Page 35 of Until You Say Stay
“Good,” I say with relief, catching the keys she tosses me. “Though I can’t believe you hate driving.”
“It’s true!” she says cheerfully as we get in the car. “If I could teleport everywhere, I absolutely would. Lucky for you though, I love being a passenger. So congratulations, you’re now officially my chauffeur.”
“Happy to be of service, ma’am,” I say, adjusting the seat and mirrors while she buckles in.
“Just drive, Jeeves,” she says with a grin, and I’m laughing as I start the car.
As I navigate through the winding roads that lead away from the track, Lark fiddles with the radio dial until she finds a station playing something indie-folk that I don’t recognize. She hums along quietly, seeming perfectly content and completely relaxed.
“So that’s really what you do,” she says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “Day in and day out.”
“More or less,” I say. “Though Formula One is a whole different level. Way faster, more intense, more technically complex. But this part of the job is fun too. Testing, giving feedback, problem-solving.”
“I can’t even imagine. What a cool job.”
I glance over at her, feeling oddly pleased that she enjoyed it. I’d been showing off for her all morning like I couldn’t help myself, wanting her to be impressed, wanting to steal all her attention and keep it. Which is dangerous, a voice in the back of my head warns. This is how people get confused, how fake becomes real, how someone gets hurt.
We pull into the restaurant parking lot and I push those thoughts aside.
The restaurant is one of those elevated gastropubs Seattle does so well, and we slide into a booth near the back. The waitress brings menus and water with a friendly smile.
“Ooooh, they have mac and cheese with Beecher’s cheese!” Lark’s eyes widen as she scans the menu. “That’s my weakness.”
“Get it,” I tell her. “Their burger’s incredible too, I’m getting that.”
“Done,” she says, closing her menu. “And I’m stealing bites.”
We order, and after the waitress leaves, Lark starts playing with her straw wrapper, folding it into smaller squares. “Can I ask you something?” she says, looking up at me.
“Shoot,” I say, leaning back.
“How did you really get into racing?” She looks up. “I mean, you’ve told me the basic story about going to a track once and falling in love and all that stuff with Robert sponsoring you. But I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to hear more.”
I consider deflecting with the usual polished lines I give reporters and sponsors. But something about Lark makes me want to give her the real answer. Maybe it’s because she’s shared her own shit with Brandon, her own struggles. Or maybe it’s justher.
“I was a pretty angry kid,” I start, staring at my water glass. “Had serious issues. My brothers were all adopted younger, but I was six when I arrived at the Midnights and just furious at the world. Not at them specifically, though I took it out on them plenty. My birth family was…” I trail off. “They weren’t good people. Drugs, neglect, some physical abuse. The state finally stepped in.”
She nods, her expression softening, but not with pity.
“So even with my adoptive parents being incredibly patient—my mom Susan especially tried so hard with me—I was a terror.” My throat tightens thinking about her. She never gave up on me, even when I gave her every reason to. “When I saw that firstkarting race, I fell in love immediately. Then behind the wheel, it was like something I could finally control. When everything felt chaotic, in a car it’s just me and the machine.”
Lark nods. “Having that one space where you’re completely in charge. Where skill matters, not your history.”
“Exactly. Plus it gave me somewhere productive for all that energy. Kept me from worse trouble. My parents were saints to put up with me.” I take a drink. “The racing became where I put all of it. The anger, the fear, the need to prove I was worth keeping.”
Our food arrives, her mac and cheese bubbling golden, my burger looking perfect.
I watch her take a bite of the mac and cheese, closing her eyes briefly in pure appreciation. “So since we’re opening up here,” I say, “how did you actually get into music? Anything beyond the loved-theater-when-you-were-in-school story?”
She sets down her fork, considering her answer. “My mom taught piano and guitar when I was little. She taught lessons out of our house for years. I was a lonely kid, so music and songwriting just always felt so safe and like my way to connect with people.”
“You’re definitely good at connecting,” I say. “I’ve been listening to your stuff pretty much non-stop this week.”
She rolls her eyes. “Flatterer.”
“No,” I insist, leaning forward. “Listen, Lark, and hear me.Reallyhear me. You’re the real deal. This fake dating thing is helping you get followers, sure, but you would have made it without me. You’ve got that special thing—talent, magnetism, honesty, and ability. You’re the whole package.”
She looks down at her food. “Thanks. That means a lot. Most people think it’s better as a hobby, apart from Maren and Calvin. They’re my cheerleaders.”
