Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (18 page)

“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 Sunday, 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.

The same things I’m going to do without him when I leave for home in less than three weeks.

I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. There’s so much travel I haven’t done. France, Italy, the world here is boundless and I’ve only glimpsed it. There’s so much I want that I haven’t experienced yet.

I don’t want my old life. It’s thinner somehow. The world with Terrence in it has so much more life, color, excitement. Even when things get tough, the crashes and the doping, the losing and the winning, Terrence lives it fully with smiles and laughter, anger and sadness. He lives with the kind of passion the writers talk about in my novels and poems.

When I go home for good...I won’t have Terrence at all, not even between races.

A caving starts in my chest, a vacancy re-opening where before there was nothing, but lately there’s been something. I don’t want it to be empty again.

“Aurélie?”

I look and see Paul, peering at me curiously. I’m standing motionless in the courtyard, students and teachers milling around me.

“Hi,” I say.

“Everything okay?’

“Uh—well—” I have no censor; I’m too raw to filter myself. “I don’t want to go home.” The words split the cavity in my chest wide, and it oozes fear. I can’t go home. I rub the spot in my ribs where it hurts. The idea of going home causes me actual pain.

“You will miss France?” Paul asks.

“Yes.”

“Ah, but you will bring your American cyclist home with you. I saw your picture with him on a sports website.”

I avert my eyes and massage the ache in my ribs again. “He’s racing in Europe all summer.” In fact, I don’t know if he ever goes home to Pennsylvania. It’s not far from where my parents live, but he’s never mentioned going home to the States.

Paul pats my shoulder with an empathetic smile.

I feel bad I’ve avoided Paul. If not for Terrence I might have thought Paul was the perfect guy for me. As nice as he is, I would have missed wonderful things. If it hadn’t been for Terrence, I might not ever have opened up enough to be friends with Paul at all.

“Couldn’t you stay for longer?” he asks.

“Fulbright’s already sending a teacher replacement for me.” I won’t have a visa to stay in France past when they say.

“It sounds like you’ve had a great love affair, as everyone should while they are in Nice.”

A great love affair, sure. Not that I’ve ever gotten the courage to have sex. I smile anyway. “It has been fun.”

I ride my bike leisurely to my apartment. I have no desire to sit on my bed and read. I have even less desire to plan going home, checking flights and doing Fulbright paperwork.

Soon some other English teacher will be living in my apartment. It will be like I was never here.

I drop off my messenger bag, get back on my bike, and pedal.

Thinking about leaving helps nothing. Dwelling on the pain in my chest, missing Terrence already, helps nothing. I’m going home no matter what. There’s nothing I can do about it.

I pedal faster, farther, and find the climb Terrence took me up on our first ride. It’s hard work to get to the viewpoint again, but it’s not as difficult as last time. I’m more fit than I was a few weeks ago.

The road continues, though I don’t have the energy to ride it. I wonder if I could ride to the top of the Col d’Èze. Riding it every day, going a little higher each time, I could aim to do it before Terrence gets back. It would give me something to do while he’s gone.

If I can’t see Terrence, I want to take advantage of this amazing place before I go home.

* * * * *

The next day I teach a fun lesson on American pop culture, one where my students laugh and have genuine fun in my classroom. All while speaking English. Maybe I’m not such a bad teacher.

I start my Col d’Èze climb with a smile, but get a flat tire before the first viewpoint. My tires haven’t been pumped in a week, since Terrence last did it. I owe Caroline a visit, I can pump up my tires there. I just hope it’s nothing more serious.

I drag my limping bike down to the boulevard, only to have Caroline stand in the alley and say, “Pumping up the tires isn’t going to do any good. It’s a puncture. You need to change it.”

“Oh.” My shoulders bend. I don’t know how to do that. I can’t afford to get it repaired. “Are you sure?”

She nods, rubbing her belly. “Bring it upstairs. There’s extra tubes in the closet.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I do.”

“You do?” I squelch my excitement though. I feel bad making her walk down the stairs, as pregnant as she is. I can’t ask her to change a flat tire. “That’s okay.”

She gives me an exasperated look. “I’m pregnant, not handicapped. Come on.”

I follow her upstairs and sit next to her at the kitchen table. She teaches me to change my tire, to pull out the old tube, partially pump the new one and re-fit it inside the rubber tire.

“You’re riding a lot,” she says.

“I thought I’d try the Col d’Èze climb, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.” After I had to turn around this morning and walk my bike here, I’m not sure I want to try again.

“Of course it is. Take it slow. You’ll do it.” She shows me how to pry the tire on the frame with a plastic lever. “I’m jealous.”

“Do you ride?”

“Used to. Not for months now.” She pats her round belly. “That’s how Gary and I met. I used to race in Colorado.”

“Really?”

“Amateur only, but I was hoping to train here and maybe turn pro next year.” She leans back in her chair. “Not anymore.”

“Wow.” No wonder being pregnant has been so hard for her. It’s put her whole life, all her goals on hold. “Did you get to ride a little here before…” I gesture at her belly.

“A few weeks. The riding around here is some of the best in the world.”

“Why?”

She smiles. “The climbs. The roads. The guys ride into the Alps all the time.”

The back of my neck bristles. “Then why do they leave here early to train elsewhere before races? How do you manage with Gary gone so much? I’ve known Terrence a month and it drives me crazy.”

Her mouth twists. “I hate it, but he loves it. What can I do?”

“It makes no sense. Six days in Milan? Why do they need to train there so much?”

Caroline drops her eyes, staring at her hand on her belly. “It’s strange to me, too.” Her voice is lower, layered.

It sounds like she thinks there’s something suspicious about it. “Why’s it strange?”

She heaves a sigh. “You’ll have to ask Terr. Maybe he’ll give you a better answer than Gary gives me.”

“Gary won’t tell you? How come?”

“I have suspicions.” She stands. “You want to borrow my cycling stuff?”

Her abrupt subject change makes me think of last weekend when I asked if Terrence was hiding something from me. She didn’t answer me then, either.

I don’t want to pressure her so I go along with it. “I’d love that.” I’ve wished for a jersey instead of my baggy tank top, and for gloves to make the brakes easier on my hands.

She gives me a BG jersey, two water bottles, gloves, sunglasses, and a box of gels.

“Gels?”

“Energy shots. Sugar packets, basically. You can eat them on the bike. The guys live on them. Riding the Col d’Èze inclines…” She hums. “You’ll want one every twenty minutes or so.” Digging through a closet full of other gear, parts, and tools, she hands me a zipper pouch with an extra tire tube and a CO
2
cartridge. “You can change a flat by yourself on the road with these.”

“Thank you.” I want to say something comforting, like I wish she could ride with me, but it seems wrong to offer condolences for a pregnancy.

She waves me off with a tiny smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll ride again someday.”

I leave, promising to join her for dinner Saturday night. It’s nice to understand her better. I may have made a friend. Now, I’ll be too busy to miss Terrence and too occupied with riding to count the number of days until I have to go home. It’ll be less than two weeks tomorrow.

* * * * *

The riding exhausts me and forces me to dig for recesses of muscle power I didn’t know I possessed. I put on the BG jersey and the gear from Caroline, and transform into someone else, an athlete working my body into pinnacle shape.

Except, I stop often on the climb to rest, and I suck on the energy gels like candy. I have no idea how far the top is, so the pursuit seems endless. I rest until my breathing slows, I remember I’m leaving soon and will never see Terrence again, then I get back on the bike. I pound the pedals until all my thoughts silence beneath my thudding pulse.

Little fears pop into my head about what Caroline implied. She’s overreacting. The team is training and going to see a doctor in Milan. Nothing’s weird there.

I consider calling Terrence but don’t. He needs to focus on racing. Besides, he’ll get in trouble for talking to me.

On my weekly call to my parents, I impatiently watch the timer count down from ten minutes. I may miss my father’s crass jokes and my mother’s obsessive caretaking, but I pick up the receiver in fear of them grilling me about med school.

Five minutes in, it begins with my father asking me about applying for hospital internships. I wish the call was over.

“Uh, I haven’t had time to think about it, Dad.” And even if I did have time, I wouldn’t. I have two weeks left in France. After that, my life will be all about medical school. I could cry. The only way I survived my pre-med major was because of my French minor. I never would have passed organic chemistry if not for the Baudelaire poems I cuddled into bed with each night. In medical school, there’s no French minor.

My mom shares the landline with my dad. “There’s a waiting list just to volunteer at the hospital. You have to start looking.”

“Relie, is your résumé ready?” my dad asks.

This is all they’ve ever wanted for me. My dad’s been researching medical schools since I was in high school.

I am a mess of “I don’t know what I want”. I love being in France, but I’m homesick. I don’t want to go to medical school, but I’m not sure I want a Ph.D. in French either. I don’t want to lose Terrence, but he never has time for me. My life is lying fallow in a ditch, and any way I try to climb out makes me slide back to the bottom.

“I’ll start working on it,” I lie. I have no intention of working on my résumé while still in France, but I’d rather pacify them than argue.

They hang up satisfied, leaving me apprehensive. When I go home, that’s all I’m going to hear or be allowed to think about: med school, being a doctor.

I want Terrence, and him asking me about my French books, and talking to me about my students, and complaining to me about his racing, and teaching me how to cook.

But I can’t have that. I can’t have him. I have to leave him.

That cavity of fear gapes in my chest.

My only reprieve is another attempt at conquering the Col d’Èze, followed by dinner with Caroline.

Then I’m back in my apartment. It’s late, and I’m alone.

Again.

In bed.

Thinking of him.

Some nights, I almost wish he’d never taught me to give myself an orgasm, because it’s not enough. When it’s over, I’m filled with the sickness of missing him. I fantasize about what real sex with him would be like, and I regret not going all the way the first night he propositioned me.

It would have been so easy to turn in his arms and let him kiss me like he does, and touch me like he does, and undress me like he does, and…I don’t know how he does the next part.