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The second half of the races seem to slip into a vortex of space-time where everything both moves really quickly and also takes a really long time. Ash and I text between every gate drop and although it’s just small, insignificant words between two sort-of friends, it makes me feel alive. After months of near radio silence, we are back to texting. This is a good thing.
Since I can’t text while flagging, each four or five lap moto stretches on for hours and hours in my mind, even though they are only a few minutes long. Each time the race is over, Ash has replied. He says he is helping Shelby in the tower, and I wonder if she knows he’s texting me. Has he told her anything? Can she tell he seems different?
Does he seem different while texting me?
It’s all too much. And it’s too soon to tell. I decide to enjoy this little moment, this little drop of happiness that’s started a ripple effect in the frozen lake that is my broken heart. Maybe these texts are the start of something new between Ash and me, a rekindling of the fire we’d once had. Or maybe they’re nothing more than friendship. I don’t want to know the answer just yet.
Whatever it is, I’m not sure I can handle it yet.
When the final moto crosses the finish line, I have to pee so bad that I can barely walk. I head to the new bathrooms, a small building with air conditioning and actual stalls instead of the porta-potties we used to have, and find that the line is about thirty women long. Oh, hell no.
I spin around and gaze out into the pits. Most people are packing up to leave while kids go stand in line to claim their trophies. The guys who just got off the last race are parking their bikes and taking off their helmets. A little red bike zooms by, and I notice the number, which makes my bladder very happy.
“Teig!” I call out, waving my arms as I run in front of him. He stops, peering at me through his helmet.
“Sup?”
“Can you take me home real quick? I have to pee really bad.”
“TMI, but yeah,” he says, scooting forward a little on his bike. I climb on the back and he zooms off, driving me across the little bridge and into our back yard.
“Thanks,” I say, slapping his helmet as I run toward the back door. I slip into the half bathroom at the back of the laundry room and close the door.
Dad’s voice carries from the kitchen, and I shut off the water before I’ve finished washing my hands. He sounds pissed, and that’s really out of character for him.
“. . . my damned job to do,” he says, his footsteps heavy on the tile floor.
“I’m just worried about you, hun!” Molly sounds ragged. “Jim, just stop and take a break. Shower and get to sleep. The staff can finish up at the track.”
“I’m not abandoning them for a little sleep,” Dad says, sounding more resigned than angry now. “I love you, but you need to calm down. I’m fine.”
“Your bloodwork wasn’t fine,” she says. I wipe off the remaining soap and water on a hand towel and lean into the hallway, listening in even though I probably shouldn’t. Molly continues, “You’re going to wear yourself too thin. You don’t have to be a hero, Jim. Please just slow down a little.”
“I’ll slow down after the Regionals next week,”
he says. I can hear him smacking a kiss on her, and I feel a little embarrassed for listening in. The rest of their conversation is too quiet to overhear, but by the end of it, I don’t think they’re fighting anymore.
My phone vibrates, and I lean against the bathroom door, that spark of excitement returning when I see Ash’s name on my screen.
Want to hang out tonight?
My heart does a little flip-flop. I tell him yes, and then I dance in the bathroom.
*
The track is nearly empty when I walk back over there. Marty has turned off half of the overhead lights and the rest are on a timer, probably set for an hour from now. Crickets chirp in the summer night air, and I watch as taillights head toward the main road. Teig and his friends are riding BMX bikes on the peewee track, and I find Ash’s truck where I’d seen it earlier. Shelby’s car is gone, but she’d texted me a few minutes ago saying goodnight, so I figured as much.
I walk up to the impressive silver rental truck, but despite all of its bells and whistles, I wish Ash’s old Mazda were here instead. That was the truck he’d had when I fell in love with him. This new one is more of a symbol of who he is now—a professional motocross racer—and then there’s me, just a beat up old Mazda.
The tailgate is down, but Ash isn’t around. I hesitate before pulling myself up and sitting on the back of it, legs dangling over the tailgate. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. He wouldn’t ask to hang out with me and then mysteriously disappear. These are all logical thoughts, but my heart says otherwise, telling me to run before Ash has a chance to blow me off.
The rumble of a small dirt bike emerges from the peewee track. I notice the three-three-six on the number plate, and then I see the dreadlocks. I slide off Ash’s tailgate and watch him putt along on the small pit bike, driving it with his left hand stretched over to the throttle since his right one is in a sling. He grins at me as he approaches, then he jerks to a stop in front of me.
“Hey there,” he says, looking like a giant on the small bike.
I put my hands on my hips. “You’re gonna break your neck riding around like that.”
“This thing doesn’t go very fast,” he says, unaffected by my premonitions. “Besides, it actually hurts to walk a lot. Heavy steps make my arm hurt. Riding is better for me.”
