Driven

by K. Bromberg

  We arrive at my house with fewer than ten words spoken between us. Oddly, I’m still comfortable with Colton’s presence despite the inner-turmoil my decision has created.

  He opens my door and escorts me out with a sad half-smile on his lips. He places his hand on my lower back as we walk up the walkway. At the front door lit by a lone porch light, I turn to him. We both say each other’s names at the same time and then smile softly at each other. The smiles never reach our eyes though. They reflect a weary sadness.

  “You first,” I tell him.

  He sighs and just stares at me. I want so much for him to be able to express to me the plethora of emotions I can see swimming in his eyes but I know that he’ll never get the chance to tell me. He reaches out and brushes his knuckles over my cheek with the back of his hand. I close my eyes at the singular sensation. When he stops, I open them back up, tears pooling in them, to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  And I know that apology is for so many things. For what can never be. For what should be. For hurting me. For not being the person I need him to be. For not being able to confront whatever is in his past.

  “I know.” I reach up and run my fingers over his unshaven jaw and up through his wavy hair before returning back to his face. It’s almost as if I am committing his lines and his features to memory. Something I can hold on to. For despite having to work with him still, I know that this will be the last time I’ll allow myself to touch. Touching him again will be too dangerous for my weakened heart.

  I step up on my tiptoes and brush my lips gently against his. Within moments, Colton has his arms around me and is lifting me up to his level. Our eyes lock on each other at this equal playing field. He leans into me to resume our kiss. I feel something different in this kiss. Something shifts in the tenderness. I realize that we are saying an unspoken goodbye. All of the hurt and unspoken possibilities are thrown into the unyielding softness of our exchange. The desperation and carnal need of earlier has been replaced with a poignant resignation. We slowly end the kiss, Colton slowly lowering me, my body sliding down the familiar length of his. Once my feet are on the ground, he rests his forehead against mine. Our eyes remain closed as we absorb this last moment with each other.

  I move my hand between our bodies and place it over his heart, our foreheads still touching. “I wish you’d explain to me why you don’t do relationships, Colton.” My voice is barely a whisper, the threat of tears evident in my voice’s wavering. “Maybe I could understand you—this—better then.”

  “I know,” he breathes in response. He shifts and places his trademark kiss on the tip of my nose.

  It is this unbidden action that is my undoing. Tears silently coarse down my cheeks as Colton whispers, “Goodbye,” before turning without looking back at me and hurrying down the pathway.

  I can’t bear to watch him leave. I fumble clumsily with the front lock before shoving the door open and slamming it shut. I lean against the door and slide down it to sit on the floor, my silent tears turning into uncontrollable sobs.

  This is how Haddie finds me moments later after being woken by my less-than-graceful entrance.

  CHAPTER 18

  The week has sucked so far. My applicants and select interviews for the new staff position at The House have been horrible. Unqualified. Underwhelming. Unexciting.

  It might not help that my mind is not all here either. I’m tired because sleep comes in short bouts interrupted by confusing nightmares of Colton and Max interchanging. My subconscious is obviously having a field day with my emotions.

  I’m cranky because I’m eating everything in sight, and yet I have no desire to go run and work off all of the excess calories that I’m stuffing in my mouth to abate my misery.

  I’m irritable because Haddie is watching me like a hawk, calling me every hour to check up on me, and turning off Matchbox Twenty anytime she catches me listening to it.

  I’m petulant because Teddy just forwarded me an email from Tawny listing all of the events that CD Enterprises is requesting my presence at to promote our new partnership. And that means that I will have to stand side by side with Colton, the sole cause of my current miserable state. Because despite the four days that have passed, nothing has helped to ease the ache radiating through my heart and soul from my last moments with Colton. I want to tell myself to get a grip, that we only knew each other a short time, but nothing works.

  I still want him. I still feel him.

  I’m pathetic.

  The only personal contact I’ve had with Colton came via email the day after he dropped me off. He sent me a text saying:

  “Whataya Want From Me” by Adam Lambert.

  I listened to the song, confused by lyrics. He’s telling me that we’re not going to happen and yet he sends me a song asking me not to give up while he works his shit out. A part of me is pleased that he’s still communicating with me while the other part is sad that he just won’t let me lick my wounds in a corner by myself. I wasn’t even going to respond until I heard the song playing on Shane’s radio. My texted response was:

  “Numb” by Usher

  I was trying to tell him that until he confronts his same old modus operandi, nothing’s ever going to change, and he’s going to remain numb. He never replied, and I didn’t expect him to.

  I sigh loudly, alone at the kitchen counter at The House. Zander is at a counseling session with Jackson, and the rest of the boys are at school for another two hours. I’m on my last stack of resumes that are even close to viable and am discouraged that only one of them is a possibility. That possibility is coming for an interview, but besides her, I’ve come across no one else even close to qualified.

  The muffled sound of my cell phone ringing breaks me out of my trance. I scramble frantically to pick it up, my heart racing, hoping that it might be Colton even though we have not talked since Sunday night. My mind tells me it’s not going to be him while my heart still hopes that it is. Such a hopeless ritual but I do it nonetheless.

  My screen says private caller and I answer it with a breathless “Hello.”

  “Rylee?”

  My heart swells at the rasp of his voice. Shock has me hesitating to respond. Pride has me wanting to make sure that the hitch in my voice is absent when I finally speak. “Ace?”

  “Hi, Rylee.” The warmth mixed with relief in his voice has me shaking with an undercurrent of emotions.

  “Hi, Colton.” I reply, my tone matching his.

  He chuckles softly at my response before silence fills the phone line. He clears his throat. “I was just calling to let you know a car will pick you up at the house on Sunday at nine-thirty.” His voice so full of warmth moments before is now disembodied and official sounding.

  “Oh. Okay.” I sag in my chair, disappointment flowing through me at the realization that he’s not calling for me but rather to reiterate the email that one of his staff members had already sent two days ago. I can hear him breathing on the line and can hear voices in the distance.

  “You still have a total of ten right? Seven boys and three counselors?”

  “Yes.” My tone is clipped, business-like. My only form of protection against him. “They are extremely excited about it.”

  “Cool.”

  Silence stretches through the line again. I need to think of something to say so that he doesn’t hang up, for despite our lack of conversation, knowing he is on the other end of the line is better than him not being there at all. I know my line of thinking screams “desperate,” but I don’t care. My brain scrambles to form a sentence, and right when I say his name, Colton says my name. We laugh at each other.

  “Sorry, you go first, Colton.” I try to rid my voice of the nerves that creep their way into my tone.

  “How are you, Rylee?”

  Miserable. Missing you. I infuse happiness into my next words, glad he’s not in front of me to read through my lie. “Good. Fine. Just busy. You know.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I’l
l let you go.”

  No! Not yet! My mind grasps to think of something to keep him on the phone. “Are-are you … ready for Sunday?”

  “We’re getting there.” I think I hear a tinge of relief in his voice but chalk it up to my reading into it. “The car seems to be working great. We’ve made some adjustments to the lift/drag ratio, which seems to be working better.” I can hear the enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ll dial it in more on Sunday. And Beckett, my crew chief, thinks we need to adjust the camber, and you asked me why I don’t do relationships.”

  What? Whoa! Direction change. I don’t know what to say so I just murmur, “Hmm-hmmm,” afraid that if I speak, it might reveal to him just how much I want to know and at the same time afraid to know the answer to the question.

  I can hear him sigh on the other end of the phone, and I imagine him running his hands through his hair in discomfort. His voice is hushed when he finally speaks. “Let’s just say my early childhood … those years were … more fucked up than not.” I can sense his apprehension and can feel his trepidation in his confession.

  “Before you were adopted?” I know the answer, but it’s the only thing I can think to say without him thinking I feel pity for him. And silence from me would be even worse.

  “Yes, before I was adopted. As a result … I … how do I …?” he struggles finding the right words to express what he wants to say. I hear another exhaled breath before he continues. “I sabotage anything that resembles a relationship. If things are going too well … depending on which shrink you talk to, I purposely, unknowingly, or subconsciously ruin it. Screw it up. Hurt the other person.” It all comes out in a quick jumble of words. “Just ask my poor parents.” A self-deprecating laugh slips out. “Growing up, I fucked them over more times than I care to count.”

  “Oh … I … Colton—”

  “I’m hardwired this way, Rylee. I’ll purposely do something to hurt you to prove that I can. To prove that you won’t stick around regardless of the consequences. To prove that I can control the situation. To control that I don’t get hurt.”

  So many things run through my mind. Most of them are about the unspoken words he’s not relaying. That he’s been left or abandoned. That his history makes him test the limits of the person he’s with to prove he’s not worthy of their love. To prove they’ll leave him too. My heart aches for him and for whatever unknown thing that happened to him as a child. On the other hand, he has opened up to me some, partially answering the question I asked against his lips on my front porch.

  “I told you, a 747 of baggage sweetheart.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Colton.”

  “Yes it does, Rylee,” he laughs nervously. “I won’t commit to anyone. It’s just easier on everyone in the long run.”

  “Ace, you’re not the first guy I’ve know with commitment issues,” I joke, trying to add some levity to our conversation. But deep down I know that his inability to commit stems from something way deeper than just typical male reluctance. The shame mixed with desperation in his voice echoes loudly in my head, telling me otherwise.

  I hear his nervous laugh again. “Rylee?”

  “Yes?”

  “I respect you and your need for the commitment and the emotion that comes with a relationship.” He pauses, silence stretching between us as he finds his next words. “I really do. I’m just not built that way … so don’t feel bad. This would’ve never worked.”

  My hope, which has been rising despite my trying to control it, crashes back down. “I don’t understand. I just—”

  “What?” Colton says distracted, talking to a voice I hear in the background. “Saved by the bell! I’m needed on the track right now. More fine tuning.” I can hear the relief in his voice, happy to have an out from our conversation.

  “Oh. Okay.” Disappointment fills me. I want to finish this conversation.

  “No hard feelings then? I’ll see you at the track on Sunday?”

  I momentarily close my eyes, fortifying my voice with false nonchalance. “Sure. No hard feelings. See you on Sunday.”

  “See ya, Ryles.”

  The phone clicks and the dial tone fills my ear. I sit there not hearing it. Does he realize that he used his defense mechanism right now? Hurt me to keep me at arm’s length from him? Put me in my place so that he can have all the control.

  I’m unsettled. I want to finish our conversation. Tell him that it doesn’t have to be this way. I want to comfort him. Ease the panic that laces his voice. Tell him that he makes me feel again after being numb for so very long. Confess that I want to be with him despite knowing deep down I will be destroyed emotionally in the end.

  I pick up my phone, pondering what I’m going to say. In the end, all I text is:

  Be safe on the track Ace!

  He responds quickly.

  Always. You know I’ve got great hands.

  I smile sadly. My heart wanting so much that my head knows is never going to happen.

  CHAPTER 19

  The limo bus pulls through the gates of Auto Club Speedway in Fontana. The boys are buzzing with excitement, eyes wide as saucers taking in the sheer size of the complex. They have put on their shirts and all access lanyards that one of Colton’s staff has left aboard the bus for them. Their wide smiles and their constant oohs and aahs fill the bus and fill my heart with pure elation. Zander bounces unexpectedly on the seat, vibrating with an obvious energy that takes me by surprise. I look at Jackson and Dane, my fellow counselors, and note that they see it too.

  For the first time in almost a week, I feel like I can truly smile, and ironically, it’s Colton that has vicariously caused me to. I’m thankful to him for the little touches he has added for the boys: a personalized letter, the shirts, the lanyards, and glossy magazines with his car on the cover. Things that make them feel special. Important.

  Our bus is directed down a tunnel under the stands before driving on to the infield. I didn’t think it possible, but the boys’ hooting and hollering becomes even louder at this new development. We come to a stop and the doors open. Within moments a man hops on the bus, bounding with enthusiasm. He directs us off of the bus and has us follow him to a meeting room where we he tells us we will meet up with Colton.

  I feel small walking in the midst of this large arena. To the south of us, a large grandstand juts up to towering heights while the banked oval of the track encompasses the entire field around us. I can hear engines revving and see people scurrying to and fro in a garage on my right. With each step we take, my anxiety at seeing Colton again increases. How is he going to react after his telephone confession to me? Will it be business as usual or will there still be that magnetic pull between us? Or will he be indifferent to me? Despite my anxiety, I’m also excited to see Colton in action. To watch him take part in his passion. To watch him in his element.

  We arrive at a brick building and our facilitator, whom we’ve learned on our walk is named Davis, leads us into a room with an opened red door. We heed his advice to gather around, the boys chattering excitedly, overwhelmed by our surroundings. They call out random questions to Davis who patiently answers to them.

  When they settle down somewhat, Davis explains the reason for testing a car. “When we’re testing, a lot of time goes into tweaking the car. Little adjustments here and there that makes the car go faster or handle better. These changes are essential to the overall performance of the car when the season starts in late March. Along with these tweaks are little meetings where Colton meets with his crew chief, Beckett Daniels, and reviews what they are working on in testing. That is where Colton currently is now, discussing—”

  “Not anymore.” Chills dance up my spine as I hear the rumble of Colton’s voice at my back as he enters the room. Whoops go up all around me as the boys say various forms of greeting to him. I look down at Zander and the wide, genuine grin on his face causes my heart to lodge in my throat.

  “Hey, guys!” he throws back at them, “So glad you’re here! Are yo
u guys ready for a fun day?”

  The cheers go up again as I inhale deeply, preparing myself to turn around and face him. When I do, my heart squeezes tightly in my chest. Colton is on his haunches, eye level with the little guys of our group, and ruffling the hair on their heads playfully. He laughs sincerely at something Scooter says and then stands slowly, lifting his eyes, locking them with mine.

  All thoughts leave my head as I drink him in. He’s wearing a red fire safety suit, the top portion unzipped and tied around his waist to reveal a snug-fitting white t-shirt with a faded logo across the chest and a small hole in the left shoulder. His hair is a spiked mess and his jaw sports the shadow of a day’s missed shave. My thoughts immediately veer to how much I’d love to run my tongue over his lips and fist my hands in his hair.

  I bite my bottom lip, the quick pain a reminder that this is not going to happen—we’re not going to happen—and to help me resist any urges that I might have of thinking otherwise. Colton’s eyes stay locked on mine as the boys I love surround him. A slow, lazy grin spreads on his face.

  All thoughts of resistance vanish. Shit! I’m in so over my head when it comes to him!

  “Hello, Rylee.” So much is behind those two words. All of the hurt and confusion and over-analyzing from the past couple of days disintegrates. In case I didn’t know it before, it’s obvious now that his proximity clouds both my judgment and my common sense.

  “Hi.” My nervous response is all I can manage as we continue to hold each other’s gazes as if we are the only two people in the room. I fidget with my hands, trying to ignore the desire blooming in my core. Kyle tugs on his hand, and after a beat, he drags his gaze away from me to focus back on the boys.