“No,” I whispered. “He’d feel guilty. Indebted. He’d call to thank me, and if he asked, I’d run back to him like the pathetic, lovesick fool I am. I’d forgive him, and he’d be stuck here with me, racing for teams beneath him just to keep me happy. He’s destined for more. I won’t hold himback.” I swallowed, inhaling a lungful of air. “Can you promise me one more thing?”
He nodded. His coffee sat untouched on the low table in front of us.
“Take care of Ash for me,” I said through a fresh wave of tears blurring my vision. “He’s proud, and he’s used to being strong, pretending he doesn’t care that his mother never gave a damn. But he needs someone. He’ll need you.”
“No te preocupes.”Don’t worry.Alejandro wrapped his hand around mine, squeezing. “He won’t be alone. And he’d want you to take care of yourself, too.”
“Where’s his mother?” I asked.
Alejandro lifted and dropped a shoulder. “Home, I guess. She texted after Russell told her what happened, asked me to keep her updated.”
But she wasn’t here with her injured son. Asher deserved better. So did I.
I hadn’t forgiven Sharon for the diary, and I doubted I ever would—for that, or for not appreciating the kind, talented son she had.
“Well then.” I gulped the rest of my drink and stood. “I need to go. Thank you for everything.”
I tossed the empty cup in the trash and headed for the door.
Alejandro let out a long sigh. “Kaia.”
His defeated tone made me pause. “What?”
“You’re not wrong for each other. Just the timing is wrong.”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing back more tears. “It is.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Asher
My head throbbed as if someone hammered it from the inside. I cracked my eyes open. Daylight burned my retinas; blinking hurt. Everything did.
But I was alive.
“How are you feeling?”
I turned my head toward Dawson’s voice with a huge effort. He sat in a chair by my bed, large palms clasped on his knees.
“Like shit.”
He shook his head and sighed. “You shouldn’t have raced. It’s my fault for letting you. Your head wasn’t in it, and I should’ve stopped you.”
That was all it took to remember why I hadn’t been able to focus. Why I’d felt like shit even before I lost control of the bike. The same kind of accident had killed Dad, but I was here. I’d made it. Maybe because it wasn’t my time yet.
I swallowed; my throat felt raw. “Not your fault.”
Dawson patted my hand. Pity drenched his gaze, and I looked away.
Of course he pitied me—concussion, lung contusion, broken clavicle.
Surgery was the best option for the fracture. It’d shorten recovery time.
But it was over. I wouldn’t race for the rest of the season. I wouldn’t win. I didn’t have a team next year—no fucking way I’d race for Russell again.
“Everything’s gonna be all right,” Dawson said. “What matters is you’re alive.”
“Whatever,” I muttered.
