Page 65 of Over & Out

But that only annoys me more, because the last thing I need is pity. I stand up before I bite poor Aziz’s head off too. Neither of them cut me. Maybe I’m the one being a bear. “I have a few errands to run,” I tell them both. To Aziz, I say “If Hopper needs anything, Cindi will be back from town soon. And I’ll have my phone.” My tone makes it clear I’d rather he didn’t.

“Good plan,” Adrian says. “I’ll check in with Mabel to see if she knows what’s up. In the meantime?—”

But he doesn’t get to finish that thought, because we both look up as Hopper comes out of his room. My insides knot. He’s dressed in workout gear. Basketball shorts and a big tank top that hangs loosely over his perfect body. I’m sure he’s going to ignore me again, butinstead, his eyes land straight on me. His forearms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists, and yes, of course I can see why someone waxed poetic about them.

I wish he would crack his knuckles. An ex of mine cracked his knuckles incessantly. I grew to hate it.

I hate Hopper Donnach.

My stomach twists at the lie, but I refuse to look away. “Was there something you needed?”

He almost looks pained—just for a flash of a second—before turning back to pure steel. “No.”

He turns on his heel, heading for the gym area.

Aziz grimaces. “I’m sorry,” he mouths.

“Me too,” I say bitterly. Then I head for the door.

I take my own car, just in case I decide not to go back. I don’t know where I’m going at first. I could go home. I have a few chores to take care of around the house. Or I could put my Christmas decorations up. But what’s the point?

Knuckle-cracker actually asked me that once. “You live alone and have no family. Why bother?”

“Because,” I’d said, “if we let life steal every last bit of joy from us, then what’s the point?”

I was in a much better state of mind then. We didn’t last long after that, but then again, no relationships I’m in ever do. Who wants to date a girl who has weird rules about where to touch her? Who won’t take her shirt off during sex? Who runs at the first sign of the easy exits closing up?

I go past the turnoff for home.

I consider reaching out to my friends, but none of them are really available. Dolly takes the holidays off, making Miles even more crotchety than normal. The time zones make it hard to talk to Lana, who’s now knee-deep in her Australian adventure. When I checked in on Shelby the other night, she told me she’s been going through hell with Jess’s teething. Annie’s in New York again, and Mac? I can’t even think about seeing him, because he’ll just make me cry. He’ll look at me with kindness, and then when I tell him what’s going on, he’ll want to go and beat up a movie star like the good big brother he is.

Feeling like a lonely loser, I drive around aimlessly for a bit, stuffing my face with a bag of trail mix Cindi handed me as I walked out the door. She’d walked in before I could slip out. “You need to eat something, honey,” she said, as if someone had died. It kind of feels like someone has. Drizzle pings against the windshield, the sky a dull, hopeless gray. I have the dark thought that maybe I never belonged even here, in my hometown. Even though I was born here, I spent my teen years in and out of Swan River, bouncing from house to house down the coast. I only ended up back here after I aged out of the system.

I’m being such an Eeyore I almost laugh.

I drive on autopilot, which is a mistake. Because before I know it, I end up somewhere I definitely don’t want to be. I don’t even realize exactly where that is until I put the car in park and blink, taking in my surroundings. My heart picks up speed. I actually feel it, a heavy,panicky thud, as I take in the spindly trees, the rutted gravel parking lot.

I’m at the dirt track.

I can’t see the track from here; it’s tucked away behind a copse of trees. I’m the only car here. That makes sense for a Tuesday morning in December. No dudebros in giant trucks. No one here at all but me and the rain. I think that’s why I sit here in the driver’s seat, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel as if I’m going to peel out at any moment.

Finally, I force myself to kill the engine.

The last time I was here, I left in an ambulance. Not only in pain, but in the midst of a panic attack I was sure was heart failure. I couldn’t see Dirtface, who was shockingly the only thing keeping me calm after losing control of the bike. I couldn’t move my legs; I was sure I was paralyzed. And that, of course, was what triggered my PTSD. The thing the child-welfare-assigned counselor was supposed to have helped me get rid of.

Apparently not. Lying in that ambulance with faceless paramedics, I was transported back to the worst night of my life. Pinned under a beam too heavy to slip out from under. Embers sizzling into the fabric of my nightgown. Me so terrified and in such pain, with nearly collapsed lungs, that I couldn’t even muster the breath to scream.

I swallow hard now and reach for the door handle, climbing out of the car as if I can climb out of that memory.

As I take in the space properly for the first time, I notice it looks a little overgrown. Likeit’s been lying fallow since I’ve been gone. It’s the time of year, I know. Riders tend to thin out once the serious winter rain starts. Getting stuck in muck is no fun. But also, no one besides me ever bothered to take care of this place.

Despite the silence, I keep my ears pricked, listening for the buzz of a bike. Even with the mud and no trucks in the parking lot, there could easily still be people here. But all I hear is the patter of rain on the evergreens. It all feels so familiar for a moment that I’m thrown back to the good times here. The hundreds of times I showed up, rain or shine, and breathed just a little easier. Even now, a tightness in my chest unclenches as I stay still.

Maybe I didn’t need to avoid this place. Maybe just being here, even if I’m not riding, is my therapy.

I walk out onto the road and round the corner to the track, surprised to feel a smile on my face. It instantly drops, though, and so do I, behind a bush like a coward.

Because I’m not alone after all. Out on the track, there’s a person kneeling beside a bike.

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