes,” Arthur says. “I want to.”
Trying my best to look calm and collected, I scoot to the right side of the thin bed, stopping when I feel the sheets scraping my bare ankles. Maybe I should give him a warning about that. Scraping. Hospital smells. Semi-sick person. This has to be triggering, a weird flashback to—
The bed sinks to the left as he sits, right on top of the covers. “Do you mind if I do this?” he says, positioning his arm on top of the stack of pillows, somewhere by my neck but not touching my neck. But close, he’s close, and we’ve objectively done more, danced in public and slept on a plane, skin-to-skin contact to keep people guessing, butthisis what’s painful. This is when I wish we were touching because I want to holdhim, tell him that I know it’s hard, I know he’s a good person. He can’t hide it from me anymore.
“Go for it,” I say.
He shifts again and our legs brush, separated by the blankets. “Sorry.”
“No, get comfy. If you get sick, it needs to be worth it.”
He laughs quietly.
I don’t know what to say back, so I shift against the pillows,cross my legs, and pretend to watch TV. For once, Arthur doesn’t work overtime to fill the silence. After ten minutes, he gets out his phone, types out anInfinite Jest–length something to someone, then starts to thumb down the screen, scrolling whatever social media website or cat memes he likes. I wonder if there are secret apps just for the elite, like Reddit for the upper class. I’d heard about Raya.
I bite the inside of my cheek and ask, “What are you looking at?”
“Just reading.”
“Reading?”
