Page 34 of Speeding Hearts

“I don’t know if I want to race cars.”

Chapter 11

Dean

When I was fourteen,I broke my clavicle, arm, and leg. I was housebound for the whole summer and more. Trying to do anything—showering, eating a meal, even going to the bathroom—was absolute torture.

Lying next to Stella in that little bed—after her little tumble had revealed all of her in a painful, chest-clenching second—was a thousand times worse.

I’d seen her. All of her. It was the briefest flash, but it was seared into my brain. The soft swell of her breasts, the point of her nipples in the darkness. The curve of her hip; the thatch of hair between her legs. She’d thrown the towel back over herself, but I’d seen, and if she asked me again, I’d tell her. But putting words to what I’d seen would put me in grave danger. I’d be powerless to stop myself from going further. Doing things friends didn’t do to each other.

I’d managed to cool myself down, but now, knowing my own t-shirt was wrapped around her naked body—thatnaked body—and knowing that all I had to do was bring my hand forward a few inches and her warm, soft skin would be under my touch was worse.

But worse than that was the shame at myself for wanting her so badly. That was the last thing she needed. I knew she was suffering—she was injured and had presumably lost everything she’d brought with her to Oak Bend in the fire. She was scared about both, and both were my fault.

On top of all of it, even under the best circumstances, without all these external factors, I knew what happened when I got involved with people. Things went bad, fast. I made rifts. I hurt people. Just look at my family. At Victoria.

But nothing stopped the wanting. Even if she didn’t want me the way my body so desperately wanted hers right now, my goddamnedheartwanted her. My whole being wanted to wrap her up against me and hold her safe forever.

Torture.

The only respite I found was when her breathing slowed, and I realized she was falling asleep. Good. With her sleeping, maybe I could pretend she wasn’t there. Maybe I could turn around and face the wall of the trailer and listen to the faint sound of the creek outside, the crickets—

Then, she spoke. She said she was worried about racing.

I won’t deny it—the relief I felt was like an ocean wave. I hadn’t known the extent of how much I’d worried about her until just now, when the possibility of her no longer being in danger presented itself.

Then, on its heels—guilt. I’d shamed her into wanting to quit.

“Tell me,” I said. All the urges of a moment before were shoved sideways as I listened, genuinely wanting to know.

The dark must have provided her with a feeling of security, because Stella opened up then in a way she never had before.

Stella told me all about how, growing up, she’d always felt compelled to stick close to her father, that she could see he was lost—he was harder on her two brothers but showed a crack when it came to her. She really was into cars, and understanding how they worked as a mechanic was a natural fit. So was running the family garage.

Though my path was different, I understood this. I told her how I loved figuring out the complexities of engines and engine problems. But unlike her, I didn’t want to work at my father’s garage, mostly because I didn’t want to work with him. I didn’t want him to have the pleasure of knowing I liked it and was good at it when he hadn’t done anything to earn my happiness.

“I get that,” she said, a smile in her voice. “That’s what it was like with my brothers and my dad. They’re just now figuring out how to forgive him. How to exist with him in a way that doesn’t grind at each of them. “It’s different with me. I’ve liked running my shop. But I always felt I wanted something more.”

She shifted under the blanket, and her knee brushed against my leg, reminding me how close we were.

I swallowed, moving my body away. If she touched me again, I might not be able to keep my hands from pulling her in next to me.

“Sorry,” she said, tucking her limbs back. She sounded slightly wounded.

I wanted to explain, but I had no words that wouldn’t sound like I wanted her closer. I needed her to keep talking.

“How did racing come into it?”

“Right,” she said, sounding relieved to be back on topic. She tucked her hands under her cheek, and my heart did a strange flip at the outline of her there.

“I loved the thrill of watching racing when I was a kid. I also spent my whole childhood being the little girl of the family and having to prove myself to my big brothers. It wasn’t them—they were always sweet and protective of me. It was me.Ihad to show them I could do whatever they could do—and by proxy, whatever other boys could do. It felt good getting my mechanic’s certification. It felt like a triumph doing this thing that all those other boys said I couldn’t or shouldn’t do. I loved having people from out of town roll into my garage and get that look of shock on their face when they saw I’d be fixing their car. It got annoying sometimes, sure, but I still liked showing the doubters how much more I knew than them.

“But something about running the garage didn’t quite fit. It didn’t feel likemydream, exactly, even though I loved cars. I thought the answer was racing. I thought I’d feel the same way as I did when I was training for my license, that I wanted to show everyone I could do something they thought I couldn’t. But something about racing isn’t feeling right either. I love the Speedway. I love standing up in that office with a view onto the track. I love being around the power and speed. But when I’m behind the wheel of the cars… It’s exhilarating but it’s also… terrifying. I should feel control, but I don’t. I feel out of control, like the car could slip away from me at any moment, and I could… die. And Dean…”

Stella’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to die. There’s so much I still want to do. There’s so much Ihaven’tdone.”

Without thinking, I did reach out to her now, only it wasn’t with the urge I’d been feeling earlier. I reached for her hand, holding it in mine like it was meant to be there.

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