Page 22 of Drive Me Crazy
Ella doesn’t say anything. She just pushes the vegetables around on her plate. She may be open about some things, but she shuts down immediately over most things related to PlayMedia.
“Would you ever do your podcast again?”
She simply shakes her head.
“Why not?” I probe.
“It’s not my podcast.” She fiddles with the fork in her hand. “I mean, yes, it is, but legally no, it’s not. It was developed and created by a PlayMedia employee”—she points to herself—“for PlayMedia. Meaning that they own it. The intellectual property and copyright are theirs.”
My wineglass stops in front of my lips, and I peer at Ella over the rim of the glass. “I thought you left amicably?” That’s what I gathered after my detective work online. PlayMediatweeted:We are very appreciative of all the hard work Ella Gold has done over the years, and we wish her the best in all future endeavors.
“There was nothing amicable about how I left,” she says wryly. It’s the first glimpse she’s given into her sudden departure. “It’s a shitty situation, but it is what it is.”
“But you seem okay.”
“I mean, I accepted a job to follow around a guy I barely know for a year,” she answers, parroting my earlier interview words back to me. Theo uses humor as a defense mechanism, so it’s easy to spot that Ella does as well. “So I don’t know how okay I actually am.”
She sips her wine, averting eye contact. “Do you collect postcards? You have a bunch on your counter.”
Yup. It’s clear she wants to talk about anything but this. There’s a lot more behind the dimple and loud laughs than she lets on. A soft smile passes across my face as I tell her about Finn and Millie. I may not like Ella digging into my past, but I am starting to like spending time with her. I’m starting to like it a lot.
TEN
Ella
TODAY’S GOING to be a good day. I know it. I didn’t snooze my alarm, the coffee I’m drinking is phenomenal, and my pants fit despite the copious amount of calories I’ve consumed in the past month. They’re definitely tighter, but they still fit. Blake’s in a great mood considering he’s going into the Chinese Grand Prix with another pole position. He even offers to give me a tour and show me his car before the race. All Blake will tell me is that his car’s name starts with a “T” and it’s not a human name. So far I’ve ruled out T-Rex, Tarantula, Titty Twister, Tupperware, Tuba, Tsunami, Toothpaste, Tornado, and Tums.
We spend some time walking around the motorhome, with Blake giving me an exclusive look into his suite. I don’t mention that I had to charge my phone in here during the last race, so I’ve technically already seen it. Just going to pretend like it’s my first time ever being inside of his special, private room. It’s sparse, to say the least. There aren’t many “personal” items besides a TheraGun, his laptop, and a photo of him with his niece and nephew. Oh, and food—if you can even call it that.
Blake’ssnack choices are appalling. He has every nut in existence (and none of them are salted), whole-grain lentil chips, rice cakes, crackers made with organic oat flour, and a variety of protein bars with flavors ranging from rhubarb custard to ginger carrot.
“Are you, like, on a weird diet or something?” I’m trying not to look completely turned off, but it’s kind of hard.
He shakes his head before tossing me a protein bar and tells me to look at the ingredients. It’s all healthy nuts and fruits. This further proves my point. Where is the junk food? The candy? The “I just had a bad day and need to eat my feelings” snacks? All I’m seeing is bland, blander, and blandest.
There’s a minifridge under the desk in the room and I make my way over to it. All that’s in there is Greek yogurt (spelled “yoghurt”), hard-boiled eggs, and celery juice. Not apple juice or cranberry juice. Celery juice. The most flavorless of all the vegetables.
His pantry in Monaco had beenstacked—a Costco-level abundance of snacks and food—but now I realize that may’ve been because he wasn’t sure whatIliked to eat. The thought of it sends a flutter deep into the pit of my stomach.
“Here I was thinking I was writing about an athlete.” I close the fridge and stand back up. “Turns out, I’m actually writing about a sociopath.”
His chuckle is throaty.
“These are survival foods, Blake, not snacks.” I sigh. He looks adorably confused. “If you were on a stranded island, then yes, I would totally understand wanting hard-boiled eggs and nuts. But you’re not. Snacks are meant to be enjoyed.”
“I do enjoy them!”
There’s no use attempting to hide the absolutely horrified look on my face. Blake enjoys cardboard. Good to know. What chapter in his book should I file that under? Remember how Blake celebrated a Grand Prix win by snacking on some dryrice cakes and then washing them down with some freshly squeezed celery?
I list off a variety of snacks to see how brainwashed he is by his healthy-eating ways. He’s never had white cheddar popcorn or a Pop Tart. He’s also never bothered trying a Double Stuf Oreo because “how can it be that different from the regular ones?” He doesn’t even know what a Ho-Ho is and thinks I’m kidding when I ask him. It’s not that I only eat junk food, but at least I don’t just eat rabbit food. Sam needs to loosen the reins on his diet.
“Do you need a bit of fresh air, love?” Blake laughs at me. “I can crack a window if you’d like.”
My body drops onto the small couch in his room. I check my forehead to see if I have a fever. The dramatics may be unnecessary, but imagine having gone through that many years of your life without knowing the true joy of a Girl Scout cookie. I know that’s quintessentially American, but it’s not doing much to help his case right now. My reaction seems to have entirely overwhelmed Blake.
“If my snacks are so horrible, which ones do you consider good?”
I can’t help but laugh. “We’ll need about five to seven business days to get through that list.”
