Page 24 of Promise

Her eyes widen. “Another one?”

I blink back at her. Another one. Did she know about the others? How had she known there’d been others?

Another issue with management. The narrow escapes and occasional collisions. I’d been pulled from more races this season than I’d finished.

But that last accident felt like a sign. Like I’d been tempting fate or something, cutting it close time and time again, until the track decided to take me out.

“Are you okay?”

For half a second, she sounds concerned about me—my safety and physical health—then I remember she’s a nurse. Taking care of others is in her nature. Asking such a question is a habit.

“I’m fine,” I lie, because mentally I’m still a little messed up. But losing out on my racing career isn’t the topic at hand. “A little concussion. Some bruised ribs.”

“Dart,” she shrieks, then glances toward the sleeping baby. Lowering her voice, she says, “There’s no such thing as a little concussion. And bruised ribs. How bruised?”

Sickly black and blue, and a color I don’t want her to see on me.

“Easy there, Forever.” I smile cheekily, my leg bouncing beneath the table. “That tone sounds a lot like you might still care about me.”

Did she? Could she? Could she still love me?

Because I love her. Always have, always will.

“Don’t call me that.” Back is the barbed-wire sharpness.

My girl used to be playful and feisty, but over the years, we both struggled. The smiles came less often . . . then not at all. I didn’t know how to reach her anymore. Didn’t know how to navigate us. I felt trapped in my own failures, so she didn’t know how to reach me either. I thought changing myself would be a change for us, bring us back together, move us forward.

I’d been so wrong.

“Call you what?” I ask, truly puzzled, as my leg bounces faster.

“That word.” Her eyes dip toward the plate in front of her. Neither of us have touched our sandwiches.

“What word?”

She lifts her gaze and we stare at one another for a long minute. One that feels like⁠—

“Forever,” I whisper across the table, slapping my hand on my jostling leg to still it. I focus on her gaze. Those typically warm, rich eyes are a little cold, a little distant.

“You are still my forever.” My throat clogs, and I swallow tightly.

Trinity looks away.

Beneath the table, I pound my fist against my thigh, knowing I’ve said the wrong thing.

In a race, there’s something called drafting. You want to get close to your opponent and ride their tailwind. It saves fuel and energy. Trin isn’t my enemy, but I still need to follow her lead. She’s my energy, and expressing deep feelings is exposing too much too soon. I’m not looking to break away and sneak in a pass, a strategic move in racing. I want us coasting together, alongside one another again.

I clear my throat and smooth my hands over the tops of my legs, then push my plate forward and rest my forearms on the tabletop. My hands are stretched toward her but flattened on the cool wooden surface.

I desperately want to hold her hand, feel her fingers against mine. Touching her would make this easier.

“This leads me to your other question. I’m here because this is home. This town. This house. You.”

She snorts dismissively before she levels me with another hard stare. “This house is mine. And I am not yours.”

Here comes that tire iron to the chest again.

I expel a deep breath.