Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Caroline leaves the next day, and Terrence is almost as upset as Gary. After teaching, I find them both locked in their rooms. They didn’t even ride today.

I sit next to Terrence on his bed, not understanding why he’s so upset. “I thought you wanted her to leave.”

“Not like this.” He scrubs his hair. It’s tangled like he’s been wringing it all day. “Not because of Gary’s racing. I wanted her to go home for the baby.” His voice cracks. “She broke up with him, Lia. She’s not coming back.”

I’m sure Caroline told them the real reason she left, because she suspects them of doping. He doesn’t know that I know.

I should ask about the doctor. After last night, though, I’m so raw, we’re so raw, that bringing up anything so emotional would overflow our small hearts. We’re pried open for each other in a scary way that neither of us has felt before.

I can’t ask him about doping today. I have to believe that Caroline’s as wrong about that as she was about Terrence not coming home to me.

I still don’t understand why he’s so torn over Caroline leaving. “And you’re worried Gary’s so upset he won’t race well?” He should care about Gary for more than the racing.

“He’s my best friend. He has a family coming; he can’t support them if he’s out of work. The team comes first. But the guy’s like my brother. Seeing his heart broken is no easy thing for me.” The terrified look on his face tells me everything.

He’s afraid I’ll break his heart, too.

Because of us, he understands what his friend is going through. He’s thinking of how I’ll be leaving soon too.

I don’t know if he knows how soon, though.

I rub his back. “They’re having a baby. It’s not a breakup. She’s just angry.” My throat tightens. There’s no baby to connect us across the ocean when I’m gone.

“I hope you’re right,” he whispers, then buries his face in my neck and holds me.

He doesn’t mention how I’m leaving, and neither do I. Tomorrow I’ll be able to count the number of days on two hands.

My heart wrings like a saturated cloth. When I leave, I’ll have to dig him out like excavating a hole.

I can’t fathom it.

His kisses are different, and he makes love to me with a neediness as though last night never happened. As though no matter how many times we do this, there’s no quenching the hunger of needing it over and over again.

* * * * *

Nice blossoms into the paradise I’ve been hoping for.

I have my bike back. Each afternoon, I ride it to the Promenade and sit on the beach in one of the famous blue chaise longues. There, I wait for Terrence.

Rather than reading literature, I checked out some modern, commercial novels from the library—to own the truth, romances, in French. There’s nothing more delicious than romantic scenes playing out on the page in my favorite language.

It’s fun. I’m having real, unrestrained, honest-to-God fun, with no goals for my future in mind. I’m discovering the beautiful, letting go of requirements, and delving into the things I truly desire.

Perhaps I am being bad, but I like it so much that I’m not sure how it can’t be good.

Terrence joins me after he finishes his ride and naps in the chaise next to me, soaking up sun on his pasty white chest with the tan lines ringing his arms.

I take a picture of him on my phone while he sleeps. I want to freeze images of him for when I have to leave him soon. Now that I know what sex is like with him, I’m insatiable. But it’s okay because he is too.

We go back to his apartment for dinner, and he’s exhausted. The spring classics over, the team has two weeks of recovery and training before the start of the summer grand tours. All of them sleep ten to twelve hours a day. They have less energy than ever.

When we walk in the door, I say, “Go lie down. I’ll cook dinner.”

“Yeah?” He kisses my temple and goes to put his legs up without protest.

I’m making pancit for dinner. I want to give my cyclist a taste of the Filipina that is me. I finally went to the Asian market this week and did manage to find the right noodles. I dig through the fridge and cupboards for the rest of the ingredients. The guys eat so much food and have such high standards for quality that searching through their kitchen can be a daunting treasure hunt.

My hand brushes a paper bag I’ve never seen before. I pull it onto the counter and open it.

The contents are heart-stopping.

I can’t move, not comprehending.

Denial. I close the bag. I’m not seeing this. It’s not real. I re-open the bag.

It’s still there.

No. No, no. No.

The emotions that have been on a constant simmer since Terrence came back from San Remo boil and spill over. I am a tornado of pain and betrayal.

Maybe it’s good I’m going home soon, then I won’t have to deal with this. Maybe I should pretend I never found it.

Tears flood my eyes. I can’t. How could he do this? To himself? To his team? To me?

Anger winds so tight in my lungs, it ices my tears in a glacial freeze.

“Terrence, what the fuck is this?”

“Huh?”

I walk into the room with the bag aloft. “This?”

He smacks his forehead. “They’re vitamins.”

I check the bag again. “Vials and syringes.” My words are sharp. “Do I look stupid to you?” I thought he was clean. I believed in him. But what’s in the bag in my hand…

“It’s B-12 injections,” he says. “They up your red blood cell count.”

My arm sags with the bag. “Why can’t you just take supplements like the rest of the goddamn world?”

“Because it doesn’t work!” He sits up. His face fires red like a stop sign, so defensive it blazes. “They hand me this shit, and I just do what the doctors tell me to do.”

He’s lying. It slices through my chest so much worse than if he’d admit what they really are. “How could you?” I ask.

“
Everyone
does it, Aurelia. If we want to be competitive, we don’t have a fucking choice. Would you rather it be EPO or steroids or cortisol? Or better yet, blood transfusions?”

“How do I know this isn’t EPO or whatever?”

“EPO comes in pills now.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because they asked me to take it, and I said no.”

He’s so adamant, but it makes no sense with the evidence in my hand. “I don’t believe you. You’ve been hiding things from me. This is why you kept pushing me away, why you left early for Paris and Milan.”

“I didn’t want you to know about it.”

“I know about Bugatti.”

He frowns. “What about Bugatti?”

“Caroline said that’s the doctor you went to see in Milan.”

“She told you? Of course she did.” He looks at the ceiling. “Yes, we went to see Bugatti, but Gary wasn’t along.”

“You went. You admit it.” My breath slows. “He traffics drugs!”

He points at the bag in my hand. “It’s just vitamin B. You can buy those injections at a pharmacy. It’s not illegal.”

“Then why go see Bugatti?”

“He tried to give me—they tried to make me do—other stuff.”

“Tried?”

His jaw grinds. “I refused. I won anyway.”

“How do I know you’re not a liar?”

Hurt flashes across his face, and his chin falls.

It’s him: the man who loves me and feeds me his heart every night in bed. I feel like a monster.

Before, I never would have thought him capable of lying—his direct way, honest to a fault, a detriment to his career during interviews with the press. He’s so genuine in every word he says.

I’m acting like Caroline, attacking him about doping the same way she has been for months. He deserves better than this.

He says he was offered the drugs and refused to take them. If he’s telling the truth, he’s done a heroic thing in refusing. He could have so easily given in and done what they told him to do. I want to curse Caroline. I never would have had these suspicions if it wasn’t for her.

And it means… “Is that why they threatened your contract, because you refused to take it?”

He scratches his neck. “Sort of. Yeah.”

Shame clenches my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” he whispers. “This stuff makes everybody do things they wouldn’t normally.”

I walk closer. “Why didn’t you tell me, at least about the vitamin injections?”

“Because it’s revolting and I don’t like doing it. The less I have to talk about it, the better. You think I like sticking a needle in my arm every night?” He shudders. This weighs on him, another thing adding to the pressure of winning.

“There has to be some other way. Can’t you eat special foods or something?”

“I’m no doctor. Apparently this is the best way.”

I sit across from him, my thoughts spinning. “I had no idea it was so bad. That you had to do things like—” I look at the syringes, cringe, and shove the bag away from me.

He grabs my hand, a strained look on his face, his skin stretched thin over his cheekbones. He’s lost weight since I met him. I didn’t see it until now. He’s skinnier than he was, his muscles look bigger, because there’s less fat on him.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” I squeeze his hand. “Why do you put up with this?”

“Because cycling is what I do. It’s what I’m good at. And as shitty as this crap is—” he nods at the bag, “—I love it. It’s more than worth it.”

Cycling is his whole world. I wonder how far he’d go for it. Is it the riding he loves or the winning? Or is it the money? I don’t think he knows the answer.

He kisses my hand. “I’m glad you know now. I didn’t want to tell you, but—”

“I’m glad you did. I want you to talk to me about it.”

“It’s such a relief that I can.”

I have to believe he’s telling me the truth. If I don’t trust him, what else do we have?

Chapter Thirty-Three

My pancit isn’t as good as my mom’s, but the guys devour it and lick their bowls like it’s ice cream. They do it every meal because they’re so hungry, but I choose to believe it’s because they like my cooking.

Terrence is helping me clean up the kitchen when he says, “Lia, how soon are you leaving?”

I’ve avoided telling him. To say it feels like slapping him in the face. I swallow. “My flight is next Friday.”

“Friday.” His eyes widen. “How soon is that?”

“Nine days.”

“Nine days?” His eyes glaze and dilate. “Nine days, Aurelia! I thought you had another month!”

“I was supposed to, but I applied to go home early…”

“Early? Why?”

“It was before we…” I motion between us. “Before I wanted to stay. I should have told you.”

“Heck yes, I wish you’d told me.”

“I didn’t want to—upset you.”

“I’m upset now.” The hurt in his face rams me like a fist to my chest and flays my heart open. He turns away from me, hiding his pain.

I can’t leave him.

Before him, I was this cold, lonely, mechanical bookworm who knew nothing about having fun or how to smile. Now I love being alive and being with him. I wake every morning excited to talk to him.

“Come with me to Italy,” he blurts.

“Italy?” I blink.

“The Giro d’Italia starts in two weeks. You can come along.”

“Giro?” I know the word means “turn” in Italian but…

“It’s Italy’s Tour de France. A three-week race through the country.”

Italy for three weeks. With him.
Italia
. He’s inviting me to travel with him. It’s all I’ve wanted for weeks. “How’d you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I wanted to go to Italy with you?”

He holds my hand. “I’m still forgiving myself for leaving you when I went to Milan last week. I wish I could give us time together that’s not a bike race.” He massages my palm. “Maybe in the fall after the racing season ends we can take a real vacation together.”

It’s the first time he’s mentioned us in a long-term plan, beyond our weeks here. The fall is months away. He’s still seeing us together then. Contentment releases tight places in my chest I didn’t know were blocked.

But the practical side of this plan is impossible. “I could never afford to go to Italy. I’m living off of you for food as it is.”

“You could be a
soigneur
. Work for the team. They’ll pay for your hotel. You’ll even get a paycheck.”

“A job?”

“Yes.”

“What would I do? You’ll be racing.”

“Regular team errands like prep lunches. I need your help with the press.”

I saw a replay of his interview after he won San Remo. He cheered, crying out to his teammates so many times he didn’t answer a single question. He does need help with that.

“You focus me,” he says. “You ground me. Having you find this stuff.” He nods at the bag of syringes. “I know you’re mad, and I wish you didn’t have to know about it, but I feel better. Having you with me, knowing I can talk to you—” He kisses my forehead. “I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it during daylight. We’ve both said it at night, but hearing him say it outside of the bedroom affects me more.

He says, “This racing stuff—it’s getting harder. After San Remo, when all I could think about was getting back to you…I’m having trouble imagining going to these races without you.”

I want to be with him. I can make money doing it. “I’ve never been to Italy.”

A smile lights his eyes. “I know. And I want to show it to you. The race goes through the most beautiful things. The coast, the mountains. The people, the food. Even if you don’t come for me, come to see it. You’ll love it.”

I want to be excited, to leap and accept him with no hesitation, but there are other things. “My parents. I have to get a job at the hospital at home. I can’t put it off anymore.” The idea sounds like the worst sort of torture. After living in paradise with him, I don’t know how I’ll survive working in a hospital full-time.

“A hospital? Why?”

I tell him what I’ve avoided telling him. “I’m supposed to be applying to medical school.”

“Medical school?”

“I was pre-med in college.”

“I thought you were a French person, student, studier, whatever.” The confusion marring his brow drifts to his eyes, and he looks at me like he’s never seen me before.

“My parents expect me to be a doctor.” I rush the words, trying to explain.

“Oh.” His head droops. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Because I hate talking about it. I think about it as little as possible.”

“You didn’t tell me because I’m too stupid to understand.”

I gag on my tongue. “Ng—no. That’s not—Terrence, I would never—”

“I thought I knew you.”

“You do know me. This is something my parents want. It’s not me. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Fuck your parents. You’re an adult. They can’t make you go to medical school. What about you? I thought you wanted to get a Ph.D. in French literature.”

I love that he values my dreams. I wish my family felt the same. “You don’t understand. My parents left the Philippines so that I could have a good education and get a good job.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. How is being a French teacher not a good job?”

“They expect me to make lots of money. I can’t do that teaching French. I can’t disappoint them. They’re my family. It doesn’t matter how much I want something else. I can’t ruin their dreams like that. They gave up their whole lives so I could have this chance.”

The dread of going to med school fills my veins like tar, but my need to please them is far stronger.

And there’s the Fulbright part. “It’s a condition of my assistantship. I have to go home after it’s over.”

He shakes his head. “I thought you’d changed. I thought you’d learned to do things
you
want to do, not what other people expect you to do.” He turns away from me. “It’s three weeks, Lia. You can still go to med school after.”

The way he leaves the kitchen, I feel like I’ve rejected him. Choosing to go home instead of going to Italy with him—I’m giving up on us.

I’ve known him for less than two months. I can’t defy a lifetime of my parents’ dreams for him.

He’s right. I’ve learned so much about who I am and what I want. Fitting the new me into the expectations of my parents will be like shoving a square peg in a round hole. I won’t fit anymore. And if I try, it’ll require painful re-shaping.

I don’t know how to handle this: go to Italy or not, defy my parents or not, leave Terrence or not.

I do the one thing that helps—I go for a ride.