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I feel the eyes of a dozen curious motocross fans burning into me. If I want to turn around and run, now is the time. But Dylan isn’t going to have any of that.
“I know why you’re here,” he winks. I turn an even darker shade of crimson. Did he really know why I am here? “Come with me.”
To the dismay and jealousy of everyone in line, I step out of place and join him. The two girls stand in silence, mouths agape, no doubt taking in every moment of Dylan Bakers so they can retell the story for years to come.
“Wait,” I say. “Would you take a photo with those girls first?”
My heart pounds as everyone watches us walk to the front of the line. I know they are staring at Dylan, the World Champion for the last two years, but I still feel like somewhat of a celebrity standing next to him. When we reach the man taking pit passes, Dylan nods to him and he lets us in without a word. For these thirty seconds, I have completely forgotten Ash.
And then we approach the Team Yamaha rig and I remember exactly why I am here. Goose bumps cover me from head to toe as I follow Dylan around the line of fans waiting to get autographs, and inside the gate for riders and their families.
Team Yamaha’s pit is comprised of two longer than usual motor homes lined up next to each other with a canopy in front. There are tables and chairs and barbeque pits on one end. I see the beautiful blond who is married to Dylan playing with their two-year-old daughter.
The opposite si
de of the canopy has a row of dirt bikes, squeaky clean and ready to be raced. A few mechanics mull around, checking air pressure in the tires and adjusting bolts. I follow Dylan past the bikes, and notice the last one has the number 336 on it. This is a real, modified to the extreme, factory bike; not the outdated model in Ash’s garage he worked so hard to keep running. It is brand new, unscratched and put there just for Ash.
My heart is going so fast, I keep watching for the signs of a heart attack because that is surely about to happen to me.
“Hey rookie, look who I found,” Dylan grabs a marker from the table and chucks it in Ash’s direction. The marker bounces across the table and he catches it, then turns to us with an eyebrow raised.
All I can do was stand here. It is possible I have an awkward look on my face, maybe a deer caught in the headlights expression, or a nervous twitch that matches the shaking in my knees, but I have no idea. I am unaware of everything in the universe except for the crooked smile on Ash’s face. The smile brings me back to the beginning of summer, when everything was perfect and no hearts had been broken.
Ash steps toward me and for a while we say nothing. He wears riding boots and pants with a blue Yamaha shirt. His dreads are pulled back in a low ponytail and his eyes are the perfect shade of blue. Yamaha blue.
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” We are inches apart now.
Raindrops start to fall and land with a soft patter on the vinyl canopy above our heads. A sea of umbrellas opens in the line of fans eager for autographs.
“Thanks for coming.” His smile grows wider and his hand reaches out for mine. I don’t accept it at first. As sudden as the rain had appeared, I go from speechless to having a million things to say.
“Ash, I didn’t mean to-“
He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Seriously.”
It isn’t okay. Before he can forgive me, I have to apologize. It was easy to feel guilty lying in my bed at night. But now, standing inches away from him and looking into his eyes – they are as pure and honest as always. The weight of my guilt threatens to crush me. He deserves a heartfelt apology. He deserves so much more than I can ever give him.
I stare at the blue and white logo printed on his shirt. “I know this isn’t a good time and all – since you’re about to race, and you’re busy – but, I’m sorry.”
He takes another step closer, grabs me around my hips and pulls me to him. And right before his lips touch mine in what will go down in history as the best first kiss ever, he whispers, “You’re wrong. It’s the perfect time.”
