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Every time he shows up, I fall completely in love with him again. And every time he leaves, my heart breaks all over again. It’s like some kind of screwed up time machine of back and forth cycles that will never end. The worst part is that I can’t tell anyone about it. Shelby wouldn’t know how to help me since the guy in question is her brother, and she’s my only friend.
I have to forget about him. Again. Right now.
It’s the one of the last Fridays before a normal race, so I decide to throw myself into my job in an effort to forget about Ash. From signing in riders to hanging signs and refilling the cups at the concession stand, I am constantly looking for something to do with my hands. I need to stay busy, focused on my job. I even left my phone back in my room because the last thing I needed to do was constantly wonder if every beep or phantom vibration was a text from Ash apologizing for not getting a chance to tell me goodbye.
I climb up the metal stairs that lead to the score tower, my arms full of new reams of copier paper. I’d noticed that our printer only had a few pages left and had taken it upon myself to drive to the nearest office supply store to restock. I stop at the top of the stairs when I think I hear my name. I turn around.
“Hey, Hana!”
I follow the voice and find Lincoln peering up at me from a few yards away. I almost don’t recognize him because his shock of black hair has been covered by a baseball cap. He waves at me when I see him. “You busy?”
I gesture toward the paper in my hands. “Kind of.”
“I mean after that.”
Before I can answer, a little kid on a tiny dirt bike rolls up, jolting to a stop in front him. The kid’s gloved hand points at something and Lincoln kneels down, examining the bike. I kick open the door and set down the stacks of paper and then step back outside to see what he wanted. He’s still talking to the kid, sitting on his knees so he’s on his level. I watch as his hands move around, probably telling him some kind of advice for riding judging by the way his hand moves through the air like a dirt bike. He says something and the kid nods, then he grabs the back of the kid’s helmet and gives it a little shake.
I can’t help but smile. When the kid rides away, Lincoln looks back up and catches my eye. Even from the distance, I can see him smiling too.
“What is it?” I call out, resting my hands on the railing.
He looks around and then shakes his head. “I don’t want to yell it.”
Oh.
OH.
He’s going to ask me out. I’ve never been more sure of anything. And as I watch him walk the pathway toward the stairs, I’m not sure if I should run away or dive head first into the adventure of dating a new person. It’s been a few months, after all. If Ash had wanted me back, he could have said something when he was here. It doesn’t matter what I want. If Ash is happy moving on, then I really have no choice.
I’m still running through a list of pros and cons in my head when Lincoln scales the stairs and suddenly we’re face to face. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” I say.
“So there’s this party next weekend,” he says quickly, almost as if he’d rehearsed it. “I was hoping you’d want to come with me. It’s on Friday so we won’t miss any race stuff.”
There it is. The first step in moving on from your ex-boyfriend—getting a new boyfriend.
“What kind of party?” I ask, like some kind of total idiot. It’s a party in Mixon. There’s only one kind of party in Mixon.
He rolls his shoulders, and I find myself thinking he’s cute, especially when he’s nervous. “You know, just a house party at Mike Garcia’s. His parents are chill and he has like, three foosball tables and usually a bonfire.”
I nod. I’ve heard of Mike’s parties, but since he’s one of the few guys in town who doesn’t ride dirt bikes, I don’t know him. Lincoln shoves his hands in his pockets. “So what do you think? Wanna go?”
“Can I think about it?” I ask. The moment the words are out of my mouth I feel like a gigantic ass. Lincoln flinches in this infinitesimal way, but I can see it, and I know I just hurt his feelings. He’s asking me out to a party, not some romantic candlelit dinner for two, and I can’t even give him a straight answer.
“Sure Hana,” he says. “Not a problem.”
*
Dad watches me from the sidelines as I struggle to lift an old tire, tugging it out from its place around a utility pole. The poles and trees that dot the motocross track are wrapped in old rubber tires, a slit cut into them so they can be fitted around it. It’s a safety precaution in case someone crashes their bike—the rubber protects them and the pole. Five old dry-rotted tires need replacing and I’ve offered to do it.
My dad seemed to think it was too much work for a girl like me, but
I’d insisted, and now he’s watching me, arms crossed with an amused look on his face. I huff out my frustration and bend my fingers around the splitting old rubber and pull as hard as I can. Finally, it snaps off, and I lug it to the ground away from the pile of new tires.
I can do this. I have to do this. Because anything less than backbreaking labor will make me think of Ash. I heft the new tire up, slotted side toward the pole, and shove it on. It goes on so much easier than the old one came off, and I’m feeling a little more motivated to prove my dad wrong now. The second tire is just as much of a pain in the ass, but after about thirty minutes and a gallon of sweat, I have replaced all five tires around the pole.
I stand back, dry my hands on my jean shorts and admire my work, feeling like some kind of Amazon woman. I can do anything I set my mind to. Even get over Ash.
