Chapter One: United States Chapter One United States
Stories sell. People think of directors and screenwriters as the ultimate storytellers—human gods shaping real life into fables. But really it’s me, the camera. A documentary is where metalworkers become heroes and empty store shelves become plot. Veterans in vacant fields, tiny pageant queens, real life made better. Documentarians can’t promise our subject matter will stay neat and pretty after the credits roll; after all, happily ever after doesn’t exist in real life.

But for a moment there, at the end of a documentary? My movies can trick you into thinking that the world makes sense.

And that’s a story people want to buy.

“Hey, it’s me again. I managed to find a cab, so now I’m standing out front of this… building.” I blow a strand of hair from my face and squint at the intimidatingly large locked gate. “Can you text me the code to get in? I can’t find it in the email.”

I end the voicemail to my boyfriend, Max Black. Then I wait. And wait. He must be busy—like me, he can get distracted—so I swallow my pride and press the call button to the front office. “Lilah Graywood from Black & Graywood here,” I tell the intercom. “Do you mind letting me in the front door? It’s a little hot outside.”

The intercom crackles ominously. Then a voice slithers out. “The schedule says you should’ve signed in at eight a.m. with your business partner?”

“Sorry. My flight was delayed.” And my business partner refused to skip the morning meeting to pick me up from the airport after I moved from Washington, D.C. to Glory Run, Texas for him. And all the rideshares were booked until tomorrow morning, making me spend cash I didn’t have on a cab I didn’t want to take. And—you get the gist. Bad day, busy boyfriend, new job.

The door buzzes as it unlocks. “The documentary crew is in the pool training room. Go down the water aerobics hallway, then left, then right, then right, then slightly straight before another left.”

“Sorry, that was left and then…?”

No reply.

I love my job. I love my life. I love this world I’ve built myself. I repeat my words of affirmation as I wander through the brightly lit hallways of Ignition Energy Drink Racing’s Formula 1 training facility. Yup. Formula 1. After graduating from film school, starting my own documentary company with my then-best-friend, now-boyfriend, and winning the Rising Documentary Director Award for our film about a congressman’s campaign-trail sex scandal—total luck, right place at the right time with the right questions—Max had decided we’re trading politics for motorsports.

Because, as he put it, Formula 1 is cool and it’ll make us fuck-you money.

Weirdly, I don’t feel cool as I navigate the glossy orange-and-white hallways, still in my wrinkled plane clothes and completely alone. I feel like my creative life partner has gone off the deep end. But it’s fine. This whole building smells like fluorescent light bulbs and citrus Clorox, and it wants to impress the same fear of God in me as an ancient gothic cathedral while looking like a Clockwork Orange set, and I may be contributing to the death of the ozone layer by even stepping foot in here, but it’s fine.

Max is still my best friend.

I can still talk him out of making this movie.

As I open a door blissfully labeled POOL in huge block letters, I sneak in a gulp of what I hope will be meditative, centering air. Instead, the sharp smell of chlorine kicks me in the teeth. And the sunshine. Suddenly I’m standing in a giant glass-topped room, with an Olympic-sized pool rippling in the center of it. I blink, disoriented. I’ve never been able to tell how much cash has been poured into a company from the size of a pool, but yeah, this isn’t the Kentucky public parks system.

This is a whole new world.

I spot a lanky, brown-haired man next to a petite blonde woman, and my heart somersaults with relief. I’d know Max anywhere. Even if every facet of this sports facility makes me uncanny-valley levels of uncomfortable, Max is here, so I’m okay. “Hey!” I say as loudly as I can emotionally muster.

Everyone turns to look at me. Max with his adorable surprise, the blonde with her high bouncing ponytail, and all the important-looking people in matching neon orange athleisure at the end of the pool, helping a tan man with golden hair stretch out his calves. Mission critical work, I’m sure.

My face heats all the way through from the attention. “Sorry,” I stage-whisper, scuttling over.

“Lilah, hey, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show.” Max’s dark eyes shift between me and the blonde.

“My plane was late, but I’m here now.” I hold out my hand, determined to prove to this new person that I am, in fact, a consummate professional documentarian and not only a woman who yells excitedly when she finds her boyfriend. Not that she would know that Max and I are dating. We keep our relationship on the down-low; people are likelier to invest in us if they aren’t worried we’re about to break up. His idea.

The woman takes my hand with a fluorescent smile. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. I’m Sarah, marketing manager here at Ignition and who Max has been emailing with since last… gosh, how long has it been now? December?” She looks at him with an equally cheery grin, almost conspiratorial, like they had to email their life stories back and forth to arrange for this production. “Our team principal, Holmes Bianco, adores your documentary about the congressman. The one who cheated on his wife? He couldn’t stop raving about how great you made him look!”

Naturally. The big boss man of a sports team would enjoy an accidental image scrub. “I, um, didn’t realize people would be that sympathetic toward him after watching it.”

“You made him human. You have a gift. If you ever want to get away from this guy and into marketing”—Sarah winks—“we’d love having you as a videographer.”

I force a smile. She’s being nice. She doesn’t know that to me, filming expensive race cars and the problematic men who drive them feels like a personal failing. “Hey, no poaching my camera girl,” Max laughs, and now my smile is real. It’s one of our inside jokes: He’s the heart of Black & Graywood, the handsome and funny people person, and I’m the head. Analytical and quiet, with an encyclopedic understanding of camera angles and cinema verité. We’re a package deal.

And after a childhood of bouncing around the foster system until my parents adopted me, I have to hand it to this whole not-being-alone thing.

Being part of a package? Way better than the alternative.

“So, as you may know already, Lilah, this documentary is all about summer in the life of a Formula 1 driver. The glitz, the glam, the danger.” Sarah splays her fingers dramatically, palms out, stars in her eyes. Then she blinks. “But in a brand-friendly way. Ignition is a wholesome, family-friendly energy drink company and an exciting, invigorating Formula 1 team, so we must navigate accordingly.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Makes sense.”

“Our two main drivers, James and Faust, are both traveling today. But I have our reserve driver, Arthur, here for you both to meet. Since we’re shooting this documentary from June until September—not the whole season,” she sidebars to Max, “Ignition wants to split you guys up. Max will travel with the main drivers while Lilah can stay here in Texas with Arthur.”

My laughter dies in my throat. “Wait,” I say with a teensy-tiny nervous squeak. “I won’t be working with Max at all? That’s kind of the point of Black & Graywood. We work together.”

With all the robotic zest of a woman who must regularly consult on oil-spill PR campaigns, Sarah frowns sympathetically. “Sorry, yeah, logistical challenge. F1 travels to a new country each race weekend. But since Arthur is a reserve driver—and between you and me, a bit of a flight risk—he doesn’t travel unless the team needs him to. In which case you’ll both be on the Biancos’ private plane instantly.” Her pout flips into a smile. “But he’s a really popular driver. I’m pairing you with him because I know you’ll make him look so good! You and Max can, like, text, yeah?”

I feel my face falling, my mouth opening to ask if she’s sure this is what the company wants, but Max speaks for us faster than I can. “That’s smart. We have a ton of ground we need to cover. Lilah, that’s cool, right?”

My fingers ache. I can’t not say right. I look between Max’s confident smile and Sarah’s curious blue stare, then nod weakly.

“Right. I don’t like flying anyway.”

When in doubt, accommodate the people around me. It’s a tried-and-true strategy to skating through life as a categorically strange individual. The more I hide behind my camera, the less likely it is that anyone focuses on me, and the less likely I am to do something weird or wrong.

Anyway, Max and I won’t be splitting up, since we aren’t making this movie. As soon as I can get him alone, we’re going to have a real conversation, an honest one, and I’ll tell him I’ve changed my mind and I actually can’t throw away my professional integrity for a blank check and a lifetime supply of caffeinated corn syrup. It’ll be rough. He’ll be annoyed. But glitz, glam, and family-friendly danger is not the Black & Graywood documentary team.

He must be thinking that, too. He’s just waiting for me to be the one to say it.

Right?

“I love your positivity, Lilah. Being a team player is so Ignition.” Sarah pulls a slim logo-patterned journal from her tote bag and tosses it my way. “So!” I barely catch the journal. “As a reserve driver, Arthur Bianco is basically the backup quarterback of the team. But the fans love him, and Ignition is so excited he’s officially back on the team after his year… off.”

Lot of information right here. Most of it in how her frozen smile doesn’t reach her eyes. This Arthur must be a nightmare to work with. “Bianco? Is he related to the boss?”

“Team principal,” Sarah corrects. “And yes! Arthur is Holmes’s nephew.”

“Ah,” I say, since I can’t cough nepo baby into my elbow. “But cool. I can work with Arthur.” For today.

Relief floods Sarah’s face and she claps with glee, her multicolored friendship bracelets jangling. “Awesome. I was doing some of the filming before you guys got here, but my footage was tragic.” She clears her throat. “If he gives you any trouble about the doc, Lilah, you can always talk to me. Just grab me and I’ll make sure my phone’s turned off so nobody can hear us.”

“Okay. Wait, what?”

Too late. Sarah is already walking toward the pool, so I scamper after her. Once she’s at the water’s edge, she kneels down and—up pops the head of a man, water dripping from his golden hair. I inhale sharply, my surprise at the swimmer’s sudden appearance momentarily throwing me off. Which he notices right away, his gaze shifting from Sarah to me.

“Who’s this?” He’d been smiling a second ago. He isn’t now.

“Arthur Bianco, meet Lilah Graywood. She’s the new documentarian who’s going to be filming your movie!”

Big hands clench the edge of the pool as Arthur hauls himself up. And up. And up—I didn’t know race-car drivers could be this tall. The flood of sunshine overhead highlights the sharp contours of his cleanly shaven face, from the slight shadows around his deeply set eyes to the dramatic tilt of his Roman nose. It’s a nice nose. Slightly out of place, the only feature of his that doesn’t look like it was manufactured in the Fantasy Man Factory. If I ever got the chance to really shoot someone with a nose like him, I’d use black-and-white film. The good, grainy stuff.

“You’re off the project?” he asks Sarah in what seems to be a British accent. Or Italian. I’m really not sure.

“Correct! We’ve got both members of Black & Graywood on the team now.” She throws me a proud look. “So you have Lilah all to yourself. She’ll work with you here, and Max and the crew will travel with Faust and James.”

Shit. Reality is setting in. Quickly. If my Hail Mary plan to change Max’s mind doesn’t work, he’s going to spend all summer traveling around the world with the drivers actually competing this season, and I’m going to be stuck filming B-roll of the backup boy until September. I’m going to be alone, and the thought makes my breath freeze in my lungs. Alone is long nights and dizzying insomnia, watching the porch light through my bedroom window, waiting for my birth mom to turn it off when she came home. It’s staring at myself in the mirror and practicing smiles, because she always said that one day, when life got better for us, smiling was all I’d be able to do.

Alone is familiar. A light on all night.

Alone is awful.

Sarah continues talking, none the wiser to my mental spiraling. “Arthur, I know change is scary, but you’re really going to like Lilah here. She has this calm attitude that I think is going to be so good for you.”

While Sarah does her best to sell my trademark silence as a positive, Arthur looks over her shoulder at me. I don’t know if I should smile or not, so I don’t. After a few tense seconds, a frown spreads across his face, dimpling his chiseled cheeks. And despite the scowl, he really does look famous. Blond, tan, and anatomically proportional, with a hazy glimmer of generational wealth and highly regimented health.

“Calm, huh?” Arthur murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah, okay.”

“Fantastic!” Sarah’s smile made it through her star’s marathon ego-massage, but her energy is flagging. “Lilah, I put Arthur’s daily schedule on your new phone. Today let’s just get to know each other, then maybe tomorrow we can start filming?”

“Oh! I… Max and I might need to touch base about that. I—I usually like to research for a few weeks before I—”

“You don’t need to research,” she interjects. “This is going to be a cakewalk after the movies you’ve made. It’s Formula 1, the coolest sport in the world. Fast cars, hot guys”—she beams at Max, who’s been standing behind us as silently as a discarded mannequin—“the story tells itself. And if you get confused, just grab me and I’ll tell the story for you. That’s marketing’s job. You two are just here to make the documentary that Ignition wants you to make about our brilliant boys. Don’t worry about it!”

With that subtle threat in place—Why do neurotypical people act like it’s possible to not worry?—Sarah exchanges a few more cheerful pleasantries with Arthur, hugs him, then leaves, dragging Max away to discuss travel itineraries. I watch the door to the pool room open, Max’s shoulders squeezing through it, the door closing. He doesn’t look back.

And all of a sudden, I’m alone with the stone-faced Formula 1 driver I’m supposed to be attached at the hip to for three months… but not research. Because I’m an educated, award-winning political filmmaker here to make a direct-to-digital public-relations puff piece.

About sports.

No, worse than that—about cars.

Brushing back my short brown hair, I turn my attention to Arthur, who has his muscular arms neatly crossed over his bare, wet chest. He looks at me, eyebrows raised, and I look at him, repressing a shudder, and for a good moment, we stand in the chlorine-fogged silence like two silent movie characters, sans player piano.

“Well. Okay. What kind of cars do you—?” I start.

“I’m not doing this movie,” Arthur finishes.

“This… movie?”

“Your documentary.” He waves two fingers. “I’m not doing it. I’ve told my uncle that. Told Sarah that. Now I’m telling you.”

Ah. So this was why Sarah was apologetic. Arthur Bianco, reserve driver and team-principal nephew, thinks he can do whatever he wants. “That’s fine. I don’t want to make this movie, either,” I say quietly.

Quiet is a bad choice. Arthur leans closer to hear me, a habit I hate. I’m short, I look like Velma searching the floor for her glasses, and I don’t like being loud. Men are always leaning.

“What did you say?” he mutters, eyes sharpening on me, laser focused.

“I said that I won’t make you be in this movie.” I mirror his crossed-arm stance. “But you should really take up your complaints with your boss.”

He snorts. “You have no idea how Formula 1 works.”

My eyes narrow from a surprise rush of irritation. Normally, I’d ignore a subject matter’s bad attitude; it isn’t appropriate for a documentarian to talk back or show that we’re humans with emotions, too. But none of this is normal, and hopefully my time in Texas will be very short-lived. Might as well be the one person per calendar year who treats this man like a privileged asshole instead of a god.

“Dang, you caught me. I don’t know Formula 1. Please, tell me all about driving cars super fast on TV.”

Actually, this might be the first time in Arthur’s life that someone dared to be sarcastic in his presence, since he lets out a noise that’s half surprised laugh, half infuriated huff. “You think Formula 1 is just driving fast.”

“It’s not?” I think back to what Max told me. Weird-looking cars, unnecessarily spread-apart competitions, a convoluted set of racing rules mystifyingly called the “formula.”

“It’s…” Arthur is silent for a beat, thoughts twisting behind his guarded expression. “When was the last time you felt alive? Not existing. Not breathing. Alive.”

His question grinds my sarcasm to a halt. That, and the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are uncomfortably hazel. Green with mostly golden brown, like an old bourbon bottle held up to a sunbeam, left on the shelf to age.

“I don’t know,” I answer, defaulting to honesty like always. I’m not used to being on the receiving end of probing questions. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me that you feel alive when you drive in circles and everyone claps?”

Arthur blinks at me, tiny reflections of my irritated face disappearing and reappearing from his pupils. Then he looks at my mouth, for a second that unspools for hours. Then he looks over my shoulder. “Are you dating him? That guy you’re with. Is he why you’re here?”

I swallow roughly and avert my gaze, too. No. He didn’t just—there’s no way this guy is perceptive enough to clock that Max and I are together. He’s probably just another sexist athlete who assumes I’m here to please a man. And while that’s not necessarily untrue, I’d rather eat my vintage camera collection than admit it.

I force my eyes back on Arthur’s scowl and say, “I’m not answering that question.”

“So it’s a yes.”

“It’s a nothing.”

“Right.” His scowl deepens. “You don’t want me to know your personal life.”

“Correct?”

“And yet you’re here to film mine,” he says with a crisp note of self-righteousness. “All of you media people are the same. You sweep in, sell a bit of our souls, and leave. At least Sarah’s grandfather was a driver. She makes an image for me because she loves racing.”

Woof. This is exactly why I need to talk Max out of making this film. After living half a decade in D.C. and clawing my way for respect in one industry that idealizes toxic masculinity, I know the work that goes into making your own seat at a table that doesn’t want you. Sports is a boys’ club, too. Arthur Bianco, with his eye-rolling and uncle connection, is no different than the congressman I’d filmed, who’d thanked his male mentors during his election-night speech while my camera had been glued to his wife’s happy tears.

I adjust my glasses and decide that a stronger approach is necessary, slipping on my best and iciest documentarian demeanor. The Lilah who manhandles politicians. Wins awards. Gone is my quiet sputtering, a bubbling-over teakettle right before it starts whistling. I’m all boil now.

“Fine. I hear you,” I say. “You feel as if I have power over you in here, and that you haven’t consented to being in this film. But you need to talk to your team, not me. Because you’re rich, yes?”

Arthur blinks. “I… yes.”

I nod, unsurprised. “And famous?”

He frowns.

“So you still have all the power in real life. My—Max, he signed the contract for us. Unless I’m able to change his mind, I can’t stop making this movie.”

“Your Max,” Arthur echoes, parroting my slipup.

“Mm-hmm. My Max.”

His throat bobs, sending a droplet of water running down, down, down his neck, his collarbone, his bare chest. “You never answered my question,” he says. “Do you like Formula 1?”

Had that been the question? “Oh. Well.” I shrug and look away so he can’t see the hurt circling around my throat like a sad dog begging for attention. No. I’m a vegan Buddhist who hates sports and loves politics and will never own a car. I think this whole facility is a mockery of the human condition and waste of wealth, along with this reality TV sham of a documentary. Along with, probably, your entire life. And clearly, that doesn’t matter to the one man who matters to me.

“I don’t think I could ever enjoy a sport where—”

I’m winding myself back up for verbal sparring round two, only then Arthur whispers, “Quiet.” And I’m quiet.

“Hello, my new favorite duo! Did we have fun getting to know each other?”

Sarah’s back with her clipboard and her bouncing ponytail, and I realize that if Arthur hadn’t cut me off, she’d have heard whatever I was going to say about Formula 1. Which would’ve been bad. If I don’t act like I’m standing in the Pentagon, every little thought in my little head dedicated to safeguarding this race-car driver’s precious public image, Sarah might sniff out that my intentions aren’t pure. And I need to be the one to talk to Max, not her.

And I will. I’m going to stop hiding what I really think from him and tell him the truth. That selling out was a mistake, and we belong in D.C., together, doing important work—even if we never make millions or land a Netflix deal or whatever it is that he’s after. Even if I have to withstand being his girlfriend, because that’s what he decided one day he wanted me to be. He’s still my best friend. My only friend. And having a friend like him, who teaches me how to be me, is a one-way ticket out of never staring at a porch light again.

I will fix this.

“We’ve been having a blast,” I promise Sarah, ignoring Arthur’s incessant frown.

“Gosh, that’s awesome.” She giggles. “You guys are going to be perfect for each other, I swear.”