Page 67 of Until You Say Stay
The terrace is less crowded, opening onto a view of the water. String lights are draped overhead, and the ocean breeze cuts through the Miami heat. A few other guests stand in small clusters, but it’s quieter out here. Calmer.
Lark takes a sip of her champagne and leans against the railing. “Okay, Bernard was annoying, but this champagne is incredible.”
“One of the perks of this life,” I say, taking a sip of my own. “The champagne almost makes up for having to talk to Bernard.”
She laughs. “I think my sinuses are permanently damaged from his cologne.”
“You handled him perfectly,” I tell her, bumping her shoulder lightly with mine. I spot Luca across the balcony, and he catches my eye, excusing himself from a conversation to make his way over.
“There you are,” he says, kissing Lark on both cheeks European-style before clapping me on the shoulder. “I was beginning to think you’d found something better to do than grace us with your presence.”
“We considered it,” I reply, “but we didn’t want to deprive you of our company.”
Luca turns to Lark with a warm smile. “That dress is stunning on you. Though you could make a potato sack look likehaute couture.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she laughs. “Does that Italian charm work on everyone?”
“On most people,” Luca says with a wink. “Jack’s just sick of hearing it after all these years.”
“He’s been using the same lines since we were fifteen,” I add, taking another sip of champagne. “You should hear his pickup lines in Italian. Even worse.”
We talk for a while, Luca regaling Lark with embarrassing stories from our karting days. How I once crashed because I was so focused on beating him I forgot about the actual racing line. How he threw his helmet at me after I “accidentally” bumped him wide in the final corner.
“He’s always been like this,” Luca says, gesturing to me with his champagne. “Competitive about everything. Even who could eat the most pizza after a race.”
“Who won?” Lark asks.
“I did,” we both say at the same time, then glare at each other.
As she laughs, an older woman in diamonds that could probably pay off a small country’s debt approaches us, all air kisses and calling everyone “darling.” She immediately monopolizes Lark, asking about her music, her Instagram aesthetic, her skincare routine, whether she does Pilates.
Lark handles it gracefully at first, nodding and smiling. But after about five minutes, I catch her eye. There’s a slight panic there.Help me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say smoothly, sliding my hand to Lark’s lower back. “But I need to steal my girlfriend away for a minute.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” the woman says, waving us off. “Lovely to meet you, dear!”
As soon as we’re out of earshot, Lark exhales. “Thank you. She was telling me about her juice cleanse and I was about to fake a medical emergency.”
“I could tell,” I say, grinning. “You had the look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘get me out of here before I say something I’ll regret’ look.”
We make the rounds after that, moving through the crowd more deliberately. I introduce her to more drivers, some of whom she recognizes from watching races. Team principals who ask polite questions about her music.
And I keep noticing the way men look at her. The appreciative glances that linger too long. The handshakes that hold on just a beat past professional. The way they lean in slightly too close when they talk to her, invading her space with the excuse of hearing better over the crowd. My hand stays on her back almost constantly. A reminder to everyone here that she’s with me.
“Ready to get out of here?” I ask Lark later, finding her by the dessert table where she’s contemplating a tray of tiny chocolate sculptures with intense focus.
“God, yes. These shoes are basically torture devices. Beautiful, expensive torture devices that I regret nothing about wearing,” she says, popping a truffle into her mouth.
I laugh, texting the valet service to bring the car around. “The price of beauty is steep.”
“And yet men get away with flat shoes and still look incredible,” she says, eyeing my perfectly normal dress shoes with mock resentment. “The injustice.”
“One of life’s great unfair advantages,” I say with a grin. “Along with pockets that actually fit things.”
