Asher
Aweek later, after making me swear I’d take care of myself, Javi left.
Another seven days passed, and I was still at Ale’s—eating his food, wearing his clothes. He’d offered to bring my stuff from Russell’s, but I needed to get it myself. Ale had done enough already. Packing one-handed was a pain in the ass, but I wanted to do it alone. I wasn’t wearing the sling all the time anymore and could handle small tasks like eating and dressing with both hands.
The cab pulled up to Russell’s gates. I paid the driver, climbed out, and unlocked the gate with the remote I still had. Walking the driveway, I guessed nobody was home. I hadn’t seen my mother since before the accident, and I preferred it that way.
The citrus tang of the cleaner Russell’s housekeeper used clung to the air as I crossed the foyer and headed upstairs.
One step into the familiar hallway, and my legs shook. A knot pulled tight in my stomach. Her room was here—full of her scent, her things, her memories I never wanted erased.
Our first kiss. Her laughter. Her warm body curled against mine in her pink bed. Before I could stop myself, I drifted to her room. I pressed my back against the door once inside.
She must’ve been here recently. The shelf above her bed was bare. So was her desk.
My chest squeezed. An empty bottle of watermelon body spray sat on the nightstand. I uncapped it, inhaled the sweet scent like an addict, then set it back.
I walked out. It hurt like hell to stand in that room—surrounded by her things but knowing she was far away. Knowing that even if she wasn’t, nothing between us would ever be the same.
My room looked the same as always—Dad’s trophies lined up on the shelf beside my books, most of my clothes still packed in the suitcase. Kaia had been right. I never unpacked because I’d never seen this house as home.
But for those few months we had, she’d turned it into the closest thing to one.
On my bed lay what looked like a photo album. An envelope rested beside it, my name written in her familiar hand. I tore it open, pulled out the folded sheet inside, and breathed in her scent.
Ash,
I’ve been gathering the courage to write this since the day of your accident. I hope you’re healing. I read clavicle fractures are common in motorcycle racing— please don’t skip rehab. I know you’re impatient to ride, but wait until it’s safe.
You’re probably worried about next season, but trust Alejandro. He really cares about you. I’m sure he’ll find a great team.
You’re destined for big things. I remember the day your mother said you were coming back. My first thought was, why would he choose Stetbourg when he can have the world? Why pick my father’s small, unremarkable team?
Don’t get me wrong—thirteen-year-old me, who had a massive crush on you the first time you wandered into the garden, older and furious at the world, was thrilled you were back. I also knew you wouldn’t stay with me forever. It hurts to be right, but I get it.
My mom is gone, but I still look for her approval. I want to study at her dream school. You still want to make your dad proud—and you do. I’m proud of you: your willpower, grit, and how humble you are despite everything you’ve done. I know you’ll do even more.
One day every track in the world will be yours, peque. You’ll claim them like you claimed my heart.
Please don’t give up. Don’t let anything hold you back.
We both knew you couldn’t keep racing and me. Losing you ripped the heart out of my chest, but comfort comes from knowing I lost you to the thing you’ve loved since you were a little boy.
I love you, Ash. I always have, always will. I’m not ashamed of that—maybe that’s why I decided to give you the scrapbook I made years ago.
I don’t need it to remember you, but I thought it might remind you who you are through my eyes.
Be happy. Be safe.
Thank you for being my first love.
Kaia
My sob shattered the silence. Tears soaked my face as I curled on the bed, clutching the letter to my chest.
She hadn’t lost me to racing—she was more important than any sport, any achievement, any trophy. She hadn’t lost me. She never would. But this letter was her goodbye, on her terms.
Fresh tears blurred my vision when I opened the scrapbook she’d made. The first page held a photo of me with Dad, published years ago on a Spanish website. I was six, holding his hand on the track in Jerez, standing beside his bike after training.
