by Mariah Dietz
“He trained the Knights,” I say, my voice wavering on defensive.
Tommy’s lips dip with a shrug to show he isn’t impressed. “They had a name and title before they even proved themselves on a bike.”
I know for certain Tommy comes from more money than the Knights. A lot of kids who want to practice indoors and get coaches are upper class.
“I mean, they’re good and all. I’m not saying anything…” his palm stretches, “I mean, they’re … obviously … good.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s hard and short, coming from mostly shock and disgust with him trying to downplay how good of riders both the Knight brothers are. I know I am biased, but without a single doubt, they are undisputedly among the top contenders in the industry.
“What are you doing here?” Tommy asks quickly, attempting to change the subject.
This time, I shrug. “I thought, ‘What the hell?’”
“That’s awesome. You have so much experience and skill under your belt. I bet the kids will love having you coach them.”
“Yeah, I’ve worked a lot with Kash’s daughter, Mercedes,” I tell him.
“Really?”
I nod.
“He doesn’t teach her?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, he works with her a ton, but she’s a lefty like I am, so sometimes I’m able to relate more easily.”
“I’m in town for ten days. We should hang out. Grab something to eat, go up and see Hood, take a ride, whatever.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Maybe?” He cocks his eyebrows. Rejection looks crazy good on him. “Are you seeing Kash?”
“We’re friends.” I give my blanket response with a clipped tone.
“Your number hasn’t changed, has it?”
“Nope.”
He smiles. While Chase’s eyes and friendly demeanor remind me so much of Kash, his smile is an exact replica of Tommy’s.
“Saturday. We’ll make a day of it,” Tommy says.
“A day?”
“I’ve known you for more than ten years. I don’t think we need to try coffee in public to ensure I’m not a creeper and you’re not psycho, do you?”
“I’m fairly certain the jury is still out on the creeper part.”
He smiles again, and my heart speeds up.
“See you Saturday, Summer.”
I’M RESTLESS. I have colored two pages of bad words, the colors growing as dark as my mood. Lo says she draws images she can’t erase from her mind, I’m coloring my emotions. Doing so isn’t improving my disposition, though, and my hand is cramping.
My phone rings, and my heart races. It feels as though I’ve spent an hour riding, my breathing labored and my pulse noticeable in my head and neck. I am confident it’s Kash. There is no way it can’t be. We haven’t spoken in over twenty-four hours, and that hasn’t happened in years.
Three colored pencils, a pillow, and the TV remote fall to the floor as I lunge for the coffee table to retrieve my phone. I don’t even care that I look and feel both desperate and anxious.
My heart feels like it comes to a complete stop before racing again to make up for the lack of blood flow. Lo wearing a witch’s hat and a gold-and-maroon-striped scarf is on the screen of my phone. I don’t want to answer. Talking to people is at the bottom of my list of things I like to do, especially today. Talking to people who know me isn’t even on the list. Her face vanishes as my phone informs me I have missed a call.
A second later, it vibrates.
Lo: You okay?
Sighing deeply, I consider ways to answer.
I could choose:
A) Ignore it, and later tell her I had already fallen asleep before her call.
But it’s only 8 p.m. There’s a difference between stretching the truth and blatantly lying, and I know this would be the latter. So would she. Generally, I’ve never cared if someone knew I was lying, even to their faces. It serves as a reminder that they need to mind their own business and to leave me alone. My flippant responses feel far less formidable when directed at someone I know and care about, though.
B) Lie and tell her I’m sick to explain my absence.
C) Keep it short and simple, and tell her it’s nothing.
Or D) Admit to her that I need some time and space from Kash. She would likely understand.
All of my options seem daunting, each possibly revealing something I’m not comfortable with discussing.
My phone vibrates again, and I briefly close my eyes to prepare myself for the next text, likely urging me to discuss my feelings.
Lo: If you need some time, I will make something up and take care of it.
Lo lies worse than I do, but I am both relieved and concerned about her response. She isn’t pushing me to tell her anything, but she clearly realizes something is wrong.
I rake my fingers over my hair which is loosely knotted on the top of my head, while wondering if Kash has even realized I was gone today. He must have because I’m never absent during the week unless there’s another arrangement.
Me: I’ll be there tomorrow, bright and early. I’m going to watch a movie and then head to bed. See ya tomorrow.
I turn my phone back off, so I don’t have to see if she responds because the effects of guilt are nearly as bad as the effects of regret.
Because I said I was going to, I put on a movie, one that’s supposed to be so hilarious that I won’t be able to drink while it plays for fear it will spew out of my nose. I don’t laugh once, not even a chuckle. Instead, I resent watching the female on-screen being so ridiculously needy and dependent on the male character, and I loathe him for being a complete and total dickhead.
My sheets feel cold and crisp when I climb into them, wearing an old pair of men’s boxers with the words Gobble, Gobble written all over them with small turkeys in every fall shade imaginable. Even in the coldest temperatures, I love the feeling of cotton sheets, especially when they have been freshly laundered, like these. I pull the blankets and duvet up to my chin, shivering as the threads absorb my warmth.
Rain echoes in the silence of my house. Usually it’s like white noise for me, aiding me to sleep. Tonight, I can’t stop focusing on it.
I FEEL EXHAUSTED. It doesn’t seem possible for it to be 8 a.m. Last night crept so slowly for so long, and then the past four hours vanished in seconds. My head aches. My back aches. My hip aches. I know it frosted outside without even looking. My eighty-year-old joints tell me so as I slowly maneuver myself out of bed. Doctors have mentioned that warmer and drier climates would help the arthritis that has taken up permanent residency in my injured joints. I’ve never considered the idea before.
Cranking the shower faucet as hot as it will go, I wait until steam begins to build by grabbing the space heater I use in my bathroom to ensure the room is hot when I get out. There’s no way I could take a cold shower today even if it were my only option. I’d choose smelly and frizzy rather than pained. The heater ensures I won’t face the same discomfort when the water is shut off.
I am too tired to overthink what will happen when I get to Kash’s. I don’t even seem to care. It’s like all the worrying I have done over the past couple of days has finally been rescinded, and I’m coming to terms with the fact that things might change between Kash and me—until I mentally repeat the word change about fifty times, that is. Then, I feel overwhelmed and don’t even have a specific fear. Instead, it feels as though I have a looming cloud of emotions over my head making me angry, resentful, frustrated, and generally pissed off while I finish scrubbing myself clean.
Once dressed, I head to the kitchen to get some breakfast and pop some pills to take a bit more of the edge off that the shower was only able to touch on. The bathroom is now too hot to do my hair or makeup, anyway.
I slice a banana into my cereal, and then pull the zipper on my sweatshirt all the way to my chin. There are days when moving around and riding can help get my body get warmed up, serving to loosen my tight muscles and relieve som
e of the pains I experience, and other days, it only seems to aggravate it. I’m really hoping it will ease it today, allowing me to ride and not have to sit in the office all day with Kash where I will either feel compelled to say something to get us on a mutual page or release some of the anger I am feeling.
The rest of getting ready seems prolonged as I focus entirely too much on each individual step to prevent my mind from slipping to excuses to stay gone for another day. I need to go over there and act like I don’t care and am not falling apart even if my body has to fall apart in order to keep my facade.
I put one of my Blue October CDs in, skipping to the songs that feel as if they were written by someone who knows the inner workings of my emotions, ones that often seem so contradictory. I hate myself. I love myself. I’m confident. I’m seeking assurance. I don’t want to be around anyone. I need to be around someone.
Parker is standing on the porch when I pull up. His hair is now so long he’s taken to wearing it in a bun most of the time. There’s no doubt I will be teasing him about it no less than fifteen times today, even though he pulls off the look nicely. If I didn’t, they would definitely think something was bothering me, and nothing is. I am fine.
I tug my hood up and pocket my keys as I make a dash for the house, getting pelted by icy drops on my hands and ankles where my skinny jeans are still hiked up from sitting in my truck.
“You off the rag finally?” Parker asks with a smile that tells me he knows I’m going to punch him.
While his words sound offensive, I know they’re not intended to be.
“You’re going to need a rag here soon, and some hair plugs.” I give his hair a firm tug.
Parker laughs and holds the door open for me. He might try to hide his manners, but they’re in there, buried beneath layers of innuendos, euphemisms, and sarcasm. No wonder people mistake us for siblings.
The house smells of the orange-scented cleaner again. Last year, it was a fairly consistent scent here in the Knight house, replacing the musty day-old food perfume that used to lead us all out to the shop.
I already know what’s on the agenda today, like I knew what I would miss yesterday when I chose not to show up. All our plans are created a week in advance, so we can plan accordingly. We create the schedules together every Wednesday, which means we’ll be starting today off by spending a solid hour in the office.
“You know who I heard was in town?” Parker hangs both of our coats.
“Santa Claus? No, wait, Tom the Turkey? Pilgrims? Indians ready to take back their land and get vengeance for murder and disease?”
“What kind of fucked up holiday cheer is that?” he scowls. “I’m going to sit your ass down and make you watch the Hallmark Channel until your grumpy ass is deserving of King’s feast.”
“Don’t lie. You don’t share.”
He laughs, gripping my shoulder and painfully digging his fingers in between my clavicle and neck. The gesture has me punching him in the stomach, something he was already expecting based off his flexed abs.
“Touchy?”
“You’re such an ass.”
Parker’s laughter grows.
We enter the office to find King and Kash already seated, a bag of bagels in the middle of the table. I love a good chewy bagel, but since I hit twenty-five, they like me a little too much and insist upon latching on to my thighs and butt. Since Florida, I’ve been struggling to comfortably fit into most of my clothes, so I try not to be bothered by Kash’s bagel that’s loaded high with cream cheese and lox. Damn men and their super metabolisms. I damn him a second time when it takes ten full seconds for his eyes to look up at me. I keep his stare, forcing him to feel obligated to do the same.
He’s freshly showered, his hair still faintly damp, and he smells strongly of cologne. Usually, he only wears cologne on days we travel, something I’ve never understood but have come to expect.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
Kash’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. He looks baffled. “No. Why?”
I shrug, feeling silly for explaining the details I know so intimately.
“How are you feelin’?” King asks, ending Kash and mine stare as we both turn to acknowledge him.
My lips grow tight and I nod. “Fine, thanks.”
“So, what’s on the agenda today, boss?” Parker grabs a small stress ball from King’s desk and tosses it in the air.
“I kind of thought we’d go to a park or something today. Maybe check out a school playground?”
We all turn to Kash with shared curiosity.
He swallows, keeping his gaze fixed on the pad of paper in front of him, as he continually spins a pen over his thumb with his nimble fingers that look so large in comparison to the slender object. The movement is another thing I’m familiar with, one that I have always found captivating because it’s so simple, and yet looks almost elegant. Plus, there’s the fact that I’ve tried it, and it’s a lot harder than he makes it look.
“I think we could use a day where we just have some fun riding.”
“We only have three months until LA,” King reminds him.
“Yeah, but the routine needs some inspiration. Maybe this will help,” Kash says.
“I love it!” Parker says enthusiastically.
Ignoring my stiff muscles and joints, I do too.
We used to go out all the time and ride around town, finding abandoned lots and slow parks, utilizing the equipment, stairs, and anything else in our paths.
“What about the rest of the week?” King asks, forever the planner.
Kash shrugs. “Let’s just ride.”
I want Kash to feel my eyes boring into him, prompting him to look up. While we have experienced plenty of un-scheduled weeks with only the intention to ride and have a good time, we’re too close to several deadlines, including a marketing release and the competition King mentioned, to exclude any plans.
King sits up straighter. I can tell he doesn’t like this idea—at all. But he doesn’t voice his objections, either.
His chair scoots loudly against the wood floor, and he stands, a hand raised to pinch the slight bridge in his nose. “You want to ride from here or park in town?”
Kash looks at me, his brown eyes wide as he watches me for a few beats. “Here,” he says. “That way, we don’t have to worry about parking.”
Parker claps. Every muscle in his body is moving as he bounds to the door. It’s the adrenaline begging for a release now that there’s a prospective promise. King follows close behind him. Feeling Kash’s warm arm brush against mine makes me wish I had stood up faster so I could be closer to both of them rather than allowing the several feet gap between them and us.
The crackling of plastic has me looking down to see a package of black licorice in his hand. For a split second, I’m excited. This could be a peace offering. An attempt to flirt. A friendly gesture. I want it. Whatever it is, I want it.
Then, I think of all the things I have accepted, chosen, and bought because of Kash, and my hand that I was extending to accept the candy draws back. “No, thanks.”
“Summer, we need to talk.” Kash spins to face me, and stops. This time as we stand chest-to-chest I feel the same familiar desire to touch him, but the urge to push him away is even more prominent.
“Everything’s cool.”
“I know,” he says. “But, I want to make sure you’re okay with us.”
“Yeah, of course,” I answer too quickly.
His hand runs over his unruly hair with a sigh. “I don’t know. You just seem kind of … upset.”
“Why would I be?” I stare at him with accusation in my eyes.
Having him approach the subject of us sleeping together like this pisses me off even more. Of course things are weird. Obviously I’m pissed. Yes, things are changing. What did he expect after we’d slept together and he proposed we remain friends? You can’t use the word friend after sleeping together without the insinuation that it was nothing more t
han a fun hookup. In this case though, it isn’t fun. I care about him, and he knows it, regardless of me not saying the actual words. Everyone in the goddamn industry knows I care about him. Strangers know it! Of course, he does.
“Let’s go!” Parker bellows from the driveway where he’s already mounted his bike.
The front door is wide open, confirming this is neither the time nor place to discuss this, and since it’s Kash, it likely never will be.
While this is one of the most important and consequential conversations we might ever need to have, for the first time ever, I don’t want to encourage him to discuss things. I am tired of always being the one to extend an olive branch and crack him open. If he doesn’t want to discuss things with me, then that alone tells me everything I need to know.
MY MUSCLES PROTEST every inch my leg rises to get on my bike, and then scream when I balance on the narrow seat. I suck in a deep breath and try to focus on my core muscles absorbing my weight and stabilizing me. I probably should have extended my physical therapy after my accident, but shortly after being able to get back on a bike, I quit going. I hated it. The sight of so many people struggling with simple tasks and maneuvers because of injuries spanning from accidents, surgeries, birth defects, and those that came with time was there as a daily reminder that I might never recuperate.
Now, I face days where the pain becomes so great that my mind forgets the mundane exercises and fears that stopped me from continuing physical therapy, and what might or might not ever be possible again, and I start considering going back to see if new technology and teachings could perhaps make the pain I incurred become less frequent. But those thoughts vanish with the rising of the sun and my determination to stop thinking of myself as injured.
King grumbles as he fastens his helmet.
“You have to wear that every time you step into the shop or another box, so I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal to wear it outside.” My words are clipped, my annoyance with Kash making King’s inane complaints seem more intolerable.