Page 37 of Until You Say Stay
The conversation switches to lighter topics, with her eventually quizzing me on which wild online stories about me were real versus completely fabricated.
“Okay,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The Monaco afterparty incident with the champagne fountain? Theone where you supposedly rode a motorcycle through the hotel lobby at three AM?”
“It was a Vespa, not a motorcycle,” I say with a grin. “But the champagne fountain? Unfortunately true. Though the damage wasn’t nearly as expensive as reported. And I did pay for absolutely everything.”
“I knew it!” She points her fork at me triumphantly. “What about the fistfight with that Ferrari driver? The Italian one with the perfect hair?”
“Marcelli? Completely false.” I take a sip of water. “We argued loudly after he cut me off in qualifying, but no actual punches were thrown. The media loves a good rivalry though. Makes for way better headlines and clicks.”
“Disappointing,” she says. “Okay, what about the thing with the married Swedish model and the yacht? The tabloids were all over that one for weeks.”
I shake my head emphatically. “Completely fabricated from start to finish. I’ve never even been to Sweden. Never met the woman in my entire life. I think they just photoshopped two separate pictures together and hoped no one would check.”
“Really? Honest?” she says, wiping away a tear from laughing. “But the pictures looked so convincing!”
I place my hand over my heart solemnly. “I swear on my Formula One car, and that’s how serious I am about this. It was such a ridiculous rumor. I was in the UK for a race that weekend, then flew straight to Barcelona for testing. My alibi was broadcast on international television with timestamps.”
Lark is still laughing. “The stuff they make up about you is absolutely wild. Being your fake girlfriend is very educational,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m learning so much about the jet-setting lifestyle.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to include you in my next fabricated scandal,” I promise. “Maybe we can stage a dramaticpublic argument in the middle of Pike Place Market for maximum attention.”
“Ooh, I could throw a fish at you,” she suggests eagerly, her eyes lighting up. “That would definitely make TMZ.”
“See? You’re a complete natural at this fame thing already.”
After lunch I drive us back to the track, though every part of me wants to keep this day going, to stay in this bubble we’ve created. The parking area is mostly empty now, just a few crew members loading the last of the equipment into trucks.
My motorcycle sits waiting in the late afternoon sun, exactly where I left it. I pull up next to it and we both get out. I pass her keys back and she takes them, leaning against her Honda. Neither of us seems ready to end this. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“Thanks for coming today,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “The Instagram stuff obviously, but also just… being there.”
“Thanks for the terrifying ride,” she says with that smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “And lunch. I had a really good time, Jack.”
“Thanks for listening,” I say, hoping she understands I mean the real stuff, the family history and vulnerability I rarely share with anyone.
She gets in her car and rolls the window down. “I’ll text you details about the open mic?”
“I’ll be there,” I promise without hesitation. “Front row. Cheering embarrassingly loud.”
“Good,” she says, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. “I’ll need a friendly face in the crowd.”
She starts the car, gives me one last smile, and drives away.
Then I’m alone in the empty lot with my bike and this feeling I don’t know what to do with. My dates with Lark are feeling less fake each time, and it’s getting harder to convince myself that I’m not falling for her.
Then again, Lark deserves better than me. Someone stable, someone who stays in one place, someone whose relationship history isn’t three weeks of fun before moving on to the next thing.
I watch until her Honda disappears around the corner, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER 10
LARK
The Blue Room is already packed when we arrive, and it’s only ten o’clock. The venue is a forty minute drive from Dark River and used to be something industrial—a warehouse or maybe a factory—but now it’s one of those places where indie bands play and people who think they might be the next big thing test out their material.
The walls are painted black, covered in layers of concert posters and graffiti that’s been shellacked over so many times it looks like art. The stage isn’t huge, but it’s legitimate, with real lighting rigs and a sound system that can handle live music without turning everything into feedback.
