“Those are small-town things,” I’d tell him, disgusted.
I wanted California. For the beach named after a city in Italy, for the thought of seeing myself on the cover ofMademoiselle(my favorite magazine because it had a French name), but most of all, for my little girl. I wanted her to grow up someplace sunny and glamorous.
When we left her with Jace’s aunt Minnie and drove off that morning, Natalia didn’t wave goodbye. She’d found a moth on the screen door and was cupping it in her hands. She just smiled at me—that bright, beautiful smile that was my world—as I waved. Our plan was to come back for Natty in a few months after we’d gotten settled.
I was already in tears by the time we hit the main road. I told Jace I’d changed my mind. He was never one to get sore with me, not even when he’d had a few, so I was surprised when he looked at me fierce and said, “Dammit, Pinkie… I already quit my job. We’re going.”
I cried all the way to St. Louis.
I’m only a page in, and already I’m crying too. I pick up my phone, both grateful and mad at Phaedra for making me read this and not caring that the message might wake her.
Me:Oh God, Phae. My mother’s writing sounds a lot like mine.
Me:SHE SOUNDS LIKE ME. I don’t know how it’s even possible. She’s a stranger.
Immediately, there’s a reply.
Phae:Maybe she’s not as much of a stranger as you thought.
18
ENGLAND
ONE WEEK LATER
NATALIA
“I hope you’ve enjoyed this ‘Tech Talk’ segment,Buzzfans,” I conclude with a bright smile, setting the F1 braking system’s master cylinder on the table beside the calipers, disc, and brake pads. “Don’t forget to vote on the funniest radio message from the Canadian Grand Prix”—I lift an arm and point to the area where the link will appear in the video—“and of course, like and subscribe. See you next week when we’ll check out some of the most dramatic Silverstone moments in history in preparation for the next race.”
Olivia stops the camera and straightens, giving me a thumbs-up. “Nice one. It’s a wrap.” Moving to the softbox light and switching it off, she says over her shoulder, “I’ll get this to Ajay and let him know the second intro of those three is the one you like best.”
“Thanks, Liv.” I head for the door of the small room we use for shootingARJ Buzzepisodes.
“Oh, Nefeli told me to have you stop by her office after we’re done,” Olivia adds, fussing with the camera to remove the SD card.
I almost ask what type of mood it seemed she was in. With Nefeli Laskaris, you never know, and I’ve been “on her list” since I claimed I tossed that USB stick into the bin.
I walk across the expansive main room of theARJoffices, taking a mint from the bowl on editor Riley’s desk, high-fiving photographer Lachlan, and trying not to roll my eyes at Alexander, who’s perched on the edge of an intern’s desk, shamelessly flirting.
Nefeli hates the sound of knocking but also doesn’t want anyone to walk in unannounced. Her door is glass, fortunately, so the accepted procedure is to stand there until you’re noticed. She’s on the phone when I walk up, so I crunch the mint and wait.
After about two minutes, she twirls toward the door and flicks her fingers to invite me in. She concludes her call and sets the phone down while taking her seat and waving at one of the tufted slipper chairs opposite the desk. On it is a laptop, a fountain pen laid diagonally across a legal pad, a teacup on a saucer, and a succulent in a ceramic pot.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I ask.
She angles her head to peer through the bifocal part of her glasses and taps the keyboard of her laptop, then rotates it and scoots it my way. “Tell me what you see, love.”
I move to the edge of my chair. The smile on my face wilts as I’m faced with a page from a French Formula 1 gossip website. The headline reads, “Un Repas Romantique pour Deux… Qui Est Cette Femme?”
The photo: Klaus and me at L’Escale in Monaco, holding handsacross the table. The smoldering expression on Klaus’s face says this is definitely a date.
I sit back, ruler-straight in my chair. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Don’t insult me, please. It may have been a while since I inspired that degree of lovesickness, but I can stillidentifyit—the man is dead gone on you.”
“Just let me explai—”
“Enough,” she interrupts, flapping one hand as if repelling a cloud of mosquitos. “I don’t care if you’re fucking Klaus Franke, for God’s sake.”
