Wreckless

by Katie Golding

  Shifting a little in my seat, my eyes dart to the right, where the jerk in question is sitting next to me with his earbuds plugged in, watching something on his phone. Like he’s been doing the entire freaking flight from Spielberg to Bologna, and the whole train ride from Bologna to Ravenna.

  I’d hoped that when we left Austria, we’d be able to start fresh and forget about our blowup in the paddock yesterday. That the prospect of spending ten days in Ravenna together would dissolve whatever stress is causing his jaw to be locked that tight. But crossing into Italy only seems to have made it worse.

  The world outside the windows slows and comes into focus, and it’s not much longer before we’re pulling into the station. I sigh and tuck my book into my backpack. The one I barely made ten pages’ progress through the entire trip here, because every time I went to turn a page, I realized I had no idea what I had just read. All I can hear in my head is Frank telling me not to get distracted. That I still have a long climb back to making the final podium for World Champion.

  He’s right; I do. And I plan on fighting like hell for it. But I’ve also been waking up to the idea that I don’t actually have to put all my eggs in one Dabria-shaped basket. Because the truth is, Massimo was right, and I don’t really care about the sponsors or the colors or the team names or rivalries or any of it. That’s not what makes me me.

  I just want to race, whatever that means, wherever it takes me.

  People start standing and moving into the aisle, and I nudge Massimo, waiting until he takes out his earbuds. Well, one of them at least. “Line’s clearing.”

  He checks, then looks to his phone, waving his hand dismissively and speaking in rapid-fire Italian. “Go ahead and get a taxi. I’d rather walk.” He hooks his earbud in.

  My eyes flare, but it’s not just anger burning me up. It’s the fact that those were the first words he’s said to me in hours, and he’s telling me to leave him. On a train. In the station. Because he’s going to sit here and watch that abominable stand-up comedian, be the last person off the platform, then walk all the way to his apartment instead of sharing a cab with me. Like he’s not still punishing me for whatever I did that he won’t tell me.

  My hands tighten into fists in my lap, and I’m sixteen years old again—trembling after a fight with him in the paddock, then retreating to my RV so I could cry in private, knowing it’s my fault he hates me and not knowing exactly what I did to cause it or why it hurts so much.

  Massimo’s eyes flicker in my direction but don’t stray near my face. He grabs his sunglasses and puts them on, and tears threaten my eyes. But I won’t let him see me cry. Not after yesterday.

  I stand. I grab my backpack. I cross over Massimo and reach up, getting my bag from the overhead compartment. I don’t touch his.

  “Lorina.”

  Hope sparks in my chest. Until I find that he’s handing me a set of keys, still without bothering to look at me.

  I take them. Turn. Walk away. Past the attendant who smiles at me. Past the couples strolling through the platform, hand in hand. Through the station, where people are hugging, smiling.

  In the cab. Through the winding streets of Ravenna. Get out.

  Climb the stairs, unlock the front door. Check for Chiara, find no one.

  I should be relieved I’m alone. But my house is never empty when I get there. My mom and dad are always talking my ear off with stories of the horses and farmhands until I’m kicking them out of my room, annoyed.

  I shake my head at myself, muttering to the empty apartment, “The hell am I even doing here?”

  Nothingness answers me. Because both me and the apartment know exactly what I’m doing here. I just don’t know if I’m making the right choice anymore.

  I roll my suitcase across the wood floor and into his bedroom, dropping it under the window. Open the shutters to reveal the view into the Piazza del Popolo, and my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out to answer, my shoulders dropping at the wrong name.

  “Hey,” I answer, trying to put a smile in my voice because I don’t want her to know. Taryn makes it all seem so easy: balancing racing and ranching and romance, even while she and Billy are constantly apart. But she’s happy, really happy, and she’s not afraid of the things I am.

  Actually, I don’t know if she’s scared of anything anymore.

  “How’s the new sofa looking with the—”

  Taryn gasps out a strangled breath on the phone, her voice heartbroken over the words, “Aston’s pregnant.”

  My eyes pop in shock. Taryn was ridiculously protective of her horse’s unblemished virtue. “How the hell did that even happen with Dax and Bryan there to—”

  “Freaking fence-jumping Gidget!”

  I slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. It’s not funny.

  “Yes, I am mad at you because your horny-ass stallion knocked up my mare!” she yells into the background. “I don’t care, Billy! You’re the one who taught him to jump fences like that!”

  Yeah, jumping the fence into your backyard while your parents were asleep.

  “Fine,” she says to Billy in a way that means anything but. Then her voice goes back to normal. “Honestly, that’s not even why I’m calling you.” Taryn lets out another sigh. “I just got off the phone with Mike and Werner, and the women’s division is happening.”

  I freeze in place, then double-check to make sure Massimo or Chiara didn’t come in. But nope, I’m still alone in their apartment. I quickly walk over and shut Massimo’s bedroom door, just to be safe. “Where? Is it Moto or—”

  “I don’t know. No one does.” Taryn drops her voice, a door closing in the background on her end. I’m guessing to put more space between her and Billy before she says this. “You sure you still want that meeting with Werner and MMW? I mean, I know I always joke about you ‘crossing over to the dark side’ to hang with Sophie and me in Superbike, even though you’d have to put up with Miette. But especially considering…ya know…I didn’t think you’d actually—”

  “I know what I want,” I tell her, goose bumps streaking across my skin. “Just get me that meeting.”

  She blows out a heavy breath. “Okay… Give me ten minutes.”

  Taryn hangs up, and I thwack my phone against my palm, pacing past the end of Massimo’s bed and wishing Frank was next to me for this. It’s not out of the question or even frowned upon to do what I’m about to, especially toward the end of the circuit. All the teams are busy making adjustments for next year. And especially if women’s is happening? Those manufacturers have spots to fill. A lot of them.

  But if the women’s division is in Superbike, it doesn’t bring me any closer to staying with Massimo. We’ll be living our dreams on opposite sides of the world.

  My heart pounds faster as I press my phone desperately between my palms, holding it to my lips in prayer. I tell myself on repeat that I’m making the right choice. That I’m still going to fight with everything in me to make the World Champion podium and stay with Dabria. I’ve never backed down from anything, and I didn’t come this far, work this hard to get back on my bike, just to give up now.

  I’m not losing my ride—wherever, whomever it’s with.

  Yet with every minute that passes while I’m waiting for my phone to ring, all I can think is that the door to his bedroom never, ever opens.

  The tears that were threatening to take me down in the train start to rise all over again, and even though I’m waiting on Taryn to call me back with her Superbike sponsor rep in tow, I dial Massimo’s number.

  My knee bounces, nervous, as it rings and rings. I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him. I know what I want to say: Come back to the apartment. Come take a shower with me. Come lie down with me. Just come fucking be with me and look at me like you used to, and whatever is wrong, whatever is causing this, just tell me, and I’ll find a way to
fix it.

  His voicemail clicks on. My eyes close, tears slipping down my cheeks at his voice on the recording. Saying he’s sorry he wasn’t available, but he’ll get back to me as soon as he can.

  I wish it were the truth. That he’s sorry. That he’s coming back.

  But that recording isn’t for me, and I don’t leave a message. Taryn beeps in with Werner first.

  ***

  I shift restlessly on the sofa, my mind numb to the book in front of my eyes. My head is too full of the conversation I had with Werner and relayed immediately to Frank, along with promising him that he didn’t have to follow me to Superbike if I ended up leaving Moto. That I understood if he wanted to stay with Billy and Mason after everything. Frank’s response was that we started all this together, and we stay together, whether I’m riding a bike or a six-legged duck. And as relieved as I am, I have no idea how the King brothers are going to take that if it comes down to it. Especially Mason, who probably needs Frank’s guidance more than I do at this point.

  But nothing is getting decided until after Valencia.

  “Psst!”

  My head pops up, and I lock my e-reader that’s been on the same page forever, pulling out my earbuds.

  “Want to sneak out?” Chiara whispers, her laptop open in front of her at the kitchen table.

  I sit up a little more on the sofa. She’s hardly here considering she’s usually working, and when she is, we’re…polite. She keeps mentioning going out for lunch, but I figured that was a courtesy invite and not a real one. But right now, her eyes are filled with mischief and aimed entirely in my direction. I glance toward the bathroom. Where Massimo just went to take a shower. After going running. By himself.

  His bad mood is only getting worse the closer we get to Silverstone in Great Britain—quiet until he snaps at me—and at this point, I’m just praying things will get better once he’s back on a bike, and that’s all this is.

  “He’s going to be pissed,” I whisper back.

  Chiara snorts. “Like that’s any different from how he is already? Let’s go have some fun, and he can stay here and sulk.”

  I look toward the bathroom. I don’t want to make things worse, but I’m sick to death of sitting on my ass just because he never wants to go anywhere unless it’s to his mom’s to see Dario. And while the junior of the Vitolo brothers is freaking awesome, their mom completely hates me. Maria’s apparently convinced I’m going to make Massimo move to the United States and never let him come back to Italy. Right. He’d have to want to go anywhere with me first.

  Screw it. I don’t need his permission to do what I want.

  I toss down my tablet. Chiara shoots up from the table, and in ten seconds, we’ve got shoes on, my wallet shoved in her purse, and we’re out the door, running down the stairs and straight into the piazza, bustling with life.

  The noise and air slam into me, and it’s like I can finally breathe after being cooped up in the apartment rippling with tension.

  Chiara nudges my elbow. “Where do you want to go first?”

  I look up toward the building we just ran out of, then forward again, dropping down the sunglasses I stole from Massimo. “As far as we can, as fast as we can.”

  She hooks her arm through mine, and I startle a little.

  Chiara grins. “I know exactly where to take you.”

  ***

  I tilt back my face and let the sun shine on me, full from lunch and a little drunk and having the best damn girl date with Chiara. Just like…ever.

  She took me to Mirabilandia. A freaking amusement park, and it made everything so much easier, because we didn’t have to talk about anything real. We just took turns deciding which roller coaster to ride next, and we rode them all. The iSpeed twice—it reaches the same speed as Formula 1 cars, which isn’t quite as fast as my bike, but it’s close, and I didn’t realize how much I had been starving for adrenaline while stuck on Massimo’s couch. Also because Chiara is a freaking nut.

  She has more energy than Mason on three Red Bulls, a refined palate for Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and red wine, and has perfected the art of answering catcalls by blowing kisses that end with burps. I’ve spent all day laughing. And eating. And drinking.

  And I don’t regret a thing.

  “What do you think?” Chiara asks, sitting up in her chair to top off my wineglass before emptying the bottle into hers. We’ve been hogging the table at this outdoor café for more courses than I can count. All of them delicious. “One more bottle, or should we order two and another dessert?”

  “One bottle, two desserts.”

  She snaps and points at me. “So much better. Ehi!” She signals for a waiter, and I chuckle into my glass as one zooms over, practically drooling as Chiara rattles off something that sounded like one bottle of wine and three desserts, not two. He’s still staring at her when she’s done, so she shoos at him, and he finally scampers away, nearly bumping into another table. Chiara looks at me, rolling her eyes. “I bet he brings the wrong wine, and only two of the things I ordered will be correct.”

  I laugh, raising my glass to her. “Gotta be tough, being so gorgeous.”

  She dramatically flips her hair over her shoulder. “Who am I kidding? I love it!”

  I crack up, Chiara touching her glass to mine before I drink deeper than I should, but I don’t care. I’m having fun, and it’s so good to be out. Free. Happily basking in the salty-sweet Ravenna breeze and far, far away from the drama.

  “I swear,” Chiara says, setting down her glass, “men are only good for two things.” She counts on her fingers. “Making love or moving furniture—and they are not even that good at the first one.” I crack up harder, Chiara shaking her head at me with a grin. “Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with them at the circuit.”

  I groan, setting down my glass. “Me either.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Is it bad?”

  I glance around, thankful none of the people at the nearby tables appear to be listening to our conversation. “They bet on me.”

  Chiara twitches. “What? Like…they really…”

  I nod, my eyes drifting to double-check once more that no one is listening. But everyone is eating, laughing, enjoying the weather and the food and their company. “They have a running pool whether I’m gonna crash or finish. They’ve done it for years, and they think I don’t know.”

  Chiara’s face falls, her whole body sinking back into her chair. “Lorelai…”

  I shrug it off, taking a sip of my wine with a smile. “It’s okay. My teammate, Mason King, told me when he found out about it. Actually, he keeps trying to convince me to get in on it and clean them all out.” I chuckle off the thought, shrugging again. “At least I get to ride.”

  Chiara sighs, shaking her head like she’s disappointed in all of them. Then she looks at me. Really looks at me. “You know, Massimo would never do that.”

  My eyes widen a little. It’s the first time his name has come up since we left the apartment, and I was kinda hoping to keep it that way.

  “I am serious.” She picks up her glass, winking at me. “He hates gambling.”

  My smile feels a little more real, and I swirl what’s left in my glass before I throw it back. “How long have you known him?”

  “Ugh,” she groans. “I have been stuck with that boy since I was six.”

  “That long?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She takes another drink, finishing her glass. “I met him at church. He was a mean little choir boy,” she says with a wrinkle of her nose. “Always making jokes. Always talking, talking, talking. He used to annoy his father so much, just following him around, never shutting up, and Cesare would say, ‘Massimo! Close your mouth and see with your ears, listen with your eyes.’”

  I snort. Then feel kind of bad about it.

  The waiter appears with a new bottle of wine th
at Chiara approves, then he sets down a plate of chocolate crepes topped with strawberries and whipped cream, a large slice of tiramisu, and a stack of the most incredible-looking cannoli I have ever seen in my life.

  My diet is gonna be so screwed, but it’s so gonna be worth it.

  Chiara shoos the waiter away again, scooping a huge bite of tiramisu onto her fork and holding it out to me. I lean forward and take the bite, a low moan crawling from my throat as Chiara nods at me. “The best, no?”

  “So good.” I refill our wineglasses as Chiara serves out a little bit of everything, kissing the chocolate off her fingers. “Massimo doesn’t ever really talk about his dad.”

  Chiara smiles at me like she’s got the keys to every car I’ve ever wanted to drive. “What do you want to know?”

  For some reason, I feel myself blush. “I don’t know.”

  She chuckles, happily cutting into her crepes. “He was a lot like Massimo. Impossible,” she says, and I can’t help but laugh as I dig into my cannoli. “He loved riddles and politics and Massimo’s mother, Maria, more than he needed to eat. But…he liked to take risks. He liked to gamble. And his death…” She shakes her head. “It was very difficult for Massimo.” She shoves a big bite of crepes in her mouth, whipped cream on her lip when she tilts her head, gesturing with her fork. “It was the only time I have ever seen him cry.”

  My stomach turns at the thought. Not just Massimo crying but the idea of standing over my parents’ graves. Their funerals. I set down my fork, muttering, “I can’t even imagine.”

  She nods, taking another bite. “After, he was very quiet. Still made jokes, but…”

  “He listened with his eyes?”

  “Yes,” she says, nodding. “And the things he saw, as a thirteen-year-old boy with a very sick young brother, these were not things he wanted to see.”

  I can’t bring myself to ask what they were. I’m not sure I even want to know. But Chiara takes a bite of cannoli, then fills in the blanks anyway.

  “His father, he had a moto shop,” she says, her voice a little more private as she sets down her fork. “But it was not very successful. He let his customers promise to pay him, but then he never collected on the money. Massimo says Cesare did not want to put other people in tough positions.”