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Over the summer, I realized that Ash’s twin sister, Shelby, was the friend version of my soul mate. It was so awesome (and so necessary) to meet a new friend when I moved to Mixon to live with Dad, but I had no idea what an amazing connection we would make.
And though I loved Shelby more than any friend I’d ever had—more than my childhood best friend, Felicia—now that she had a boyfriend, she was always gone. Gone on dates, or gone at Jake’s house, or just gone. I don’t know. Whatever girls with boyfriends who lived in the same down d
id, that’s what Shelby was always doing.
After years of being the homebody homeschool girl, I’d kind of grown used to being out of the house this past summer. But everything changed in August. Ash went off to race for Team Yamaha, Shelby and Jake finally became official and started doing their own thing. (Of course, that didn’t stop her from promising to never ditch me for a guy; I guess her heart was in the right place.) Now three months had passed and the once vibrant Texas landscape had grown dirty and brown. The warm summer air was pushed out in favor of a chilly breeze. Skimpy bikinis were shed in favor of skinny jeans and knee-high boots. I used to love this time of year because Thanksgiving meant a massive meal at Grandma’s house. Even after she died, I still liked the holiday because it meant a week off from homeschooling work.
But now, even with the promise of Molly’s sure-to-be-delicious Thanksgiving meal, and a week away from my college classes, I wasn’t really feeling the warm Thanksgiving vibe around here. I was too lonely. Even in my crackerjack box of a dorm room, I had my roommate, Zooey, to hang out with, even when she annoyed the hell out of me. Her loud music and endless trail of midnight lovers were a form of company, right?
It was seven in the evening in Texas, and I was tired of doing the math to find out what time it was in whatever state was holding Ash captive from me at the moment. The fall supercross circuit took place all over the nation, usually in football stadiums, and there was a new race every Saturday night. The professional racer with the most wins at the end of the season became the champion, a coveted title that Ash was on his way to achieving.
The first couple of months of the season were exciting for me. I’d stay up and watch the race on ESPN, cheering alongside Teig, Molly, and Dad as we watched Ash race like hell in an effort to win. Although only a rookie, he’d managed to get first place three times and second or third place even more than that. It was impressive, according to the race announcers. And the magazines. And the online message boards.
Everyone was talking about Ash. I should have been proud of him, but mostly I was worried. It was selfish and embarrassing, and I couldn’t admit this traitorous feeling to a single soul, especially not Dad and Molly who were so excited to gush to all of the track visitors that their daughter was dating supercross superstar Ash Carter. But with every inch of fame my boyfriend garnered, I was becoming more and more worried. We were still a new couple after all—we’d only been dating for three months. Ash had flown away to another state, leaving me as the long distance girlfriend back home.
At first he’d fly back every Sunday and stay until Tuesday or Wednesday if we were lucky. But then his team started bitching about Ash missing training days, and Ash let it slip a few times that weekly flights were expensive, and now I hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So much for having a fairy tale first real relationship.
I sunk onto my mattress and stared at my phone. The last text I received from him was at noon, my time.
How’s your day going? I miss you <3
Shelby had hailed that text a freaking miracle. I’d been the one to bring Ash over to the dark side—the side that uses emojis. Until we started dating, he apparently refused to use them, calling them childish and weird. “Why would I ever need to send someone a tiny picture of a paperclip or the Eiffel tower?” he had said. And then, somehow, just a few days after we started dating, Ash got a new cell phone, and suddenly he was sending me a little heart at the end of some of his texts. That’s the only emoji he used, and he only sent it to me.
The feeling warmed my real heart as I stared at the cartoon image on my screen. My lips twisted upward as I laid back on my bed, holding my phone close to my chest. It was my only connection to the guy I cared about. I tried not to think about how after I’d replied to his text, telling him about my day, he’d never said anything else. Ash Carter was a busy guy, I guess.
I bit my lip and started typing another reply, knowing full well that I was breaking the cardinal rule of dating: texting twice. My stomach tightened as thoughts flew into my mind and grabbed onto my heart, refusing to get go. Did Ash just not care about me anymore? Was there some girl on tour with them that had his attention more than me?
When I tasted blood, I stopped gnawing on my lip and erased the text message before sending it. I called him, and while the phone rang, I tried to think of a reason why I was calling him besides the truth. I’m scared you’re over me, Ash.
Ash answered on the first ring. “Hey, there.”
As if by some kind of vocal magic, all of the worry and fear slipped right out of my heart. I felt renewed and alive, as if I’d never been worried in the first place. “Hey,” I said, exhaling. “What’s up?”
“Just watching this hilarious spectacle with some drunk guy.” The roar of background noise made it a little hard to piece together what he was saying, so I upped the volume on my phone. “Apparently the bartender cut him off and he wasn’t having that. Turns out two off-duty cops were sitting next to us and they handcuffed him and walked him outside, but he kicked over like, five chairs on his way out.”
“You’re at a bar?” I asked. Funny how my good feelings could disappear as quickly as they came.
“Yeah,” Ash said. “Well, it’s like, a Cajun restaurant thing, but we’re in the bar section.”
“You’re only nineteen. How did you get in?”
“No one questions the guy with dreadlocks and a beard,” he said with a laugh. “Plus, I’m with the rest of the guys on Team Yamaha, and they’re all old enough, so I guess I blended in.”
I sat up in bed. “You have a beard?”
“Yeah babe, did you not watch the race last night?”
Pressing my palm to my forehead, I tried to play it off. “Yes, well . . . I watched most of it. Then I fell asleep, but my supercross app told me you got second place.”
“Aww, babe,” he said. Something in his voice felt a lot like hurt, and guilt prickled through me. “They interviewed me on the podium for like, five minutes after the race. I mentioned you and everything.”
“Really?” I cursed under my breath and grabbed onto the comforter beneath me as if it were responsible for all of my idiocy. “I’m sorry. Dammit, I wish I had seen it.”
“I’m sure it’s on YouTube by now.” The rest of whatever he says gets cut off by a shrill girly voice screaming his name. “Um, hold on, Hana.”
The sound muffled on his end of the phone, but that girl’s voice didn’t go away. Likely, it was one of his many admirers. My throat felt dry as the seconds ticked on. Finally, he came back on the phone. “Sorry about that. I should probably go; it’s busy and loud here.”
“Yeah, okay.” I drew in a deep breath and let it out, wishing that I were more important to my boyfriend than the girls in some bar in another state. “Bye.”
