I take his outstretched hand and follow him out the door. The paddock is a large area behind the track, equivalent to the backstage of a rock concert. The fence enclosing it is always buzzing with people. It’s only the elite or extremely lucky who get a coveted pass behind the scenes, where the riders, sponsors, and their teams prepare for the upcoming event.
As soon as we step outside, cameras’ flash and people cheer. Reese waves like the superstar he is as I cling to his arm, adjusting to all the attention. As we walk to his pit-box, he stops to sign an autograph for a young boy.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Reese asks as he scribbles on the kid’s photo.
“A motorcycle racer just like you!” the blond-haired boy exclaims.
“Damn straight, little man.” Reese gives him a fist bump, and the boy nearly jumps out of his shoes. I nearly swoon out of mine as a vision of Reese with our little boy invades my thoughts. I suddenly, and unexpectedly, can’t wait to have a child.
We finally find some calm in the sanctuary of the pit box, a glorified garage covered with logos and professional graphics. There’s even a life-size cutout of Reese with his slogan on a banner above it—Give me fucking fast—which he made famous in an interview after he won his first world championship.
Experiencing it firsthand, I’ve come to understand why this environment is so addicting. Why racers risk it all. They exist on a different plane, finding glamor, status, and danger wrapped up in one forty-minute thrill ride.
I hang in the background as Reese goes to work—talking tyres, engines, and electronic settings with his crew. It’s all Greek to me but common conversation for them.
Someone hands Reese a box, and his face lights up. “Finally.”
He places it on the floor next to my chair and opens it up.
“What do you think?” He pulls out the helmet, showing me the butterfly design on the top. It’s the exact replica of the tattoo on my back with a big red heart in the middle.
“It’s . . .” I’m left speechless. In professional racing, helmet design is a sacred thing. It portrays the rider’s personality and feelings toward any particular race. Reese once compared it to war paint. So I understand its significance. Its resonating statement.
“Now, the whole world will see a butterfly owns my heart. Every single beat.” He kisses me proudly.
I touch the top of the smooth fiberglass, choked with emotion. “It’s beautiful.” The artwork is so intricate and vibrant; it almost feels alive.
“It’s going to be even more beautiful when I’m holding it on top of a podium.” He presses his lips passionately against mine before he’s called away. “Watch me win.” He slips on the helmet and stands before me. Every inch of my body pulsates, electrified by the modern looking warrior. By the phantom I never saw coming.
“I promise I’ll never take my eyes off you.”
35
Dev
Istare at the caption under the picture.
“Sealed the deal at sunrise.”
I’ve been obsessing over this post ever since I saw it. They fucking got married. It enrages me. I dissect Kayla in her simple white dress looking beyond beautiful and beyond happy. After I walked away, the sun set and never rose again.
“When the regret sets in, remember you did this to yourself.”
I do regret it. I regret everything. I thought I was doing the right thing, but all I’ve become is a shell of man, miserable and heartbroken. There is a gaping hole in my chest and rage racing through my veins. I refrain from smashing my phone, overcome with violent thoughts of kicking my bike over and beating it with a crowbar until it’s unrecognizable. Until the anger dissipates. I’m a fucking idiot, and the universe loves to remind me by twisting the goddamn knife.
They got fucking married. I stare off into space, rocking obsessively back and forth on my Kawasaki. The bike Reese had designed specifically for me.
Nothing has any appeal, not riding or working or even hanging out at a rally. I wish I was too dead to care—about Reese, about Kayla—but my feelings are like open season.
Knight and Tammy do their best to engage me in conversation, but my responses are short, clipped, annoyed. I want no part of interacting. I zero in on Riley riding around like a fool, vying for a group of girls’ attention, one of whom who has been eye-fucking me all night. My vacant soul only reads her body as one thing. Anesthesia. A numbing agent to dull the pain. A temporary escape from my living hell. The hell I chose.
Fuck this. I’ve had enough socialization for one day. I turn on my bike. “I’m out,” I tell Knight.
“C’mon, man, stay.” He tries to persuade me, but it’s just not happening. I’ve had my fucking fill of happy couples. At the rate he and Tammy are going, I won’t be surprised if I find myself standing at an altar dressed in a monkey suit by year’s end. I need a distraction, a disruption, an interference. Right now, tonight. I pull right up to the cute blonde, slipping further into a pit of despair.
“What’s your name?” I ask aloofly over the idling engine.
“Eileen.” She bats her big blue eyes.Falsely innocent eyes.
