by Robin Lovett
Tears lick the corners of his eyes, and he lays his arm over them to hide it. Anger rises in my belly. This is too much pressure for a twenty-three-year-old. They’re supposed to be a team, not solely dependent on one person.
I place a hand on his chest. “Very likely you’ll feel better tomorrow. If not, surely they can get by without you for one race.”
He scowls and brushes my hand away. “No. They can’t.”
I sit back, startled. He’s even more upset than I thought.
“Milan-San Remo isn’t just a race to Sergio.” His words are breathless and fierce. “Half the reason why he funds this team is because he wants to win it. He’s a lifelong cycling fan. An Italian living in France. He wanted the win in Nice, which I got. The next is San Remo across the border.”
“It’s not your problem. If you’re hurt, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“You don’t understand. He’s the money. He signs our paychecks, and I promised him last year I would win it.”
“It’s not your fault you got injured.”
“It is my fault. They wanted me to sit out Paris-Roubaix. Now I’m laid up and I screwed everyone over.” His lip curls. “Sergio threatened to cut my salary on Twitter.”
“What?”
“His tweet was, ‘I’m paying Braker to win and he’s broken his contract.’ Hashtag loser.”
I screech. “That’s barbaric!”
“It’s been deleted, but every cycling blogger saw it.” He shakes his head. “I had four reporters ask me about it yesterday.”
The urge to go homicidal on this Sergio monster heats my blood.
The front door opens and Gary walks in, sweaty in his team kit. “How’s the leg, lazy?” He dumps his helmet and gloves on the table.
“Ha. Lazy. Funny,” Terrence drawls, but his tone lightens. I’ll never understand guy humor, but apparently it requires insulting each other.
“You’re such a fucking faker. You just wanted a day off. Feeling sorry for yourself after getting your pretty face dirty in the cobbles. Pussy.”
“Yeah, well. Now I’m ugly as you.”
When Terrence isn’t looking, Gary waves a finger at me to follow him into the kitchen.
“I’m going to get some water,” I say to Terrence, then follow Gary.
Gary asks me in a low voice, “How is he?”
“Depressed. Talking like his career is over. I just got here though.”
Gary snorts. “That about covers it.”
“Is it really that bad? He said if he doesn’t race on Sunday you guys could be knocked out of the Tour. And something about Sergio threatening his contract on Twitter.”
Gary sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “He’s always like this on days when he can’t ride. He turns into a fucking baby.”
“So it’s not really that bad?”
“That Sergio crap was just him being a dick trying to get Terr to man up and do his job.” He shakes his head. “Ass backward in my opinion. Makes it worse. But the Tour thing…” He glances at Terrence. “It doesn’t help for us to worry about it.”
“He said the doctor and coach have been here multiple times.”
“Fuck.” He rubs his forehead. “This is all my fault. I never should have let him race the cobbles with me.”
“You couldn’t have stopped him, Gary. He wanted to ride for you.”
“I should’ve stayed with him this morning. He can handle the coach and doctor when he has it together, but when he feels like this—those assholes pound on him like he’s a machine. They’ll break him, not make it better.”
“Can I help?” The more Gary talks the more worried I get, but his concern for Terrence is intense. Gary will help him, even if I can’t.
He gives me a sympathetic look. “You know, Aurelia, he’s going to be a prick the rest of the day. Best if you go. He needs to sleep.”
If it were anyone else, I’d say he’s trying to get rid of me, but Gary’s number one is what’s best for Terrence.
“I’m in the way, aren’t I? He’s losing focus because of me.”
“That’s not it, Aurelia. Don’t listen to the rest of them. I’ll have him call you later, okay?”
My chin falls. “Okay.”
Terrence won’t call me later. He doesn’t need me. He has too much going on to bother with me—his temporary fling.
My stomach twists with an intrusive fear: will he want to see me again? I don’t have much time left in France. I don’t want this to be goodbye. It will be a permanent one soon.
I look back at him before I leave. He’s so miserable, his expression so agitated. He doesn’t notice when I walk out the door.
* * * * *
He texts me, asking if I’ll come over again. I’m wary that it’s a pity text because he feels bad about earlier. I go anyway. Even if he doesn’t need me, I need to see him. Twenty minutes this afternoon wasn’t enough. It’s been days without him, and I’m tired of reading books I’ve read before.
Maybe I can distract him from his injuries.
Maybe he’s going to break up with me.
My stomach revolts, and I shove the thought away. I can’t think about it.
I stop at the chocolatier to pick up some ultra-dark chocolate, the kind with no milk or sugar, the kind Terrence can eat on his cycling diet. The gourmet French kind that licks my taste buds to life from just smelling it through the wrapper.
I find him in his room in bed with ice packing his leg, and he’s searching for funny YouTube videos on his laptop.
Without looking at me, he laughs. “Have you seen this one?”
I perch next to him.
It’s a music video, with song lyrics of cycling jargon, and cyclists in outdated hipster clothes. The backup singers are girls wearing spandex shorts, pumping up bike tires. Their butts prop out each time they push down the bike pump, making it look sexy.
I laugh. “You want me to pump up your tires like that?”
“Hell yeah, baby.” He pats my hand. “This video came out when Gary and I were still in high school, racing in Trexlertown. Before Europe, before going pro, before the Olympics. I miss those days. Gary’s dad was a loser just like mine. The bikes were freedom, you know? To get away. We’d spend all day riding as fast as we could, for as long as we could, because it was fun.”
He still hasn’t met my eyes. He’s rambling, trying to distract me.
At least he’s smiling and his doomsday mood is gone. I sit on the bed, gingerly avoiding his leg. “I brought you a present.” I set the chocolate bar on his reclining stomach and hope he doesn’t notice my fingers are shaking.
“You know me too well, Lia.” He rewards me with a kiss, then rips off the wrapper and breaks off a piece. He looks at my mouth. “Open.”
“First piece for me?” It was supposed to be for him, to make him feel better, though he hardly needs it now.
“I know you want some, Lia.” He slides the cocoa between my lips, his fingers trailing behind.
I groan and close my eyes. The flavor scintillates my tongue and zings pleasure sensors in my brain. French chocolate—I’ll be sneaking some home in my suitcase when I leave.
“Good?” He watches my face and takes a bite for himself.
“Mm-mm. Hit me again,” I say, just like he did when I fed him ziti in the car after the Paris-Nice party. This could be the last time I sit here with him like this, on his bed, smiling and playing.
He moans with me, and this time chases the chocolate with a kiss. His lips heat my mouth and make the chocolate melt faster on my tongue. His lips, my God, I’ll miss them.
“I’ve been a pain lately,” he says. “I should bring you chocolate.”
“Your cycling is important. If I were in graduate school, I’d be putting my studies first, too.” It’s true. This time last y
ear, cramming for finals, finishing research papers, I was living in the library, as distant or more than he’s been this week. I wouldn’t have had time for a relationship either.
He pops a bite of chocolate in my mouth and another in his. “Tell me about your weekend. What’ve you been doing?”
“I went to Easter morning Mass.”
His eyes lighten. “I forgot about Easter. You went to church? Wait.” His eyes scrunch. “I didn’t know Filipinos were Catholic.”
“It’s the Spanish influence, like how my last name, Santos, is Spanish? My parents speak that too, along with Tagalog.”
“Tagalog?”
“One of the Filipino languages.”
“One of…”
“There are many.”
He tilts his head. “I wish I’d been here. I would’ve gone to church with you.”
“You would’ve?” A warmth spreads in my chest. I would have liked that. Going alone is hard.
“I was a good church boy when I was a kid. We weren’t Catholic, but my mom made me go to Sunday school.” His lip quirks. “When I wasn’t off riding bikes with Gary somewhere.”
He probably hasn’t been to church since he turned pro. Him ever joining me on Easter is likely a “never” kind of possibility.
He shows me more YouTube videos, and I watch, helping to finish our chocolate bar. It’s too simple though, too easy, like he’s entertaining me. Maybe he’s waiting for me to break it off with him, and he’s wasting time until I leave. He keeps space between us, not touching me with more than his elbow.
He hasn’t mentioned his leg or San Remo. He hasn’t mentioned the doping scandal with Grabe or the troubles with his press interviews. He’s just watching his computer, hardly looking at me.
“Terrence, stop.” I pause his hand on the laptop mouse.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why did you invite me over?”
“Why did—?”
“You don’t need me.”
“Need you? What do you mean, ‘need you’?” He tries to adjust himself on the bed and cringes when the movement hurts his leg.
I slide away from him, not wanting to hurt him. He needs more space than I’m giving him.
“Lia, don’t go.” He reaches for me when I move off the bed. The gesture is a comfort. Maybe he will miss me, a little.
“You have your cycling, and you’re busy racing, and I’m just—and you don’t—” I wring my hands. I don’t want to have to say it.
“What, Lia? I don’t know what you mean.” He leans on his elbow toward me, his face adamant and begging for me to speak.
“The coach and Ralph. They’re right.” I whisper, “I’m in your way.”
He squints and shakes his head, his mouth opening and closing, no words coming out.
It’s true, and he doesn’t want to have to say it either. “I get it.” I stand. “You don’t have time for me anymore.” I’d rather believe it’s because of time than because he’s tired of me.
“Stop it.” His face cements. “Why are you leaving me?”
“Leaving you?”
“Is it because of my leg? I’m sorry I’m no good for sex stuff, but I thought you liked spending time with me.”
“That’s not—”
“My mistake.” He refocuses on his laptop. “Go, if you want.”
I’m not certain what’s going on. He thinks I’m only here for sex? “Why would you think that? I haven’t even had the courage to have sex with you.”
“It’s all I’m good for, right? I’m a stupid jock who can’t read. I can’t even speak French.”
“You are smart. And you do understand French.”
“But you shouldn’t be spending time with me. I’m a waste. You’re better off with some French guy.”
I think of Paul, asking me to coffee. “I could spend more time with boring French guys, but—” I don’t know if he’s pushing me away because he wants me to go, or because he’s so insecure that he doesn’t know the truth. “I like spending time with you.” I fidget and stare at my hands. “But you were entertaining me with YouTube videos because you would rather I go.”
“No. It’s because I—I thought that you— Urgh!” He grabs at his hair. “I thought you’d leave if I didn’t entertain you somehow. Obviously, the real reason why you’re here isn’t happening.”
“I didn’t come to see you because I want sex. I came because I—” I don’t want to admit how much I missed him over the weekend, how boring my life is without him. “Why do you want me here when you have so many more important things to worry about?”
“Because I hate the worrying. And I—” His face is open, vulnerable, as exposed as I’ve ever seen him, except in orgasm. “I do need you.”
“I’m not in your way?” I walk back to him.
“You make it better. I know I was mean this afternoon. I felt bad asking you to come back, but I missed you.” He fiddles with the laptop. “Selfish.”
I kiss his forehead. “I only left because Gary said you needed to sleep.”
His eyes widen. “Bastard. He didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, you did sleep, didn’t you? I think he was right.”
“I did, but—he’s still an asshole.” He puts his arm around me, as best as he can without hurting his leg. “Sit with me?”
“Yes.” I cuddle with him, stealing a kiss, two. “I thought you were breaking up with me.”
“No.” He moans, a pained sound, and burrows his head against my breast. “No, no.” Then, so quietly I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hear, he murmurs, “I’m scared.”
I whisper, “Of what?”
He nuzzles deeper into my chest and says against my shirt, “Of losing.”
“The race?”
“Everything.”
I hold him closer. I don’t want him to feel this way. I wish I hadn’t stopped him from watching his YouTube videos. Me and my stupid, irrational fear. “You won’t,” I say into his hair.
“Everyone’s against me.” He’s breathless. “The world thinks I’m a doping fraud. The team management thinks I’m a failure.”
“Gary’s on your side.” I stroke his hair. “And so am I.”
He clings to me like he never wants me to go.
I can’t sleep over. The single bed won’t fit both of us with his leg propped up. Goodbye kisses go on forever. His arms are like the comfort of warm chocolate, his lips like the burn of hot coals. He turns my insides gooey and my limbs to jello, disintegrating my will to leave.
He teases me with a hand on my breast and whispers in my ear. “Do you want one?”
“One what?” My liquid brain is as swollen as I am between my legs.
His fingers sneak under the waistband of my pants. “An orgasm.”
I don’t have time to answer him, his fingertips are already massaging me there, and my words are stolen from my mouth in subsequent cries. He reaches inside me like he’s tracing the contours of my heart.
I can’t stop him. I come too fast to protest.
I’m barely finished before I’m groping him. “I thought you said you were no good for this?” I tease, finding him hard enough to come as fast as me.
“I guess I lied.” His head falls back.
I slide my hand over him, squeezing on the up and twisting on the down. With my new techniques, I play games with him to see how much I can make him moan before he comes.
I’m getting very good.
It takes so long for us to say goodbye that I’m left walking my bike home after sunset.
After his confessions, I know he’s as attached to me as I am to him.
I’m worried for him, though. I’d thought him such a consummate winner and leader, I’d forgotten he was a fallible man with fears and weaknesses. Healthy, I know he can win on Sund
ay, but under so much pressure, he could race while still injured and hurt himself irreparably. The drive to win could force him beyond what is humanly possible.
Even though he says he needs me, the cycling could still be too much for him to have time for me.
And even if he has time for me, I’m leaving in three weeks. I’m leading him on. I’m leading myself on. Our time together is measured. It always has been. Him being attached, me being attached, it’s meaningless.
When I leave France, we’ll be over.
The thought wads up my insides, crinkling and bunching them like discarded paper.
…over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next morning, my phone rings while I’m teaching. I know it’s Terrence. I can’t concentrate on the rest of my lecture.
As soon as my class leaves, I listen to the voicemail, pressing my phone to my ear:
“Lia, it’s me. We’re going to Italy.” His voice is strained but less anxious than yesterday. There’s a new note of determination in his tone. “My leg’s a little better this morning, but we’re going to see a doctor over there and to train on the roads near Milan so—so—I’m not going to see you.”
There’s a pause, and I hear the other guys talking, like they’re riding in a car. “Gary asks if you’ll check on Caroline again.”
His voice lowers to a whisper, close to the speaker like he’s covering his mouth. “I’m sorry to leave so fast again, Lia. But—” His voice catches on the end, and he swallows. “I’ll be back on Monday. Win or lose, I will see you in six days. I can’t wait. I miss you. I do. I luh—” There’s a pause on the line, a hesitation in his voice, like he’s considering saying something but can’t. “I, yeah, really miss you. See you Monday.”
Before he hangs up, I hear Ralph jeer in the background, “Aw, Braker’s really going to miss you, Frenchie!”
My insides twist and knot.
I walk onto the school quad, dazed. The weather is springtime beautiful, the sun warm, all the students wearing sandals and tank tops.
Terrence is going to Italy for six days. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.