After an uncomfortable silence, Frida speaks.
“Is it true, what I heard about Betta?”
“No,” I reply, and I huff when I’m forced to remember the lies she told about me. “She set me up.”
“I knew it,” Frida murmurs.
“But it doesn’t matter, Frida,” I say.
“How can it not matter? Tell me your version right now.”
Without hesitation, I tell her what happened, including all the gory details about our public fight.
“I never liked that Marisa. She’s a bitch, and Eric is naive. He knows Marisa is Betta’s friend; Marisa introduced Eric and Betta.”
“She introduced them?”
“Yes, Betta is from Huelva, like Marisa. When her relationship with Eric began, she went to Germany to live with him, until what happened happened and I lost track of her. And that Marisa deserves a lesson for being so horrible.”
“Don’t worry. I paid her a visit and made it very clear I don’t play games.”
“Tell me!”
“Just what I said. I warned her that I also know how to play dirty.”
Frida laughs, and I do too.
“How is Eric?” I ask, unable to avoid it.
“Not good,” she says, and sighs. “Last night, I had dinner with him in Germany, and that’s when I found out what happened between you two. I got angry and gave him a piece of my mind.”
Listening to her talk like that makes me laugh, but I ask insistently, “Is he OK?”
“No, he’s not, Judith, and I’m not referring to his illness, but to him as a person. That’s why I called you as soon as I got back. You have to fix this. You have to pick up the phone. Eric really misses you.”
“He pushed me away; now he has to accept the consequences.”
“I know. He’s a stubborn dickhead but a stubborn dickhead who loves you; don’t doubt it.”
Hearing such things causes a flutter of, not butterflies, but something like ostriches, in my stomach. I’m the queen of the masochists. I like knowing Eric still loves me and misses me, even though I know I can’t go back to him. His refusal to even listen to my side of things and throw me away like that is too much to forgive.
“I’m also calling because this weekend we’re having Christmas Eve dinner with my in-laws in Conil, and then we’ll be taking it easy at our home in Zahara. We’ll spend the New Year in Germany with my family. Eric will meet us in Zahara. Would you like to come?”
It’s a lovely plan. Any other time, it would have been perfect.
“No, thanks. I can’t. I’m doing stuff with my family, and I’m also working nights and . . .”
“You’re working nights?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m waiting tables at a pub and . . .”
“Uff, Judith! You’re a server? Eric won’t be happy.”
“What Eric does or doesn’t like is not my problem anymore,” I say. “Besides, I have a race on Saturday in Cádiz and . . .”
“A race?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Motocross.”
“You race motocross?”
“Yes. Every year, I sign up to participate in the motocross solidarity race to raise funds for toys for the less fortunate children of Cádiz. The competition—basically off-road motorcycle racing—is scheduled for December twenty-second at the Port of Santa María.”
Bicharrón, Lucena, and my father are delighted. They always enjoy these events as much or more than I do.
“Motocross!” she yelps, surprised. “Jude, I’m not gonna miss that. You know how to do the coolest things! If I ever have a daughter, I want her to be like you when she grows up.”
Delighting in her response, I laugh too.
“Where did you say it is again?”
“At the Port of Santa María.”
“At what time?”
“It starts at eleven o’clock in the morning. But, hey, Frida . . . don’t tell Eric. He doesn’t like these races at all. They remind him too much of what happened to his sister.”
“What do you mean, ‘Don’t tell Eric’?” She refuses to listen to me. “It’s the first thing I’m gonna do when I see him . . . If he doesn’t want to come, he doesn’t have to, but I’ll be there for sure.”
“I don’t wanna see him, Frida. I’m very angry with him.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! You’re worse than he is! If the world ends tomorrow like the Mayans predicted and you don’t get to see him again . . . have you thought about how you’re going to feel?”
“Frida, the world isn’t going to end. And as for Eric, someone who doesn’t trust me and gets angry with me without letting me explain is not who I want in my life. He’s an asshole, and I’m fed up.”
“Are you both so stupid, you don’t see you’re made for each other? For the love of God, Judith, you have to at least talk to him!” Before I have a chance to respond, she adds, “Well, you leave everything up to me. See you Saturday, Jude.”
With a strange pain in my stomach, I hang up.
3
Friday comes and goes, and the world doesn’t end! The Mayans were wrong.
On Saturday, I wake up very early and stare out the window.
Knowing Eric is a few miles from where I am and that there may be some possibility of seeing him today worries me. I don’t say a word at home. I don’t want anything that might happen between us to upset them. When Bicharrón and Lucena arrive with the motorcycle trailer and my father rides up with Jesús, I smile, amused.
“C’mon, girl!” my father exclaims. “Everything’s ready.”
At the car, I’m happy to see Fernando waiting.
“You’re coming?” I ask.
“When have I ever missed one of your races?”
When we arrive at the Port of Santa María, it’s overflowing with people, like every year. After standing in line to check the registration and get my racing number, my father comes back.
“You’re number eighty-seven, sweetheart.”
I look around for Frida, but I don’t see her yet. Too many people. I check my phone. Not a single message.
I walk with my sister over to the improvised changing rooms set up for the participants. I take off my jeans and put on my red-and-white leather jumpsuit.
My sister puts the guards on my knees.
“Judith, at some point you’re going to have to tell Papá you’re not going to do this anymore,” she says. “You can’t keep jumping around on a bike forever.”
“If I like it, why not . . . ?”
My sister rolls her eyes.
“I did it twice,” she says. “It’s not for me, no matter how much Papá loves it.”
She’s right. Although we’ve both been raised by the same father and with the same hobbies, she and I are different in many ways. And motocross is one of them. I’ve always loved it. She has always suffered through it.
Once I’m in uniform, I head out to where my father is waiting with what can be called my team. For the first time in several days, my smile is open and friendly. I’m doing something I like, and it shows. A man comes by selling drinks, and my father buys me a Coke. Pleased, I start to drink it, when my sister exclaims, “Hey, Judith!”
“What?”
“I think you’ve got an admirer.”
I make a face at her, but she goes on.
“The guy wearing number sixty-six, the one on the right. He hasn’t stopped looking at you. And it’s not for nothing, but he’s hot.”
Curious, I turn around and recognize David Guepardo. He winks at me, and we both move to greet each other. We’ve known each other for years. He’s from a nearby town called Estrella del Marqués. We’re both passionate about motocross, and we connect from time to time at races. We chat for a while, and, as always, David is charming. I enjoy his company for a minute, then say goodbye and go back to my sister.
“What do you have in your hand?”
<
br /> “You’re such a busybody, Raquel,” I say, giving her a hard time. But when I realize she won’t leave me alone, I show her the paper in my palm. “His number, are you happy?”
My sister covers her mouth. “Oooh, Cuchu! If I’m ever born again, I want to come back as you.”
I’m laughing, when I hear, “Judith!”
Frida runs toward me with open arms. I hug her happily until I realize Andrés and Eric are right behind her.
“The world didn’t end,” Frida mumbles.
“I told you,” I respond.
My God! Eric is here!
My stomach flips, and suddenly all my confidence fades.
I decide not to look at him. After kissing Frida, I greet Andrés with affection and then little Glen, who’s in his arms. When it’s Eric’s turn to be acknowledged, I still won’t meet his eyes.
“Good morning, Mr. Zimmerman.”
“Hello, Jude.”
His voice upsets me.
His presence upsets me.
All of him upsets me!
But I gather the strength I keep for moments like this and introduce the group to my bewildered sister.
“Raquel, I’d like you to meet Frida, Andrés, and little Glen, and this is Mr. Zimmerman.”
Eric just looks at me with his usual bad-tempered expression.
“Judith, you’re up next,” says Fernando, who’s come to give me a heads-up.
Suddenly, he sees Eric and stops. They greet each other with a nod, and I look over at Frida.
“I have to go. I’m number eighty-seven. Wish me luck.”
David Guepardo, the biker I was hanging out with before, comes by and wishes me luck. I smile and, without further ado, walk away, accompanied by Raquel and Fernando. When we’re far enough from the others, I give my sister the piece of paper I’ve been holding in my hand.
“Will you put David’s phone number in my cell, please?”
My sister nods. “Wow,” she exclaims. “Eric is here!”
“Oh joy,” I say ironically.
But my sister is an incurable romantic.
“Judith, for God’s sake! That hunk of a man is crazy about you.”
I feel like strangling her. “Not one more word, Raquel. I don’t want to talk about it.”
But my sister . . . is my sister.
“By the way,” she says, “calling him Mr. Zimmerman was interesting.”
“Raquel, shut up!”
“Wow, wait till Papá finds out he’s here!”
“Not a word to Papá that he’s here. I don’t need him all excited. And before you continue with your gossip and Mexican soap opera, I’ll remind you there’s nothing between Mr. Zimmerman and me. What don’t you understand about that?”
Fernando tries to make peace.
“Girls, c’mon, enough. It’s not worth it.”
We get to where my father, Bicharrón, and Lucena are waiting. I put on my helmet and goggles and listen to what my father has to tell me about the motorcycle setup. Afterward, I mount and head toward the front gate. I wait with the other riders until they let us on the track.
Hidden behind my goggles, I search for Eric. I can’t ignore him. Anyway, he’s so tall, it’s impossible not to spot him. He looks awesome with those low-waisted jeans and a black cable-knit sweater.
But then he’s the kind of man who’d be impressive even wearing a piece of lettuce on his head. He’s talking to Andrés and Frida; his face radiates tension. From behind his silver Aviator Ray-Bans, I know he’s looking for me, but I’m small and he can’t find me among all the racers, which gives me an advantage.
I can enjoy quietly watching him.
The track opens, and the judges position us on the starting grid. There are several rows of nine racers, men and women, and for the moment, the first four from each row need to be ready to go.
From my position, I spot my little niece in the crowd, and I nod her way. She laughs and applauds. My Luz is so beautiful! But my eyes fly up to Eric once more.
He doesn’t move.
He barely breathes.
But there he is, willing to watch the race despite the anguish I know it’ll cause him.
Again, I try to focus. I have to be in the top four if I want to qualify for the next rounds. I clear my mind and gun the motor.
Hearing the roaring of the engines makes me shiver, and when the judge drops the flag, I hit the throttle with everything I’ve got. I’m in a good position from the beginning, and, remembering my father’s warning, I’m careful on the first turn, which is too bumpy. I skid, accelerate, jump, skid again, and after three laps, while others are dropping left and right, I come in among the first four and qualify for the next round.
When I come off the track, my father hugs me, happier than a pig in mud. Everyone congratulates me on my success while I take off my dirt-smeared goggles. My niece is excited and can’t seem to stop jumping up and down.
“Congratulations,” says Frida. “It was awesome, Judith!”
I smile and take a gulp of Coke. I look past Frida but don’t see Eric coming to hug me. I finally spot him several feet away, talking to Andrés, Glen in his arms.
“Are you really going to keep your distance like this?”
“Yes.”
“He’s made a great effort to come.”
“I know,” I reply, “but I didn’t ask him to.”
“C’mon, Judith . . . ,” Frida insists.
We talk for a while, but I refuse to budge. I’m not going to talk to Eric. He doesn’t deserve it. He told me we were over, and I gave him back his ring. End of story.
The morning goes by, and I keep winning laps until I reach the finals. Eric’s still here. I see him talking with my father. Both are focused on the conversation; my father smiles and gives him a manly slap on the back. What are they talking about?
“You look like you could use a Coke.”
I turn to see David Guepardo offering me one.
I accept, and, while we wait to get our warning for the last race, we sit down to drink our sodas. Eric, not far from me, takes off his glasses. He seems to want me to know he’s watching me. To acknowledge his irritation. I turn my back on him, but I can still feel his eyes on me. This bothers me and excites me at the same time.
David and I talk for a long time while we watch the last qualifying run. My hair floats in the wind, and David grabs a lock and puts it behind my ear.
I bet that really throws Mr. Zimmerman for a loop!
I don’t want to look, but curiosity gets the better of me in the end, and I see his expression has gone from one of discomfort to total fury.
Of course!
There’s the five-minute warning for the last race before the final round. David and I get up, fist-bump, and head toward our motorcycles. My father hands me my helmet and goggles.
“Are you trying to make your boyfriend jealous by hanging out with David Guepardo?”
“Papá, I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say. He laughs, and before he says anything else, I add, “If you’re referring to who I think you’re referring to, I told you we’re finished.”
My good-natured father sighs.
“I don’t think Eric is thinking like you. I don’t think he thinks it’s over.”
“I don’t care, Papá.”
“Uff, you’re as stubborn as your mother. Exactly the same!”
“Well . . . I’m glad,” I say, but now I’m moody.
He laughs. “I didn’t let your mother get away, and Eric isn’t going to let you get away. You’re too precious and interesting.”
I adjust my helmet and angrily put on my goggles. I don’t want to talk anymore. I push the throttle and take my bike to the starting grid. While waiting for the start, I gun my engine repeatedly. I’m pissed off, very pissed off, and this can make me reckless. My father, who knows me better than anyone in the world, beckons me with his hands to lower my intensity and relax.
I race as if being carried by the devil. I take even
greater risks and love it. My adrenaline’s pumping while I jump and skid. Out of the corner of my eye, I see David and someone else ahead of me on the right. I speed up and overtake the other biker, but David’s very good, and, before reaching the bumpy area, he accelerates and jumps past the potholes, which makes me lose time and almost fall. But I control the bike and keep going. I catch David, then pass him. It happens again. We skid, and a third runner overtakes us both.
I push my bike as hard as I can, catch up to him, and leave him behind. Now David jumps, takes a chance, and passes me on the left. When I cross the finish line and the judge lowers the checkered flag, I raise my arm.
Second! David, first.
We go around the track and greet all the attendees. They applaud, and just seeing their happy faces makes us grin. At the end, David comes over and hugs me.
I know my closeness with David will irritate Eric. But I need this, and subconsciously, I want to provoke him.
My father and everyone else come up to congratulate us. My sister hugs me, as do my brother-in-law, Fernando, my niece, and Frida. Everyone shouts “Champion!” as if I’d won a world-class race. But Eric stays in the background. I know he expects me to go to him, that I’ll always go to him. But not this time. As our song says, “We are complete opposites,” and if he’s stubborn, I want him to realize once and for all that I’m much, much more stubborn than he is.
Once we’re on the podium, they announce how much money’s been collected for the children’s toys. It’s a stunning amount!
Instinctively, I know Eric donated that money.
Delighted, I grin. Everyone applauds, including Eric. His face is more relaxed, and I see the pride in his expression when I raise my glass. This moves me and jabs at my heart. Any other time, I’d have winked at him and said, “I love you.” But not now. Not now.
When I get off the podium, I take thousands of photos with David and everyone else. Half an hour later, the crowd disperses, and the racers begin to collect their things. Before leaving, David reminds me he’ll be in town until January 6. I promise to call. I have my racing suit in my hand as I leave the locker room. All of a sudden, someone grabs my arm. It’s Eric.
For a few seconds, we just stare at each other.
Oh God! That serious look of his drives me crazy.
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