Cycling Downhill: A Sweet Young Adult Romance (Love is a Triathlon Book 3)

by Chrissy Q Martin

  “Taylor?” Dylan stays in step with me. “What’s she up to?”

  “You have to swear to keep it a secret,” I say.

  “You know you can trust me.”

  I spin to Dylan and narrow my eyes at him. I poke him in the chest with my forefinger. “Swear.” I have one big reason to not trust him, but he’s worked to overcome it and given me more reasons to believe in him.

  Dylan lifts his hands. “I swear. Now why are we hanging out with a phantom Taylor?”

  “She has a date tonight, but she told her mom she’s hanging out with me, or rather us.” I pick up a bag of chocolate chips from the counter. There’s the dark, milk, and white chips like I asked for, but whoever shopped splurged for the expensive high-end chocolate. I usually get the store brand.

  Dylan heads to the sink and starts to wash his hands. “Isn’t she still with Chad?” I nod. The swimming world is small. Chad is a year older than us and competed against Dylan. We all swam together on the club team when we were younger. “Is he home from college?”

  Dylan moves aside and I wash my hands. “No,” I reply.

  “She’s cheating on him?” Dylan sounds surprised.

  I scrub the soap in my hands. “Not exactly. They’re both dating other people, but they’re fake dating each other for their parents. That’s why you can’t tell anyone, and why Taylor is hanging out with us tonight.”

  Dylan whistles while I rinse my hands. “That almost makes our story look tame.”

  I hit Dylan with the towel in my hands. “Nothing beats you being blackmailed by your sister to date and distract me from swimming.”

  Dylan brushes his fingers through his hair and pushes his curls away from his eyes. It’s his nervous twitch and he won’t look at me with his pretty turquoise eyes.

  “Where is Andrea anyways?” I ask.

  “Out with friends.”

  My insides seize with a dread. “She’s not bowling at the Fun Center, is she?” Dylan nods. He pulls a huge mixer out of an appliance garage, his muscles flexing, even though it seems light for him. I sigh heavily. “Jacob’s in that group.”

  “It’s fine,” Dylan assures me. “I’m keeping an eye on her.”

  “Oh,” I say sarcastically. “That’s comforting. You did such a good job of it before.”

  Dylan only purses his lips and sets the huge industrial mixer on the island. Actually, he did a good job before, protecting me from Andrea in ways I didn’t even know about, and I’m sure there’s some he hasn’t admitted to me yet. He’s a good friend, and I shouldn’t be rubbing his mistakes in his face. I’ve made enough of my own.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and extend out a hand with my palm up, ready to move on. “Let me make you some cookies. Can you hand me the butter?”

  Dylan steps closer to me and takes my wrist in his hand. He gently pushes up the cuff of my sweatshirt and examines the remnants of my road rash.

  “This is from the race?” Dylan’s fingers brush over the discolored skin. There’s still faded bruising and the skin is pink where scabs have fallen off.

  “You should see my knee.” I take my hand out of his and pull my sleeve back down.

  “He knows she did it on purpose?” Dylan’s voice is tinged with anger.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I don’t want to think about Paul. It hurts too much.

  “You sure he didn’t kiss her?” Dylan asks.

  It’s like a gut punch and I flinch. “He says he didn’t, and she was really mad at him, but I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders and lean against the counter for support.

  “He broke up with you the same day?” Dylan’s eyes pool with sympathy.

  I grip the edges of the counter. It was the same day I told Paul I love him for the first time. The same day Bridgette tripped me. The same day I told Paul I’m going to college with him. The same day Bridgette got mad and kept texting Paul. The same day everything fell apart. I can’t keep doing this to myself. It hurts too much.

  “Can we just make cookies?” I blink my eyes, determined not to cry.

  “Sorry.” Dylan pushes the butter at me. “I just can’t believe Turner. He’s an idiot.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Dylan. “Are you trying to make me break down and cry?”

  I snatch a stick of butter, unwrap it, and throw it in the huge bowl. I measure out cups of white and brown sugar and dump them in. I stare at the huge professional stand mixer, and don’t know where to start. Dylan waits, his eyes on me.

  “I usually use a hand mixer,” I admit with a shrug. “I have no idea how to turn this thing on.”

  “And you think I do?” Dylan asks.

  “If I break something,” I say. “It’s going to be your fault.”

  “Better a mixer than a heart,” Dylan mumbles and edges up next to me. I’m not sure he wants me to hear his words and I examine the mixer’s knobs, pretending I didn’t.

  “Maybe this one?” I flick a switch and the mixer starts up at high speed beating the ingredients together. Butter and sugar bits fly out of the bowl and the mixing paddle bounces up and down. I shriek and shut it off.

  Next to me, Dylan doubles over in laughter. I very nearly want to cry for feeling like a failure. I can’t even turn on a mixer. Dylan continues to laugh. They’re deep and loud belly laughs which echo in the vast room. Seeing Dylan laugh like this, it makes me smile. His laughter is contagious and soon, I join him. When the laughter dies down, Dylan stands up straight. He positions himself in front of me and his chest brushes mine.

  “You have butter in your hair.” Dylan’s fingers run along my hairline and he removes flecks from the top of my head. His touch is light, and it makes me shiver. I’m not sure why my body responds like this. It’s from some memory or the thought it should be Paul touching me. I really miss him, and it makes me ache.

  “Too bad it’s not chocolate,” I say. I have no idea why this comes out of my mouth, but it makes Dylan grin.

  Dylan looks down at me through his dark eyelashes and his fingers linger along my hairline. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be covered in chocolate,” he says, and gently tugs another piece of butter from my hair while my stomach flip flops.

  “Well, um…” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned our history with chocolate. “There’s got to be some way to lock this mixer head and not have it bounce all over the place.”

  Dylan stands behind me and reaches past me. His chest touches my back, and his arm rubs against mine. Underneath my sweatshirt, I feel the hairs of my forearms stand on end. “I think this is it,” he says in a low voice. Dylan pulls a handle and I find myself inhaling his scent. It’s a mixture of chlorine and a woodsy scent I remember from before.

  “Um.” What am I supposed to be doing?

  Dylan lowers his arm, but remains behind me, and my shoulders brush his chest. “Should we try again?” he whispers in my ear.

  Try again?

  What are we trying again? What is wrong with me? Why is my brain all foggy? I stare at the mixer. Right, I’m making cookies.

  “Let’s try this again,” I say. I doublecheck and make sure the head of the mixer is locked before I turn it on. This time butter doesn’t fly all over me and it combines with the sugar.

  Baking usually takes my mind off things, but it’s not working well this time. I don’t know if it’s because I’m four houses down from Paul or because it’s only been a week since he broke up with me, but rather than my mood feeling lighter with each passing minute, it feels heavier. It was nice to laugh earlier, but each ingredient I add to the bowl is another topping on my spiral of bad thoughts. I’d rather be at home, in bed with a box of tissues, and crying.

  I stare at the dough in the bowl, a big lump of stuff mixed which will make something delicious. With the cookie scoop in my hand, I always use a spoon at home, but Dylan’s f
amily has a kitchen outfitted for a professional chef, I plunk a spoonful onto the cookie sheet. I can’t do this. I can’t even be happy baking cookies for a friend. My mood shifts faster than an Olympic swimmer winning a race.

  Dylan approaches me from behind again and grabs the scoop from my hand. His touch is warm on my cold skin. “Sit down, Ashley. I’ll finish this.”

  I slump into a wooden stool at the large island and watch Dylan scoop the cookies. He focuses on getting the right amount of dough and placing it in the correct spot on the sheet, but he keeps glancing at me. His lips are pressed together, and his eyes are heavy. I can’t manage to put on the happy face anymore, and I feel bad about it. This was supposed to be a fun night, I think. I don’t know. I hate I’m ruining this.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly after Dylan puts the cookies in and closes the oven door.

  “It’s okay.” Dylan grabs a box of tissues from a cabinet and walks over to me. He plunks the box in front of me. “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been long. I know you want to cry.”

  The tissue box is blue, like the hat I gave Paul for Christmas. Tears start to sting in the back of my eyes. My head bobs up and down in little nods.

  “It’s his birthday today, isn’t it?” Dylan asks. They were once best friends, which is why he knows Paul’s birthday. Plus, it’s easy to remember a holiday birthday. I have one too, kind of. I thought we were meant to be because we had holiday birthdays close together.

  My lips pinch together, the sting moves into my nose, and I grab a tissue. I had this whole driving tour planned out for Paul’s birthday. After work I was going to pick him up. We were going to stop at the fast-food place where we ordered dinner before homecoming. Then we’d go to the school parking lot where we had our first kiss and have donuts there. Finally, we’d come back for a walk around the lake by his house where we decided to start our relationship and I’d give him my gift. It’s not as romantic as Paul’s Valentine gift to me, but it was going to be a memorable evening with just the two of us.

  “Come here.” Dylan holds out his arms and wiggles his fingers. I look at him quizzically. “You need a hug, and you can cry all you want. I don’t care. I know you want to.”

  He continues to hold his arms out and I finally slide out of my stool and into his embrace. I keep my arms down, while Dylan wraps his around me. I can’t help the tears that fall down my face when I bury it in his chest. I’ve forgotten how all-encompassing his hold can be, and how safe it makes me feel. Things are once again falling apart in my life, and here Dylan is holding me up, like he’s done before. I wrap my arms around him and let the soft sobs flow out of me. It really does help to cry.

  When my sobs turn into whimpers, I turn my head to the side and rest my cheek on Dylan’s chest. “It just feels like my life is falling apart.”

  “Maybe it’s only falling into place,” Dylan whispers.

  I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and pat Dylan on the chest. “I’m sorry.” My voice is soft and low. I don’t know whether I should be embarrassed about crying all over Dylan. “You’re going to have to change. I got your shirt all wet with snot and tears.”

  Dylan’s chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. “It’s fine.” He brushes some hair away from my forehead. “Feel better?”

  I step back from Dylan and he feels reluctant to let me go. “Thanks. I don’t think Nora can take much more of me crying,” I say.

  “Since our best friends are out with each other, I guess that makes us back-up best friends.” Dylan brushes a lock of curls away from his face, and I’m once again struck by what beautiful eyes he has. “And I’m here to hold you up.”

  “Yeah.” A small smile emerges from the depths of me. Dylan knows me well and I’m comfortable with him. Any remaining embarrassment flits away. “You’re a good substitute, and don’t tell Nora, but you give better hugs.”

  Dylan hands me another tissue. “Can I ask you something?”

  The oven starts to beep, startling us both.

  “The cookies!” I exclaim and rush over to the oven. With an oven mitt, I pull them out and set them on the stovetop. They’re nearly perfect, and after a few minutes on the cookie sheet they’ll have baked to perfection.

  “I’ll get the milk,” Dylan says.

  When the cookies aren’t hot, but still warm, we take them to the small round table in the breakfast nook to eat.

  I hold up my glass of milk to toast. “To being substitute best friends and paying off bets.”

  Dylan’s face alternates between a frown and then a smile. “To you,” he says, and we clink glasses. “Speaking of bets, I believe someone owes me a date.”

  I knew he’d bring this up at some point. I take a bite of the cookie in my hand. It’s still warm and nearly falls apart. “As friends,” I remind Dylan. I don’t think I want to date again or at least for a long time. If Paul happens to return to his senses and wants me back, I might have second thoughts.

  Dylan stares at me, like he’s mulling it over. “Fine. As friends.” He bites into his cookie.

  “Oh, my goodness.” I lick my lips. “I usually like these cookies, but whatever chocolate this is, has made these divine.”

  Dylan leans across the table and his thumb rubs next to my lips. “You have it all over your face.”

  I swat his hand away. “I was saving that for later.”

  Dylan blinks and then grins. “Next Saturday,” he says. “I’m taking you out.”

  “Maybe I’m busy,” I say and take another bite of the cookie. The chocolate is holding shape, but still soft and warm. I could eat all the cookies on the plate.

  “No, you’re not,” Dylan says and reaches for another cookie. I’m going to have to eat faster to beat him. “You have no life like me, especially since our best friends ditch us for each other.”

  “You used to have a rather active social life,” I say. “What happened?”

  “I met you.” Dylan grins.

  “You’re the one who suggested the stupid bet,” I say. Dylan didn’t party or date while I was with Paul, plus he was grounded.

  “Look where the bet got me.” With a wide smile, Dylan gestures to the nearly empty plate of cookies. “I’d say cookies with you is great. Plus, I get a friendly date with you next week.”

  I swipe the last cookie on the plate. “Fine. We’d best just get it over with. But make sure you pack tissues. I can’t seem to control when I’ll break down into a sobbing mess.”

  EIGHT

  I want to break down into a sobbing mess, but I have to hold it together and pretend everything is okay. It’s not getting any easier. If anything, it’s getting harder. Calculus with Paul is manageable because we sit on opposite sides of the room, but now we have physics together and he sits right next to me. The math wing isn’t far from the science wing, which means Paul and I get to the classroom with plenty of time to spare. If the restrooms were closer, I’d be headed there every day to avoid the extra time with Paul.

  Then again, maybe this time together is what I need. It’s a chance to figure out if we can be friends, or more than friends again. I know I still need time to heal before I think about dating again, even if it is Paul. I wonder if being friends with him can heal the hurt he’s placed in me.

  I fidget with my phone while we sit at our lab table. Tara walks through the door, confidence in her step and an evil grin on her face. I’m immediately on alert seeing her like this, because I know it’s not going to be good for me. The only relief I get is spotting Taylor walk in behind Tara.

  “Ash!” Tara exclaims my name before she even gets to her seat. “Did I see your car at Dylan’s house Friday night?”

  My skin prickles and my toes curl. I was not expecting this. “Friday?” I can play dumb, maybe that will work.

  “Yeah.” Tara slams her bag on the table, while Paul and I watch her. “Bridgette and I sa
w it when we went to Paul’s to celebrate his birthday.”

  Every. Single. Time.

  Tara takes advantage when she can, and she twists the knife permanently imbedded in my gut.

  Taylor sits at the stool between Paul and Tara. “Are you talking about Friday night?” she asks, a casually indifferent look on her face. “Ash and I hung out with Dylan.”

  Tara’s eyes narrow at Taylor. “You were there?”

  Taylor reaches in her backpack and pulls out her science binder. “Of course. We’re all friends and hung out. What’s wrong with that? I’m sure that’s what you all did on Friday too.” Taylor opens her binder, not looking at any of us because she’s lying.

  Tara ponders what Taylor said. “Did Dylan have a party or something?”

  It’s my turn to answer. “Nope,” I say. “He’s not having parties anymore. Only certain friends can come over, and Taylor and I happen to be on the list.”

  Tara wrinkles her nose in disgust. “How’d you guys get on the list?”

  “Guess we’re special,” Taylor says, a smug smile of her own coating her face.

  Paul sits, uncomfortable between all this discussion and petty back and forth. I’m sure he’s regretting his choice to choose this seat.

  “What’d you guys do at his place?” Paul’s voice is soft and stilted. He’s afraid of my reply. Fortunately, the bell rings and I don’t have to answer.

  “What did you do Friday night?” Taylor asks me at lunch.

  “We made cookies,” I say. “I owed him.”

  “Really?” Taylor wiggles her eyebrows. “That’s it?”

  I shake my head at her and pull a sandwich out of my lunch bag. “That’s it. We’re just friends. How was your date?”