by K. Bromberg
“I know your worst fear is having a child …”
The elation that lifted me is choked by fear with his words. This is all just too much—too much, too fast when for so long I’ve been able to hide from it. “Please don’t,” I plead, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Okay … I’ve thrown a lot of shit at you, but it was time you heard it. And I’m sorry I probably fucked with your head more than you needed me to, but, son, only you can fix that now—deal with it now that all of the cards are on the table. But I have to tell you, you’re not your mother. DNA doesn’t make you a monster like her … just as if you were to have a child, your demons won’t be transferred to that new life.”
My fists clench and teeth grind at the last words—words that feed off the worst of my fears—the urge to break something returning. To drown the pain that’s back with a vengeance. I know he’s pushed me to the breaking point. I can hear his quiet sigh through the screams of every ounce of my being.
He stands slowly and I tell myself to look at him. To show him that I’ve heard him, but I can’t make myself do it. I feel his hand on the top of my head, like I’m a little boy again, and his uncertain voice whispers, “I love you, Colton.”
The words fill my fucking head but I can get them past the fear lodged in my throat. Past the memories of the chant I used to say that was followed by the brutality and unspeakable pain. As much as I want to tell him—feel the need to tell him—I still can’t.
See, perfect example, I want to tell him, to demonstrate how fucked up I am. He just bared his fucking self to me and I can’t give him a goddamn response because she stole it from me. And he thinks I could be a parent? She made my heart black and my core rotten. There’s no way in hell I could pass that on to someone else if there were the remote chance it could happen.
I hear the door shut and I just remain on the floor. The outside light fades. Jack calls to me, tempts me, allows me to drown myself in his comfort, no glass needed.
Confusion fucking swamps me. Drags me under.
I need to clear my fucking head.
I need to figure my shit out.
Only then can I call Ry. And God I want to call her. My finger hovering over the fucking Call button. Hovering there for well over an hour.
Call.
Call End.
Call.
Call End.
Fuck me!
I squeeze my eyes shut, head fuzzy from however much I’ve drank. And I start to laugh at what I’ve been reduced to. Me and the floor are becoming best fucking friends. Fuckin’ A.
It’s not hard to go up when you’re already at fucking rock bottom. Time to ride the fucking elevator. I start laughing. I know there’s only way to clear my head—my only other fucking high besides Rylee—that will help keep the demons at bay for a bit. And as much as I need Rylee right now, I need to do this first to get my shit figured out. My right hand fucking trembles as I go to push Call, and when I do, I’m scared out of my fucking mind, but it’s time.
Head straight.
Then Rylee.
Motherfucking baby steps.
“Hey, douche bag. I didn’t realize you knew my phone number it’s been so fucking long since you’ve called me.”
Such a fucking old lady. God, I love this guy.
“Get me in the fucking car, Becks.”
His laughter stops in an instant, the silence assuring me he’s heard me, heard the words I know he’s been waiting to hear since I got the all clear.
“What’s going on, Wood? You sure?”
What’s with everyone fucking questioning me tonight? “I said get me in the goddamn car!”
“Okay,” he drawls out in his slow cadence. “Where’s your head at?”
“Fucking seriously? First you push me to get in the fucker and now you’re questioning the fact that I want to? What are you, my goddamn wet nurse?”
He chuckles. “Well, I do like my nipples played with, but shit, Wood, I kinda think you touching them would give me a reverse boner.”
I can’t stop the laugh that comes. Fucking Beckett. Always a bucket of fucking laughs. “Quit fucking with me, can you get me on the track or not?”
“Can you get the slur out of your voice and put down Jack, because that’s a dead giveaway your head is still fucked up … so I’ll repeat my question again. Where’s your head at?”
“All over the fucking place!” I shout at him, failing miserably to not sound drunk “Goddamn it, Becks! That’s why I need the track. I need to clear the shit from it to help fix me.”
There’s silence on the line, and I bite my tongue because I know if I push he’ll hang the fuck up on me. “The track’s not going to fix that fucked up head of yours, but I think a certain wavy haired hottie could do that for you.”
“Drop it, Becks.” I bite the words out, not in the mood for another shrink session.
“Not on your life, fucker. Baby. No baby. You really gonna push the best thing you got going for you out the fucking door?”
And session number two begins.
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. You’re not my type.”
His condescending tone pisses me off. “Stay the fuck out of it!”
“Oh! So you are going to let her go? Isn’t that a song or some shit? Well hell, since you’re gonna let her go, I guess I’ll give her a run then.”
Motherfucker. Are my buttons that easy to push tonight? “If you’re smart, you’ll shut the fuck up. I know you’re pushing me … trying to get me to call her.”
“Wow! He does listen. Now that’s a news fucking flash.”
I’m done. “Quit fucking around, do your job, and get me on the goddamn track, Beckett.”
“Be at the track at ten tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
“It’s about time. I’ve had it reserved for the past week waiting for your ass to get with it.”
“Hmpf.” He had me pegged.
“You won’t show.” He laughs.
“Fuck off.”
“You wish.”
I blow out a breath and roll my shoulders, welcoming the burn as I stretch my warm and thoroughly tired muscles. I desperately needed this run—the escape into our backyard and through the gate of the neighbor behind us so I could get away undetected from the persistent press.
I look up from my stretch and something across the street catches my eye. I’m immediately on guard when I see the dark blue sedan across the street with the man leaning against it, camera in hand with a telephoto lens blocking his face. Something about him strikes me as familiar, and I can’t put my finger on it … but I know my little piece of freedom—by secret passage—has been compromised.
The thought pisses me off and although I’ve yet to engage with any press, my feet have a life of their own and start walking toward him. My mind running the verbal lashing I’m about to give him over and over in my head. He watches my approach, the shutter clicking at rapid fire pace, the camera still blocking his face. I’m just about to start my spiel when I’m about fifty feet away and my phone rings in my hand.
Even after many days of no contact, my pulse still races at the sound, hoping it’s Colton but knowing it’s not before I even look at it. But I’m taken back a bit when I look at the screen and see Beckett’s name. I stop immediately and fumble with my phone, worried that something’s happened.
“Becks?”
“Hey, Ry.” That’s all he says and falls silent. Oh shit. Dread drops like a lead weight through me.
“Beckett, what’s wrong with Colton?” I can’t stop the worry that weighs heavy in my voice. The silence stretches and my mind runs as I glance at the photographer momentarily before turning my back and hurrying home.
“I just wanted you to know that Colton’s on his way to the track right now.”
I’m standing outside in the open, but I suddenly find it hard to draw in a breath of air. “What?” I’m surprised he can even hear me, my voice is so soft. Images flash through my he
ad like a slideshow: the crash, the mangled metal, a broken Colton unresponsive in the hospital bed.
“I know you two … the whole baby thing and he hasn’t called you.” He sighs. “I had to call you and let you know … thought you’d want to know.” I can tell he’s conflicted over breaking his best friend’s trust and doing what he thinks Colton needs the most.
“Thanks.” It’s the only thing I can manage as my emotions spiral out of control.
“Not really sure you mean that, Ry, but I thought I should call.”
Silence stretches between us and I know he’s just as worried as I am. “Is he ready, Becks? Are you pushing him?” I can’t hold back the contempt that laces my question.
He breathes out and chuckles at something. “Nobody pushes Colton, Ry, but Colton. You know that.”
“I know, but why now? What’s the urgency?”
“Because this is what he needs to do …” Beckett’s voice fades as he finds his next words. I push open the gate and scramble over the little fence separating the neighbor’s yard and mine. “First of all, he needs to prove he’s just as good as before. Secondly, this is how Colton deals when there’s too much going on in his head and he can’t shut it all off, and thirdly …”
I don’t hear what Beckett says next because I’m too busy remembering our night before the race, our conversation, and the words fall from my mouth as I’m thinking aloud. “The blur.”
“The what?”
It’s when Beckett speaks that I realize I have in fact said it out loud and his voice shocks me from my thoughts. “Nothing,” I say. “What’s the third reason?”
“Never mind.”
“You’ve already said more than you should, why stop now?”
There is an uncomfortable silence and he starts and stops for a moment. “It’s nothing really. I was just going to say that in the past he’s turned to one of three things when he gets like this. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay. I get it—get him. In the past he turned to women or alcohol or the track when life got to be too much, right?” Becks remains silent and there’s my answer. “Well, I guess I should be lucky there was an opening at the track, right?”
Beckett belts out a laugh, and I can tell he’s relieved. “God, he doesn’t deserve you, Rylee.” His words bring a smile to my face despite the worry eating at my insides. “I just hope you both realize how much he needs you.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Thank you for calling, Becks. I’m on my way.”
I’m thankful that traffic is light as I speed to the track in Fontana, and that the security at the parking lot prevent the press from following me into the facility. I park the car on the infield and freeze as I hear the crank try to start the car. The engine roars to life, its sound echoing against the grandstands and vibrating in my chest.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How I’m going to be able to watch Colton, belted in and flying around the track, when all I can see in my head is the smoke and feel the fear? But I promised him I would be there the day he climbed back behind the wheel. Little did I know I’d get a call to collect on that promise when everything was unsettled between us.
But I can’t not be here. Because I keep my promises. And because I can’t stand the thought of him being out there without knowing he’s okay. Yes, we’ve not spoken and are confused and hurt, but that doesn’t mean I can turn my feelings off.
The motor revving again pulls me from my thoughts. My trepidation and the need to be there for him, for me, for my sanity, pushes me to put one foot in front of another. Davis meets me at the outskirts of pit row and nods as I take the hand he offers in greeting, before leading me to where Colton’s crew is working.
I stop when I see the car, the curve of Colton’s helmet in the capsule behind the wheel, Beckett’s body bent over him, tightening his belts as only Colton will let him do. I force my throat to swallow but realize there is nothing to ingest because my mouth is filled with cotton. I find myself going to worry the ring I no longer wear, out of nervous habit, and have to make do with clasping my hands.
Davis leads me up the flight of stairs to the observation tower above, much like the one I sat in while I watched Colton spiral out of control. Each step up reminds me of that day—the sound, the smell, the churning of my stomach, the absolute terror—each riser is another memory of the moments after the car hit the catch fence. My body wants to turn and flee, but my heart tells me I have to be here. I can’t quit on him when he needs me the most.
The pitch of the engine changes and I don’t have to turn and look at it to know he’s driving slowly down pit row toward the banked asphalt of the track. I stand in the tower, a few members of the crew focused on gauges reading the car’s electronics, but in the mere seconds I stand there, I can sense the nervous energy, can feel that they are as anxious about Colton being in the car as I am.
I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me and know it must be Becks. Before I even have a chance to say anything to him, the sound of the car’s motor eases, and we both look toward it at the end of the vacant pit row. After a moment, the engine’s rumble revs again and the car moves slowly onto the track.
Beckett looks over to me quickly and hands me a headset. The look in his eyes tells me that he’s just as on edge and uneasy about this as I am, and a small part of me is relieved by this. He leans in close before I situate the headphones on my ears and says, “He doesn’t know you’re here.”
I just nod at him, eyes telling him thank you, lips telling him, “I think that’s for the best.”
He motions toward a chair at the front of the tower, but I just shake my head resolutely. There is no way in hell I can sit down right now. Nervous energy assaults my senses, and I shift back and forth on my feet while my soul remains anchored solid from my fear.
The engine purrs gently into the back end of turn one, and I twist so my eyes can track Colton, although I want to scream for him to stop, to get out, to come back to me. The car starts to accelerate into turn two.
“That’s it, Wood. Nice and easy,” Becks says to him in a gentle coaxing voice. All I hear on the open mic is the cadence of the engine and Colton’s harsh breathing, but no response from him. I bite my lip and glance over at Beckett, not liking the fact that he’s not speaking. I can only imagine what is running through Colton’s head.
“Goddammit, Becks!” It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in over a week and the sound in it—the fear woven through the anger—has me holding tight onto the ear pieces. “This car is shit! I thought you checked everything. It’s—”
“Nothing’s wrong with the car, Colton.” The evenness of Becks’ voice comes through loud and clear, and Beckett glances over to another crew member and subtly shakes his head no at something.
“Bullshit! It’s shuddering like a bitch and is gonna come apart once I open her up.” The vibration that’s normally in his voice from the force of the motor isn’t there, he’s not even going fast enough out of turn two to affect him.
“It’s a new car. I checked every inch of it.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Beckett! Goddammit!” he yells out into the car as it comes to a stop on the backstretch between turns two and three, frustration resonating over the radio.
“It’s a different car. No one’s on the track to hit you. Just take it nice and easy.”
There is no response. Nothing but the distant hum of an idling motor that I’m sure will die soon and then they’ll need to get a crank start out on the track to get it going again. More time for Colton to sit and think and remember and relive the crash that is incapacitating him.
And as time stretches, my concern for the man I love has my own anxiety escalating. Even though we’re all here supporting him, I know he’s over there feeling all alone, isolated in a metal casket on wheels. My heart lodges in my throat as the panic and helplessness I feel starts to strangle me.
Beckett paces back and forth, hi
s hands shoving through his hair, uncertain how to coax his best friend off of the ledge when he’s not listening already. I shift again—Colton’s ragged breathing the only sound on the radio—and I can’t take it anymore.
I walk up to Beckett. “Get everyone off the radios.” He look at me and tries to figure out what I’m doing. “Get them off,” I say, desperation tingeing the urgency in my request.
“Radios off everyone,” Beckett orders immediately as I move to the mic on the counter at the front of the box. I sit down in the seat and wait for the nod from Beckett once he realizes what I’m doing.
I fumble with the buttons on the mic and Davis leans over and pushes down on the one I need. “Colton?” My voice is shaky but I know he hears me because I hear the hitch in his breath when he does.
“Rylee?” It’s my name—a single word—but the break in his voice and the vulnerability in the way he says it causes tears to well in my eyes. He sounds like one of my boys right now when they wake from a terrifying dream, and I wish I could run out onto the track so that I can hold and reassure him. But I can’t, so I do the next closest thing.
“Talk to me. Tell me what’s going through your head. No one’s on the radio but you and me.” Silence stretches for a bit as my palms become sweaty with nerves and I fret that I’m not going to be able to help him through this.
“Ry,” he sighs in defeat, and I’m about to jump back on the mic when he continues. “I can’t … I don’t think I can …” His voice fades as I’m sure memories of the accident assault him, as they do me.
