Page 11 of Heart of the Race

He was quiet for a minute, and I saw how hard he was fighting sleep. “Close your eyes.”

“You have to give me your word first that when I open them, you’ll still be here.”

“I could just lie.”

He almost laughed, but the attempt must have felt like someone punched him in the gut and stole all his air. “You—” He gasped. “—never lie to anyone, least of all me.”

I was done at age nine, him at ten, the day we met. The minute our eyes locked—that very first time—the bargain had been struck.

Look at me!

I see you!

Without my eyes on him, whatever he was doing wasn’t real. I got that because I was the same exact way. It was just that watching him was a full-time job and my life only happened in spurts.

“Bri?”

“I’ll come for a while. I don’t know how long.”

“Okay.” He exhaled, obviously relieved. “So you’re not mad anymore?”

“I was never mad.”

His relief over that fact made my heart drop.

“I’ll pay you to babysit me.”

“Yes, you will,” I guaranteed drolly.

He nodded, lifting his right arm. The left one was too mangled to move, broken in five places, with pins holding it together. “Bend down.”

I leaned over, and he put his right arm around my neck, buried his face in the hollow of my throat, and held me tight as he inhaled.

“You’re gonna like watching me race.”

“I really doubt it,” I muttered. But when he turned his head and touched his lips to the spot on my jaw right under my ear, I forgot what else I was going to say.

“I don’t.” He sighed deeply, so obviously content. “Promise to stay with me.”

And I would, until it hurt too much.