No one has ever said anything more motivating to me. We say our final goodbyes, and I’m shuddering as Reid drags me out of the hospital room. The antiseptic smell clouds my judgment—I’m hugging Reid as tight as I can.
Touching him is the last thing I should be doing right now. After that almost kiss, I should be creating more space between us, not closing it.
Regardless, his woodsy cologne pulls me in and I’m centered again. I hate how much I need his touch. He waits for me to let go before saying, “Do you want to get lunch before driving, or are you good?”
I wipe water from my cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
His brow cocks up. “You’ll be fine? Or you are fine?”
“I’m fine.” My voice cracks as I say it.
“Lunch it is then.” His usual charisma is nowhere to be found.
A few days later,I wake up in a cold sweat yet again. Every night I dream about Chloe’s crash. Sometimes I dream that it’s me. Sometimes I dream that it’s Chloe again, but this time she’s more than paralyzed. The worst is when I dream that it’s Reid.
His crash was so slow and cumbersome, it was nothing like hers. I wasn’t worried about him being seriously injured, but it was enough to remind me he’s not actually invincible as he chooses to believe.
Things have gotten increasingly awkward between us. We hardly speak. I’m not sure we’ve had a real conversation since Seattle, and we’re past Oregon by now. Right after the race, I tried to be there for him, but he kept me at arms length. I’ve never seen him so secluded and moody.
Once I get dressed, I call Damien to see if he has any tips. I’m pretty sure Reid is still sleeping, so he shouldn’t overhear. This is Damien’s usual persona after all—maybe he can give me some insight. His voice is stern, per usual. “Focus on yourself, Addie. Reid has to figure out whatever he’s going through on his own.”
He’s right, I know he is, but I can’t drop it. “I know. I’m just worried. Could you check on him?”
“Addie. I’m sure he’s fine.” I can hear the eye roll.
I do us both a favor and drop the subject. “How’s my favorite little girl?”
He perks up at that. “She’s good! She misses you though—and Reid.”
Our conversation dies there. Well, I wish it did. Damien spends the next several minutes grilling me about my sleep schedule and my calorie intake. I neglect to tell him about my therapy sessions, even though I’m sure it would put him at ease.
Damien ends our call with a gruff, “I’m proud of you.”
It feels good to hear, especially from Damien. Affection has never been easy for him.
I pull out my journal after the call. I can already tell today isgoing to be a rough day as far as my anxiety goes. My heartbeat is already too noticeable, and I haven’t had a sip of caffeine. My therapist assures me every session that healing isn’t a linear path and having a bad day doesn’t mean I’m failing, but this week, everyday feels bad.
It still feels like I’m failing, but I’m working on it.
Our next race is in a couple of days. It’s in California, so we’ll get a chance to see Riley’s brother—Parker—and chill for a little bit. We won’t see Riley though—apparently she just accepted a job in Yosemite and has to start right away. It’s unlike her to have a job, a real one that is. She has plenty in her trust fund and she’s always getting random brand deals from her aesthetic Instagram posts.
It’s probably for the best, honestly. I love her, but I don’t need her burning-bright energy dimming out my own building ember.
There’s been talk of Reid losing his Red Bull spot. That would be heartbreaking. We’ve still been training together, but he has a shorter temper than usual. I think he realizes this is his last chance to prove himself before Red Bull. I’ve never seen him look so serious, and it’s scaring me a little.
We spend all day separately again, only interacting for silent meals. He doesn’t even bother me to go for a run. I never thought I’d be craving cardio.
It’s the most boring day I’ve had in a long time. Our campsite has no views and nothing to do either, so I spend my time journaling and staring out the window at Reid’s van. It’s nearly dinner time, and we don’t have much left to eat in the mini fridge.
I text him that I’m running out to grab us something before driving to the nearest grocery store. In my attempt at an apology, I meander the isles looking for each ingredient to make his favorite pasta. Burrata, tomatoes, garlic—pasta obviously—Ithink I’ve got everything.
Hopefully this diffuses some of the tension between us. I figured by stopping the kiss before it started I could avoid this.
It’s significantly harder to make this dish in a kitchenette than it is at home. Ten minutes in and I’m severely questioning the merits of my apology. The pasta is a bit too soggy and the tomatoes are past ripe. At least the burrata is still burrata—you can never go wrong there.
Quietly, I set up the folding chairs we have tucked away in a storage compartment. They snag and clang on every possible thing, and I wince each time. Reid hears me right before I free the second chair and says, “What are you doing in there?”
“Just grabbing us the chairs.”
