Page 48 of Finding Delaware

“And you’re a fucking hypocrite,” he growls, suddenly in my face, “because I’m not the one telling himself he’s not gay despite kissing and jerking a guy off in a goddamn pool!”

I’m off my bike instantly, Huckslee’s coat gripped in my fist as my other one clocks back. He flinches, eyes squeezing shut to brace himself, and in that moment, I pause.

My heart is racing, blood rushing to my ears as I fight every impulse inside of me to punch his gorgeous fucking face in. Old Taylor would have done it without hesitation.

But I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t. I’ve hurt him enough.

So I pause. Take a breath. Close my eyes. Slowly lower my fist.

And step back, and back, until I’m once again on the bike.

When I open my eyes, Huck studies me like we’re strangers, and it hits me that weare. It’s unreal how quickly two people can change in four months.

“You weren’t there,” I accuse softly, gripping the handlebars. He must not have heard me because he tilts his head and steps closer. “I don’t know what we are, Huckslee. Maybe at one point, I did, but all of that changed. And I know I can’t undo everything I’ve done, but I almost fucking died, and you weren’t there.”

I tried to play it off like it didn’t bother me, but that court-ordered therapist is actually good at her job. She presses into my bruises until I have no choice but to bleed, and honestly, it’s cathartic. I’ve seen her more than just the three times I was supposed to. It feels good to talk to someone about stuff when you’re not worried about their bullshit.

“My dad tried...” Huck’s voice trails off, and my bike roars to life as I nod grimly.

“Yeah, he did. But you didn’t.”

With a deep breath, I throttle forward and leave without looking back because if I do, I’ll drown in those damn dark eyes and never escape.

Huckslee

The rumble of my bike against the dirt shakes me so hard it rattles my teeth.

Twenty-five other racers envelop me, each fighting for first place on the track. Even though it’s an exceptionally mild late spring day, I’m sweating in my gear from the adrenaline as I lean into a bend. We’re in the second moto now, and the competitive spirit is palpable.

In officially sanctioned races, two thirty-minute motos around the track plus two additional laps determine the winner. Points are earned by winning, obviously. In the first moto, I placed third and was awarded twenty points. Taylor placed second, with twenty-two points. First place had twenty-five.

The terrain shifts, propelling me into a jump, and I search for Taylor’s ugly yellow bike when I’m in the air. I’ve fallen back to seventh place, but I see him up ahead, battling for first with the girl who won the last race. They’re currently neck and neck, and we have one lap left. Even though she won lasttime, he’ll win if he places first this round. It doesn’t matter if they have the same number of points. And I want him to win. I really fucking do.

Someone loses control of their bike in front of me, the front wheel shaking before they tip sideways and go flying. Jerking to the side, I narrowly avoid being clipped by their rolling body, but the movement throws me off balance, and I come around a bend too close to the edge of the track. It slows me down, allowing two more riders to pull ahead.

Fuck.

Ninth place is not where I want to be.

So I lean forward, shut out all the noise inside my head, and focus. Forget about everyone else rushing by or all the spectators on the sidelines; it’s just me, my bike, and the dirt. Eventually, I make my way up the line to the front, two places behind Taylor. I recognize Christian from his helmet in third. From what I’ve seen, Taylor hasn’t attempted any fancy tricks on the jumps, which tells me how badly he wants to win.

Three more bends until the finish line.

It’s fucking nerve-wracking, trying to split my attention between not crashing and watching Taylor race. He’s one of the best riders I’ve seen. His skills with his bike are phenomenal despite the crash back in August. When it comes down to it, Taylor is a fucking beast on the track. His wheel pulls ahead, followed by his opponent, and they dance until I can see the finish line in the distance.

So fucking close…

Twenty meters to go, and Christian seems to lose control. He hits a divot in the track wrong, spiraling out and hitting the ground hard. My heart jumps into my throat. I can’t breathebeneath my helmet. His bike slams into the girl, causing her to veer sideways and into Taylor. All three of them go flying.

“No!”

The sound of motorbikes revving up drowns out my scream. The rest of us part to avoid hitting them, and when I fly by, I see Taylor curled on his side, not moving. Christian is crawling over to him.

Fuck!

Please be okay, please be okay.

It’s between me and one other rider as the finish line draws closer, and a fire ignites in my blood.

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