Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Eight months later...
Ridley
Rain falls in torrents and fog hangs low, kissing the treetops with a ghoulish aura. The cloud cover is thick, but it makes the trees and grass look vibrant via a collage of greens ranging from light to pine. The dirt parking lot is muddy, filled with puddles and rivets. Every so often, I catch the lingering smells of campfire smoke, musk, and gasoline. Aside from the three trucks, including mine, the parking lot is empty. Two dirt bikes are parked in front of the trailer ahead.
Seeing them makes a pang reverberate through my broken heart. Although my physical injuries have healed, it seems my internal injuries can't. No matter how hard I try, I can't pick up the pieces.
Picking up broken pieces is impossible when they continue to slice your hands open. My palms are so scarred I can hardly feel them anymore. And when those broken pieces come from your heart, it's even more difficult to recover from the lingering cuts and bruises.
After eight months of physical therapy, my body is functioning again. Driving, riding, living on my own—I've been cleared. I should be ecstatic. Should be running for the track, waiting to see my dirt bike at the starting line. Wanting to feel the vibration of the engine through the seat and the rush of wind through my hair as I round corners and hit jumps. I should be longing for the smell of pine and gasoline tied together with campfire smoke and sweat. There should be a part of me that still craves s'mores as opposed to feeling nauseous whenever I think about them.
But whenever I think about the senses, I think about him. About everything we were before the accident. Gasoline is the fire in his stormy blue eyes. Campfire smoke is the natural cologne clinging to his jersey and hair. S'mores are the taste of his lips and the sweetness of his love.
I've lost interest in anything motocross. It reminds me too much of him, and the fear of losing control triggers me. All of these things are like the other: heart-wrenching reminders that peel back the strength of my walls. The walls that are supposed to make people think I'm okay when all I want to do is cry. To let my blood spill across the earth and saturate the world with my pain and sadness. Instead of standing strong, they make me vulnerable—raw with emotions that wreak havoc on my system.
Dipping my head down, I tighten my sweater around my body and push against the cool breeze and rain. I try not to think about the dirt bikes or the echo of engines in the distance. But it's hard to. The past is tied so tightly to my senses I can't tell the difference between memories and reality. And there is a sliver of me that knows I have to ride again. If Teuvo could rise from the dead for a day and interact with the living, he would murder me for not continuing motocross.
Hence the reason I'm now trudging up the creaky steps to the trailer to review the terms and conditions of my current contract with my coach and manager. Before knocking my knuckles against the dinged-up door, I take a deep breath. My fist continues to shake, no matter how hard I dig my nails into my palm. Which is why I decide to push through the door without knocking. If I knock, it'll be too weak. And I can't show any signs of weakness with Martin Vargas.
