by Mia Carson
It was just… I had never dared to dream I could be with someone. I never, ever considered letting my guard down with someone until James. And as soon as I did, look at what happened. Every expectation of being with an immature racer playboy was what I got. I felt foolish, stupid that I’d got my hopes up, an idiot for trusting someone, and that I had been right to keep myself at a distance from people all these years. Somehow, though, these realizations didn’t make me feel any better.
I called Geoffrey and told him I was suffering from something. I was sorry, blah, blah, blah, but the groundwork was laid for someone else to take on Dunlop. I needed to be away from that scene right now or I’d never be able to concentrate. A couple of days and they’d assign me another project, and then it would be business as usual. Back to my old, confident, fuck-me-and-get-out self.
My excuses to Geoffrey made, I decide to veg for the day. It had been a long time since I’d done that. Sure, I was likely to spend some of the time feeling sorry for myself or thinking about James, but the rest of the time I’d be eating chocolate, Skittles, or chips, drinking the occasional glass of Talisker eighteen-year-old, and binge-watching Game of Thrones.
I was doing just that when my cell phone rang. I sent it to voicemail because I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, and I was enjoying watching some of the main characters being particularly despicable to each other. It rang again, an 831 area code. I had no idea where that was and was sure I didn’t know anyone there, so they could suck it. It rang again. That was it. Whoever it was clearly thought their issues were more important than mine, so I answered it to tell them otherwise.
“This had better be good,” I demanded.
“Summer.” It was him, and it sounded like he was driving. “Can I talk to you?”
“I don’t want to speak to you right now,” I said and hung up. Wow, I hadn’t expected to hear from him. I’d drawn a line emotionally through us, I thought. Yet, an annoyingly large part of me was happy to hear his voice. So happy that I started shaking. Given these conflicting emotions, I wasn’t ready to decide how I felt just yet. I wanted to forget about everything for a while and figure out what to do another day, but my phone kept ringing. He was not going to let it be, so I let out a long breath to calm myself, steeled my nerves, and answered him.
I let him say what he needed to. It was hard to stay mad, considering I had had sex with someone else as well. And then, not directly, maybe even accidentally, he said he thought he was in love with me. My heart leapt. I sat up in bed and my breathing sped up to match the pounding in my chest. My head swam, and I couldn’t think about anything else, couldn’t listen to the other things he was saying.
I did make out that he asked me to visit him at his home in California. There was no way I could give him an answer to that right now, so I told him I’d think about it. We hung up, and I stayed still and quiet for a while, trying to decide what to do but failing every time my heart screamed at me to go see him. Part of me longed for him, longed for his touch, but another part of me was so scared, terrified about how this could turn out. The only thing was I couldn’t figure out if I was scared that we’d hurt each other or scared that we’d actually work as a couple.
The day drifted into the next, and I was woken around mid-morning by a knock at my door. It had to be a delivery, so I yelled to leave it on the porch. I was in no way presentable to the world, even to a UPS delivery man. I had to fix myself up, anyway, so I showered, put on some fresh, comfortable clothes, made some coffee and toast, and went out to see what had been left for me.
Waiting outside was a wicker basket containing two bottles, some small tins, and an envelope, all wrapped with a big red bow.
Really? If he was sending me gifts, he really had no idea who he was dealing with. Maybe we wouldn’t work as a couple after all. I brought it inside, set it on my kitchen counter, and stripped off the plastic wrap. I looked at a Lagavulin 37-year-old single malt and a bottle of The Balvenie 40-year-old— about ten thousand dollars’ worth of scotch. There was also a selection of fine cheeses and crackers and a white envelope. I opened it, and out fell an airplane ticket. One-way, first class, to Monterey via LAX.
I wasn’t about to let him buy me off with baubles and fancy gifts. I needed some time before I even thought about meeting him at his home, and I needed him to know I wasn’t the kind of girl who was impressed by shiny things. Part of me was actually a little angry that he thought presents might sway my decision, but I was impressed with his choice of gifts.
The next day, I went to work, but when I got home in the evening, my front lawn had been covered with flowers. I wasn’t a savage, so while flowers were a clichéd romantic gesture as far as I was concerned, I could appreciate their beauty. And the selection I’d come home to was astonishing. So many colors and forms…I didn’t know enough about them to know what they were, or how much they cost, but I knew they were expensive.
I felt like he genuinely wanted me for a second, but then I felt insulted again. I knew James was a wealthy playboy racer, but I was starting to wonder exactly how wealthy. If he was obscenely rich, which it looked like he might be, this seemed like just another example of how the rich thought they could buy whatever they wanted, including people’s feelings. If he could afford to send me ten thousand dollars’ worth of whisky, it meant that ten thousand dollars’ worth of whisky was no big deal to him, which made it basically worthless. I made a call.
“Are you home yet?” I asked him as soon as he answered.
“Yup, safe and sound.” He sounded so damn cocksure, like he was ready to receive a big ‘thank you’ and an ‘I love you.’
“Good,” I said, “then you have time to stop whatever other crap you have heading to my house.”
“What?” he sounded confused and disappointed. “You didn’t like the whisky? The flowers?”
“I’m not a hooker to be bought with your great wealth, James,” I spat at him. “I poured the scotch down the sink. I need you to come up with something real, not a gesture you can simply pay someone else to arrange.”
I hung up and turned my phone off. If we were going to have a relationship, I wasn’t going to let his money put him in a position of power. I needed to know he wasn’t going to treat me badly before I let him into my heart, and I needed him to know he wouldn’t be able to just say sorry and by me a rose if he did betray me. I wasn’t going to end up crying over him for days at a time like my mom did for my father.
I took the rest of the week off and left town. I headed across Texas towards the mountains, into New Mexico, and climbed up to Santa Fe. It was a good ten-hour drive through a lot of bare, scrub-covered fields broken up by small, poor towns that had grown up around enormous grain silos. But it was also beautiful, with mountains in the distance on three sides. I loved driving through the old Santa Fe town where the buildings took on the orange clay, adobe shapes and looked like nothing else in this country.
I reached my destination and parked outside one of those picture-perfect houses and rang the doorbell. Mom answered, her little white west-highland terrier, Jasper, under her arm, and smiled. She looked stunning—still glamorous, but then, she was only in her mid-forties. Her hair was still long and black, like mine, and her figure still trim. Jasper barked excitedly as she invited me in.
We caught up for a little while, then went out for dinner. Mom suggested a drink while we waited. I’d brought the Lagavulin 37 to give to her, and she was mightily impressed—as if I’d really pour either of those bottles down the sink. At least James would be pleased if he knew we’d enjoyed them. Damn, it was smooth.
“Well…” She smiled, enjoying her drink. “Whoever gave you this stuff, if you don’t want him, send him to me!”
“That’s what I needed to talk to you about, Mom,” I said. “I think I might actually want to be with this guy, but I’m scared.” And I told her everything. I’ve always been able to tell her everything. I needed her to tell me what to do.
“So, he h
as great taste in whisky, exceptional taste in women… What’s there to think about?”
“He’s a motorcycle racer,” I said. Somehow, I’d forgotten to include that point earlier.
Mom took a long breath, mulling over this news. “You know,” she began, pouring herself another three-hundred-dollar glassful, “some of the best years of my life were with a racer.”
“And some of your worst years,” I reminded her.
“I don’t know if that’s true.”
“You don’t remember the years of fighting with Dad?” I asked her. It was a stupid question. Of course she did.
“I remember fighting, sure,” she said, “but I also remember the feeling when he came home. How happy we all were in those weeks between races. I think your mind remembers a lot more fighting than there actually was.”
“But you were always arguing because he was screwing around.”
“No, we weren’t. We argued because I thought he was screwing around. I could get possessive back then. I would have a couple of drinks and start a fight because he wanted to go to races without us as you got older. He swore it was because he didn’t want you there in case he got hurt. I would accuse him of just not wanting us around, cramping his style.” My mom stared at a picture of my dad on the wall, sitting on his race car, smiling, and waving.
“But he was unfaithful, right?” I asked. I’d always assumed I knew what happened with my parents.
“I never had any proof,” she admitted. “He never acted like he was. He never tried to spend any more time away from us than he had to. I spoke to your Uncle Reggie”—he was not my uncle really. Reggie was Dad’s team boss—“years later. I asked him, and he said he never saw your dad with anyone but us.”
“So he really just wanted to keep me from seeing anything bad?” I muttered. I felt crushed. How could I have harbored this resentment against him for so long when all he did was look out for me?
“That’s right, angel.” She smiled at me again. “Remember, racers are just people. People that do an unreal job. They’re not more or less arrogant, immature, or anything else than the rest of the planet. Sure, some are cheating assholes, but some are nice guys. The worst thing about dating a racer is you both know he’s going to get hurt at some point, and no matter what you say, he won’t admit to it.”
“So I’ll never get him to quit racing?” I asked her.
“Not if you want to keep him. He’ll have to quit on his own,” she said. “You might persuade him to quit, but he’ll hate you for it eventually.”
So all this time I’d assumed the worst about people like James based on some misunderstood behavior of my father’s. I felt, simultaneously, like a great weight lifted off me and a terrible hole grew in my chest. I could be free, free to love and enjoy life with James, but it hurt when I thought about the way I must have made him feel. What if I’d driven him away? All my resentment towards him because he was a racer was unfounded, yet I’d been kicking him for it all along.
Later that night, as I lay in bed, it all sank in. I hated myself for misjudging my father. I cursed myself for projecting that onto James, a man I could be in love with. Tears rolled down my face as I tried to get my head around all the choices I’d made in my life, all the people I must have hurt, thanks to these walls I’d kept myself behind.
***
I stayed with my mom until Sunday, then headed back to Austin. I was trying to pluck up the courage to tell James how I felt about him, but I had no idea where to start, what to say, or if he was even still interested in me. I felt like shit for not responding better to his gifts, but above all, I wanted him to call and tell me he still wanted me. I desperately wanted to call him and tell him I couldn’t wait to see him, but that last part of me wouldn’t allow it. I still didn’t want to show weakness, and I wanted to be chased.
On Monday, I was at work when lunchtime rolled around. I was trying to decide where to eat when I got yet another delivery. It was small this time. I tipped the messenger and sent him on his way, then opened the package to see I’d just received my lunch: a hamburger, fries, and one of those little mini bottles of champagne. There was a card that read ‘A delicacy where I come from.’ I couldn’t help smiling when I thought about the room service he’d ordered on that amazing first night.
I called him again. I had told him to quit with the expensive gifts and come up with something real. This package couldn’t have cost more than ten dollars, but it stirred up all the right emotions. That first night together clearly meant as much to him as I was now realizing it had meant to me.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” I asked him as soon as he’d said hello. He must have been able to hear the smile in my voice.
Sucking air in noisily through his lips, he replied, “Bad news. I have to be in Argentina on Thursday.”
“Argentina, huh?” I quipped. “I haven’t been there in years.”
James
That changed everything. Summer would be there. I could switch right back into being excited about the race. The only problem was that the anticipation of her joining me made it hard to focus.
Still, Argentina was an amazing country, with a vibe and feel totally different from anywhere in the States. The small town of Termas de Río Hondo was known for its hot springs and spa resorts, but over the last couple of years, it had been revamped by having to host the annual Moto GP at the nearby track, or Autódromo. No grand hotels here, but there was a pretty nice spa called Los Pinos, about fifteen minutes from the circuit, which I usually booked team JSR into, but there was no kind of central hotel hub like you might find at races in major cities.
The local airport definitely felt newer and more modern since we were there last year, but the best car I could rent was still only a Nissan Maxima. As the team arrived, we unloaded the truck from the cargo plane, sorted out transport for everyone, and got on with the business of racing.
Friday was my first opportunity to get on the track. I had a nice morning session, getting everything dialed in. During my first lap after lunch, I went into turn seven a little too aggressively and slipped on cold tires. In the grand scheme of things, it was no big deal. What I wasn’t going to tell Keith and Ray was that I’d been daydreaming about Summer when I should have been concentrating on riding. Like all my other thoughts about Summer, these were none of their fucking business.
We hit the ground at about sixty miles per hour, and I slid along on my butt into the gravel trap, placed there specifically to slow sliding bikes and riders before they hit the tire wall. Laying still on the sharp stones, I wiggled my fingers and toes to make sure everything still worked. So far, so good. I picked myself up and dusted myself off. My leathers had no holes, and I seemed to be okay, so it could have been worse. Except I’d have to wait for a recovery truck to come and haul my battered bike back to the pits.
The problem with gravel traps was that when careening bikes flew through them, they tended to pick up a few pounds of loose stones in their engines, which could make it a little difficult to get them started again. That was racing, though. The wait for recovery meant we missed out on a lot of the practice session, so I cursed myself for not being entirely focused on the job at hand. Still, I couldn’t stop wishing Summer would get here. At least then I wouldn’t have to keep wondering when it would happen.
Back in the pits, Ray and Keith berated me for falling off, while Other James busied himself fussing with my number-two bike, making sure it was ready to go. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It just meant we had to start from scratch regarding suspension settings and gearing, all of which gave me a few minutes to look forward to Summer joining me later. Damn, I couldn’t stop picturing her here with me. I couldn’t stop feeling aroused and imagining us together. Most of all, I was screwing up this race because I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I needed to get a grip.
She hadn’t told me which day she was flying in, and she wouldn’t let me pay for her flight. She insisted on making her own
arrangements. I couldn’t wait for her to join me, though. It had been two weeks, and I still felt as excited to see her as when we first met, grinning like an idiot every time I thought about it. I had a chance to discover all those new things about her. Her past, her future plans, her favorite places to go, exactly where she liked to be touched…
Keith kicked my foot, breaking me out of my reverie.
“You do know I’m your boss, right?” I asked him.
“Yeah, whatever. Just get on your fucking bike.”
*****
It was Friday night, and she still hadn’t arrived. We went for dinner as a team, but the guys noticed I was withdrawn and quieter than usual. A couple of times, Keith and Ray mocked me as a lovesick puppy, ‘taking the piss,’ they called it. It’s a strange English custom that seemed to involve many unfeeling and heartless remarks at my expense, all designed to make me feel like they actually cared. It did work a little, but I was still disappointed. I was starting to feel lost without her, panicking that she may not be coming after all.
Rays of sunshine beamed down onto the outdoor pools of Los Pinos spa to indicate the dawn of Saturday, and despite a couple of tender heads among my race team, we had morning practice, followed by a timed session in the afternoon to determine grid position. The early morning sun was soon replaced by clouds, and a light rain fell for most of the morning, which meant few of us went out. Racing in the rain is no fun, at least as far as I was concerned. And, with it forecast to be dry in the afternoon and on Sunday, there was not much point wasting the tires or fuel. Plus, as Ray pointed out, we didn’t have any more bikes if I wrecked another one.
I sat in the little kitchenette in our truck, trying to watch TV. I studied footage from last year’s race, trying to see where the fast boys found extra drive or went into turns deeper. Only it wasn’t working. It started as idle thoughts, feelings, and sensations I had experienced with Summer that first night together. But my mind turned to less pleasant wanderings. I really knew very little about her. I quickly dismissed thoughts that she might be some sort of femme fatale serial killer or sadistic psycho as ridiculous, but I then started thinking about her reluctance to let anyone in and these strange rules she had. Was I actually condemning myself to a relationship with a self-serving, selfish bitch I was going to have to jump through hoops for, just to have a quiet life?