Permanent Lines

by Ashley Wilcox

  “Mmm, smell these flowers.” Amelia held the bouquet of pastel flowers up to my face after sniffing them herself. Her face was adorable, all bright and happy. It was a visual I knew I would never forget.

  I sniffed them just to appease her. They smelled all right—they were flowers, so they all pretty much smelled the same to me, but I smiled and nodded my head, making her believe their scent was the most amazing thing that I had ever inhaled in my life.

  She exhaled, putting them back in the cone thing that was holding them in the water. “I love the way spring flowers smell,” she gushed.

  It wasn’t spring yet, but apparently sidewalk florists carried the flowers already. The sidewalk was awash with bright colors and scents. Amelia had given me the tour, making me smell daffodils, tulips, lilies, lilacs, and something called hyacinths. The lilacs I was particularly unsure of. They weren’t bad looking, but holy shit, they made me sneeze like fucking crazy. It seemed to make Amelia laugh, though, so whatever; everything else seemed all right—as much as a shitload of flowers would.

  Since the assorted tulips seemed to tickle her fancy the most, I picked them up, pulling my wallet from my back pocket.

  “No!” she sternly insisted, taking them from my hand and putting them back. “Flowers are a waste of money.”

  I look at her, puzzled, especially since she just got all hot in the biscuit just by their smell. I thought all girls liked when a guy bought them flowers.

  “They just die after a few days.” She shrugged her shoulders and kept walking, looking at the next stand full of knockoff purses and sunglasses.

  “So, if I wanted to buy you some kind of flower or plant or something, what would I buy you, then? Aren’t you supposed to buy girls shit like that?”

  Amelia’s eyes squinted and her lips pursed to the side like she was thinking, still holding the handbag that she was just looking at in her hand.

  “A cactus!” she said enthusiastically before turning back to perusing.

  I followed closely behind, picking up a pair of sunglasses and putting them on to see what they looked like on me in the mirror. “A cactus?” I questioned. Cacti weren’t something I’d ever bought for a girl—or anyone, for that matter. They were strange and really dull-looking, in my opinion.

  She stopped again, looking at me to explain. “Yeah, you don’t have to really do much to take care of them. You can leave them for days without watering them, and just when you think they should be dead, they’re still alive. They’re like a plant that keeps going without needing constant nourishment,” she said nonchalantly before turning again to look around, this time picking up these crazy ass sunglasses that curved up at the ends, making her look like one of those librarians in the sixties or seventies—cat-eye glasses, I think they’re called. I don’t know, but they looked hilarious on her.

  I nodded my head. “A cactus. Got it.”

  My eyes jolted open, making me sit up straight in my seat. I looked around to make sure no one was looking at me. I was shocked to check my watch and see that I slept for most of the flight—I never was one to fall asleep in cars or planes or really anything that moved, but since I had only gotten a couple hours of sleep after Kara left last night before having to be at the airport, I guess I could understand why I was so tired.

  My seat started shaking from behind, making me roll my eyes. Why in fuck’s sake I kept bringing this dumbass with me on trips was beyond me.

  “Sweet dreams, handsome?” Micah asked, his head over my shoulder, peeking through the space between the seats.

  I turned slightly, hitting my palm against his forehead and making him fall backwards into his seat, almost making him hit the less-than-enthused guy next to him.

  “Sorry,” I heard him say in an embarrassed tone, causing me to snicker before slipping my headphones over my head to listen to music.

  My stomach was in knots worrying that I had talked in my sleep, knowing perfectly well who I was dreaming about. As much as I loved seeing her face, I hated that the only time we spent together was in my dreams, and I hated how fucking much I loved it regardless. It was almost like she was a figment of my imagination. I hated it. Never had someone consumed me like Amelia did and I hated every fucking minute of it. I needed her to go away and leave me the fuck alone. I tried calling. I tried texting. She never answered or responded, and now her damn phone was disconnected. There was no hope of getting back in touch, together, or anything. It was done, over with! I just needed my brain to understand that.

  It was just after nine in the morning when our plane landed. Since we were the last ones to show (most everyone got here yesterday for registration), we had to go right to the track. It was a huge Pro Circuit, one of the races I most look forward to every year because there was good competition and a nice prize check for the winner.

  After saying hi to the guys at my trailer, I stopped over to registration to pick up my number. My stomach just about hit the ground and I started sweating out of control, nervous as fucking ever, when I saw the name and number sitting below mine. Amelia Driscoll.

  I leaned over, putting my right hand on the table and my left on my head, feeling like I was going to have a panic attack. Jesus fucking Christ, Merrick, get your shit together!

  I don’t know why I never thought about her being here—she did race, after all! Maybe wishful thinking. God, I didn’t fucking know, but what the hell was I gonna do now? Yeah, I wanted to see her, but how? I didn’t know what the hell she thought of me, if she felt the same connection to me as I did to her—no, I knew she did! There was no way she couldn’t. It was the best fucking day and a half of my life—it couldn’t have felt like jack shit to her. But then again, why’d she up and fucking leave without saying a damn thing to me? No! I couldn’t see her; too many emotions were still flooding my head and body. I was a fucking tool when it came to Amelia. Seeing her again might kill me. God, when did I turn into such a pussy?

  I stood up straight and rubbed my hands over my face, determination now humming my veins—I couldn’t be here—I couldn’t race today.

  Micah came up beside me, seeing what I was doing still at the check-in table. “Dude, what the hell is taking you so long?”

  “Did you know about this?” I said with more anger than anticipated, pointing to Amelia’s name and number.

  He looked down, his hands going into his pockets. “Uhh …” He sounded nervous, giving me my answer already.

  “What the fuck, man?” I threw my hands up in the air.

  “I thought she backed out,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t want to make you anxious, man.”

  I exhaled, placing my hands on my hips and rocking from side to side, something I only did when I was angry.

  “Hey, do you know if this rider is participating today?” I heard Micah ask someone beside me.

  My eyes were shut, trying to calm myself, so I didn’t know who he was talking to. Hopefully someone who knew what the fuck was going on.

  “Should be if her name’s there,” the man said, and I could hear him flipping papers, making my eyes open and watch him curiously. He had a clipboard in hand with some sheets of white paper clipped to it.

  I was staring at him in bleak anticipation, like my life depended on it, as he stopped on the second sheet, sliding his finger down the page, looking for her name.

  “Driscoll,” he said, mostly to himself, “uh no, actually.” He looked up at Micah and my body visibly relaxed. “Must’ve been a late cancellation,” he added before picking her number off the table. “Looks like I can get rid of this, then. Good luck!” He smiled before walking away.

  I exhaled, relieved, but still felt a clench in my heart. I didn’t know how I felt. I didn’t know if I was happy or sad anymore. I actually felt like a damn basket case, to tell you the truth. The girl was fucking with every part of me, and I didn’t have a fucking clue what to do about it. But then it hit me—she was a last minute cancellation. Did she not want to be around me that much that she bac
ked out of one of the biggest races of the year because I was going to be there? Why the fuck did she hate me so much? I just couldn’t wrap my brain around it. Yeah, I’ve gotten involved with some crazy ass chicks in my day, but Amelia wasn’t one of them—she was cool and nothing like anyone I’d ever been interested in before. And we hit it off … perfectly, really. That shit was real—a blind man could see it!

  Before Micah could say anything else, I looked at my watch. I had to get the fuck in gear; the race was starting in less than an hour.

  Grabbing my number from the table, I pinned it to my shirt before walking in the direction of my trailer. I didn’t have time to think about Amelia anymore, and to be frank, I was sick of it anyway. My head needed to be clear and free of any shit so I could focus on this race.

  Because I missed qualifying yesterday, I had to start in the back with the extras. It wasn’t ideal, but wasn’t something I was going to get my panties in a bunch over either. As I sat there in line, waiting for the commentator to say whatever they say, I focused. I never listened anyway. I took a couple deep breaths and ran my gloved hands down the top of thighs, getting my head in the game.

  It was only seconds later when the metal bar dropped, causing us all to jump forward at once. There were a lot of racers, crunchy at the turns, and it took patience and diligence to weave in and out of them. It wasn’t too long, maybe just a few laps, before I noticed most of them behind me. My mind was cleared—focused. Nothing ever got in the way of my game—nothing.

  There were only two laps left, and it was just me and someone else out in the front, neck to fucking neck. I got a flashback, almost like déjà vu. This was exactly how Amelia and I were the day of our race, the day we met. I had no fucking clue it was her, or a chick for that matter, that I was fighting for the checkered flag with, but I knew that Amelia was the first person in a long ass time that gave me a run for my money. She was hardcore competition and I fucking loved it. I wasn’t about to brag, but I was a solid racer and the checkered flag was usually in my possession by the end. Winner or not, though, I liked competition. It gave me an extra rush of adrenaline—a high like no drug could give you.

  I shook my head to release the thought, the vision of Amelia racing beside me gone. Fuck! I was too late. The bastard riding my ass took the inside of the last lap, pushing in front of me, taking the lead, claiming first place.

  “Fuck!” I shouted, mostly to myself, after slipping my helmet from my head. “Dammit!” I swung my leg off my bike, pissed at myself as I stood next to it.

  “Good race, dude.” I looked up to see Kyle Potter, the winner, with his hand out.

  I wanted to fucking spit on it, pissed that I wasn’t the one with the cocky grin on my face. I never fucking lost and by the look on his face, he was happy as shit to take the checkered flag from beneath my feet. I wanted to fucking punch the bastard, but I knew it was a douchebag thing to do. I wasn’t a punk. He deserved the win. I wasn’t all in. I was consumed, my mind taken over … by Amelia fucking Driscoll.

  “It was a good race, Merrick.”

  I shot back the rest of my beer before tipping the top of it to the bartender, signaling that I was ready for another. “I shouldn’t have lost,” I told Micah without looking at him, focused on the fresh beer making its way towards me. “Thanks, man.” I took the beer from the guy’s hand with a tight grin. He did the same, slightly grinning back, but didn’t speak any words before walking away. I had a tab rolling, and by now it had to be a hefty one.

  “Yeah, well …” Micah said but didn’t finish his sentence, taking a sip of his beer instead, making me look up at him.

  “Yeah, well what?” I glared, wanting to know what he was going to say. Micah and I kept it real. I wanted to know what he was thinking, though I had a feeling it was going to piss me off.

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah, honestly!”

  “You got fucking burnt and you’re acting like a pussy over it.”

  My jaw clenched with anger as the heat accompanying it filled my body.

  “You wanted the truth,” he added, seeing the steam pouring from my nostrils, the bull inside becoming apparent.

  I did want the truth but I obviously couldn’t handle it. The truth fucking sucked! “You have no clue what went down with Amelia and me!” I yelled. I felt bad yelling at him because I never got into it with Micah. For the years that we had been friends, we’d never lifted a fist or anything to each other, but today I was raging, my blood so heated that I felt like I could go crazy on anyone … even him.

  “Dude, I know—” he started but I cut him off, standing from my stool.

  “You don’t!” I continued to yell. “No one fucking knows! She was …” I began to

  explain, justify who Amelia was to me, but I stopped and waved it off, looking towards the door instead.

  “Where ya goin’?” He looked up at me, a mix of curiosity and fear filling his face.

  I couldn’t just sit there; I was beginning to shake, I was so angry … at what, I didn’t know. I was like a bomb ready to blow. I needed air, clarity … something.

  “I need a cigarette.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything.” I turned and walked away with purpose, taking long strides to the door. I couldn’t even begin to describe how I was feeling. I was losing control of my emotions; it was becoming the norm and I couldn’t fucking stand it. I didn’t know who I was anymore or what I was even doing. I wasn’t the psychotic fuck that I was acting like, but Amelia—meeting Amelia, enjoying Amelia, being abandoned by Amelia—brought out every side imaginable with me. I knew it was hard for people to get. Really, I did. I didn’t quite believe it myself. Not many could understand how connected I could get with someone so fast, but for fuck’s sake, it happened. From the second her hair fell from her helmet at the finish line to the sweet glances she gave me at the bar, to the sweet ass look she gave me before we fell asleep … she had me—she stole everything within me and it’s like she took my normal self with her and left this crazy bastard in its place. I hated not having her here. I hated not being able to see her any time I wanted. I hated that I didn’t know if I would ever see her again. I hated acting like a whiny romantic. I hated the unknown.

  As soon as I stepped outside, I spotted a group of chill-looking guys shooting the shit in a somewhat circle. It was balls hot out for the end of March. How anyone could live in fucking Florida was beyond me. My ass would be sweating 24/7.

  I noticed the tall guy in the middle pulling a cig from his pack. I walked up beside him, scrounging up the most civil look I could. “Can I bum a smoke?”

  He looked me up and down for a minute. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like to be judged or sized up—it made me feel challenged, which made me feel like a raging lunatic. I wasn’t looking for a fight, just a break from my all-consuming thoughts.

  “Yeah, sure,” he responded, pulling one from the pack, and handing it to me along with the lighter.

  I hadn’t smoked a cigarette since I was fifteen, but it wasn’t rocket science—inhale was the only thing to remember. And exhale, I guess. Don’t swallow the smoke. Damn, smoking was difficult.

  I cringed after taking the first puff. The thing tasted like ass; exactly how I remembered. I wanted to throw the shit on the ground, but I couldn’t disrespect the dude that just gave it to me, especially since I knew these cancer sticks weren’t cheap anymore. “Thanks, man,” I said instead before turning to walk to the other corner of the building where no other people were.

  I rested my back against the cool brick. My body was boiling, half from the anger, half from the Florida heat, and the brick felt soothing against my back. My blood was still thick from the New York winter, so just the slightest increase in temperature felt like I’d walked into a sauna. The 85 degrees plus a billion humidity in Southern Florida made me miss the briskness of spring at home.

  With my free hand, I rubbed my face. What was I g
oing to fucking do? For the longest time, since I got to the city, really, I had my shit together. I didn’t have family here, most of my friends even lived in Jersey still, but I was good … content with how shit was going for me. My upbringing was less than stellar. My father, the most brilliant man I ever knew, passed away when I was young, turning my mom into a crack addict, which prompted my sister to take off. It was just my mom and I. I kept us clothed and fed and made sure she didn’t OD on a daily basis. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t have the guys and racing. Those were the only things that kept me grounded, pushing me to continue on with the shitty hand of cards I was dealt.

  With the cigarette still in hand, I ran my finger over the tattoo that filled my forearm. Not all who wander are lost. I got it a long ass time ago- I don’t even think you could have considered me a teenager when I got it. Where I grew up, it didn’t matter how old you were—you could get a goddamn tattoo fresh from the womb if you really wanted to. Apparently it’s a famous quote from The Lord of the Rings (the book). My sister said it to me right before she packed up and moved to some other country. It was the last time I’d seen her. It was the last day I had anyone I could call family. Up until that day I did feel lost. I went through each day in a fog, not knowing what the next had in store for me. I was just there … living … lost. Looking back, I wasn’t lost; yeah, I was just cycling through the days, wandering around like punk ass kid, but I wasn’t lost. No, I was at a crossroads, waiting to figure out which direction to run.

  It was December fourth, seven years ago, when I decided my path. With my check in hand from my inheritance that I finally got the April before, when I turned 21, I made my last move to New York City. Using all the cash I had, I bought a bar, got a liquor license, and ordered loads of booze, then flipped the sign to “open” three weeks later. Who’d have fucking thought that the white trash, dirt bike racing loser from Jersey could make a living owning a bar in Manhattan—a hole in the wall pub no less? I wouldn’t have believed it myself if someone told me ten years ago, but it happened. I’m not a fucking rich guy, but it does well enough; pays the bills.