Girl on Track

61| Bittersweet

The moment I step inside, my mother is ready to pounce. Knowing this will last a while, I take a seat at the breakfast table while she tells me how worried she's been and don't I love her enough to call?

Dad watches from his wheelchair at the head of the table. He's nodding enthusiastically, umming and ahhing as though he agrees with everything Mom brings up, but eventually says, "As long as you've learnt your lesson, Roxy."

"Yes," I say, "I have. I promise to call next time."

"And not stay at boy's houses without our permission," Mom says, "even if you claim nothing happened, which I'm not sure I believe."

I don't say anything, not even to claim my innocence again, and Mom frowns before walking around the counter. Hand to my head, she says, "You don't seem like yourself. Are you sick?"

"No." Clearly, I am not good at hiding my emotions. She must be able to see the defeat all over my face. I hadn't planned to talk about the crash – she'd only worry – but the truth starts pouring out.

I tell them everything, from the race with Sam and how he'd bumped into me to the fact he'd destroyed my bike. Both listen intently, and even though it's Mom that I'm mostly confiding in, it's Dad that I look at. His face goes through several expressions, from anger to sorrow and everything in between. He knows what it's like to have your dreams ripped from under you – he knows because his were taken too.

"Oh honey," Mom says, stroking my hair, "I'm sorry about the bike, but maybe it's a sign. You could have gotten hurt in that crash, and you weren't. Maybe it's best to quit while you're ahead. Right, honey?"

She looks at Dad now, who has remained quiet for most of our exchange but now meets Mom's gaze with a heart-wrenching look I've never seen before. I'd known he missed racing, that a part of him has been missing ever since the crash, but it's only now that I realize how badly.

"Right," he says, but his voice comes out flat and nothing like his own. "I think I'll go and get some fresh air." He turns around and wheels himself out while Mom and I look at each other uncertainly.

"You'll be okay, honey," she says, "I'm just glad you're safe." She pulls me into a motherly hug, a little tighter than usual, and even though her words don't exactly bring me comfort, I know she's saying it because she doesn't want me to get hurt.

When she gets back to cooking dinner, I head upstairs to the bathroom, where I strip and step into the shower. And finally, with the hot water ready to mask any tears, I let myself truly break down. I can't help but feel stupid for crying, but maybe this is what I need to move on. I'll let myself grieve, I'll dream and fantasize about what could have been, and then I'll move on.

It's a while before I make it back out. I dry and change into a baggy hoody and sweatpants before checking my phone. There's already a message waiting for me from Tyler, and it says: I miss you.

A ghost of a smile crosses my lips as I send one back: I miss you too.

Then I throw my phone aside and fall back onto my bed. It's a strange feeling to accept defeat. For so long, I've focused only on the tournament. What am I supposed to do now? Sighing, I get up, about to go for a ride to clear my head when I remember I can't. Instead, I mope around my room for a while feeling sorry for myself before deciding to pull it together.

Maybe I'm right, and there's no hope left of me entering the tournament, but I refuse to give up yet. There has got to be something I can do to fix this, even if I can't see it yet, and that's enough to keep me hopeful. Hope, Dad would say, is why we get out of bed in the morning.