Supercross Me (Motocross Me #2) (7 page)

“I’m not single,” I said, unlocking my truck and climbing inside without another word.

At least, I hoped I wasn’t.

One freaking dinner. That’s all I got before Ash left town again without so much as a goodbye. I shouldn’t have expected it—I hardly ever got a goodbye from him now. Not unless I happened to be hanging out with Shelby when he was heading back to the airport. I hate how seeing him brings out all of these emotions in me, visceral and painful parts of my heart that I’ve tried so hard to forget about.

Every time he shows up, I fall completely in love with him again. And every time he leaves, my heart breaks all over again. It’s like some kind of screwed up time machine of back and forth cycles that will never end. The worst part is that I can’t tell anyone about it. Shelby wouldn’t know how to help me since the guy in question is her brother, and she’s my only friend.

I have to forget about him. Again. Right now.

It’s the one of the last Fridays before a normal race, so I decide to throw myself into my job in an effort to forget about Ash. From signing in riders to hanging signs and refilling the cups at the concession stand, I am constantly looking for something to do with my hands. I need to stay busy, focused on my job. I even left my phone back in my room because the last thing I needed to do was constantly wonder if every beep or phantom vibration was a text from Ash apologizing for not getting a chance to tell me goodbye.

I climb up the metal stairs that lead to the score tower, my arms full of new reams of copier paper. I’d noticed that our printer only had a few pages left and had taken it upon myself to drive to the nearest office supply store to restock. I stop at the top of the stairs when I think I hear my name. I turn around.

“Hey, Hana!”

I follow the voice and find Lincoln peering up at me from a few yards away. I almost don’t recognize him because his shock of black hair has been covered by a baseball cap. He waves at me when I see him. “You busy?”

I gesture toward the paper in my hands. “Kind of.”

“I mean after that.”

Before I can answer, a little kid on a tiny dirt bike rolls up, jolting to a stop in front him. The kid’s gloved hand points at something and Lincoln kneels down, examining the bike. I kick open the door and set down the stacks of paper and then step back outside to see what he wanted. He’s still talking to the kid, sitting on his knees so he’s on his level. I watch as his hands move around, probably telling him some kind of advice for riding judging by the way his hand moves through the air like a dirt bike. He says something and the kid nods, then he grabs the back of the kid’s helmet and gives it a little shake.

I can’t help but smile. When the kid rides away, Lincoln looks back up and catches my eye. Even from the distance, I can see him smiling too.

“What is it?” I call out, resting my hands on the railing.

He looks around and then shakes his head. “I don’t want to yell it.”

Oh.

OH
.

He’s going to ask me out. I’ve never been more sure of anything. And as I watch him walk the pathway toward the stairs, I’m not sure if I should run away or dive head first into the adventure of dating a new person. It’s been a few months, after all. If Ash had wanted me back, he could have said something when he was here. It doesn’t matter what I want. If Ash is happy moving on, then I really have no choice.

I’m still running through a list of pros and cons in my head when Lincoln scales the stairs and suddenly we’re face to face. “Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” I say.

“So there’s this party next weekend,” he says quickly, almost as if he’d rehearsed it. “I was hoping you’d want to come with me. It’s on Friday so we won’t miss any race stuff.”

There it is. The first step in moving on from your ex-boyfriend—getting a new boyfriend.

“What kind of party?” I ask, like some kind of total idiot. It’s a party in Mixon. There’s only one kind of party in Mixon.

He rolls his shoulders, and I find myself thinking he’s cute, especially when he’s nervous. “You know, just a house party at Mike Garcia’s. His parents are chill and he has like, three foosball tables and usually a bonfire.”

I nod. I’ve heard of Mike’s parties, but since he’s one of the few guys in town who doesn’t ride dirt bikes, I don’t know him. Lincoln shoves his hands in his pockets. “So what do you think? Wanna go?”

“Can I think about it?” I ask. The moment the words are out of my mouth I feel like a gigantic ass. Lincoln flinches in this infinitesimal way, but I can see it, and I know I just hurt his feelings. He’s asking me out to a party, not some romantic candlelit dinner for two, and I can’t even give him a straight answer.

“Sure Hana,” he says. “Not a problem.”

*

Dad watches me from the sidelines as I struggle to lift an old tire, tugging it out from its place around a utility pole. The poles and trees that dot the motocross track are wrapped in old rubber tires, a slit cut into them so they can be fitted around it. It’s a safety precaution in case someone crashes their bike—the rubber protects them and the pole. Five old dry-rotted tires need replacing and I’ve offered to do it.

My dad seemed to think it was too much work for a girl like me, but I’d insisted, and now he’s watching me, arms crossed with an amused look on his face. I huff out my frustration and bend my fingers around the splitting old rubber and pull as hard as I can. Finally, it snaps off, and I lug it to the ground away from the pile of new tires.

I can do this. I have to do this. Because anything less than backbreaking labor will make me think of Ash. I heft the new tire up, slotted side toward the pole, and shove it on. It goes on so much easier than the old one came off, and I’m feeling a little more motivated to prove my dad wrong now. The second tire is just as much of a pain in the ass, but after about thirty minutes and a gallon of sweat, I have replaced all five tires around the pole.

I stand back, dry my hands on my jean shorts and admire my work, feeling like some kind of Amazon woman. I can do anything I set my mind to. Even get over Ash.

Teig finds me cooling off in the score tower an hour later. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I ask, keeping my face pressed toward the air conditioning unit.

“It’s a half day because of standardized testing,” he says, grabbing one of the rolling chairs from the score desk and spinning it around. “You want to go home and see if Mom will make us a sandwich?”

“Aren’t you old enough to make your own sandwich?” I ask into the cold air.

“You know Mom’s are better than anything we can make ourselves,” he says. “She makes her sandwiches with maternal magic.”

I turn, letting the air hit the back of my neck. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s true,” he says, lifting a brow that makes him look strangely older.

I nod. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

“So I heard Lincoln asked you out,” Teig says as we walk over the little bridge that connects the track to our back yard.

I hold in a groan. “And how is that any of your business?”

“You’re my sister,” he says, pointing to his index finger. He points to the next finger. “And Lincoln is my friend.”

“Lincoln is twice your age.”

“I can have friends twice my age.”

This time I really do groan. “Not that it is
any
of your business, Kiddo, but yeah, he asked me out.”

“And what did you say?”

I lift my shoulders and focus on the grass. “I told him I had to think about it.” Teig stops, forcing me to stop too. “What?” I say, putting my hands on my hips.

His lips twist into a grin. “You don’t want to date him because you still love Ash.”

“Oh my god.” I start walking again, picking up the pace as quickly as my legs will take me. Teig jogs to catch up, singing “Hana loves Ash” until we reach the back door and I elbow him hard in the ribs.

“Stop it, Teig. I’m serious.”

“Shawn thinks you should go out with Lincoln a few times just to make Ash jealous,” Teig says, rubbing the spot I’d just jammed with my elbow. Like he and Ash’s little brother actually discuss these things.

I let out a huff of air. “What do you kids even know about dating? You’re like, five.”

“I’m almost eleven. I know stuff.”

Luckily Teig drops the subject when we go inside and ask Molly for lunch. She is already making herself a sandwich, and although I feign interest in helping her, she shoos me off, saying she’s happy to make us lunch. Yet another reason being home is much better than college life—Molly’s sandwiches.

After we eat, I run up to my bedroom hoping to avoid any more stupid dating advice from my little brother. Dating other guys to make Ash jealous? Where the hell does he get this stuff? That’s something petty people who love drama do in order to make their lives more miserable. Ash and I are over. It doesn’t matter that my heart still aches for him or that Shelby and Shawn and my own brother all think we should get back together. It didn’t work out.

How many times do I have to say that?

I’m not going to accept Lincoln’s date invitation just to piss off an ex. I’m not even sure it would piss him off, but that’s beside the point. As I pace around my bedroom, wondering what I should do, the weirdest thought comes to me. I get the sudden urge to call Ash and ask for his advice, just like I used to do with every other problem I had.

I sink into my computer chair knowing I can’t call him. The thing with Lincoln might be too much too soon. It’s not that I don’t like him—I barely even know him, but the things I do know, I like. And it’s not that I don’t want to date, but I’m just not sure if it’s time yet. Zooey dated several guys when we were roommates. I can still hear her screechy voice saying her favorite motto after a night of drinking and bringing home another frat boy: “The best way to get over a guy is to get under a new one.”

With a deep breath, I stare at my cell phone, wondering if I should go on the stupid date with Lincoln. It can’t really hurt anything and maybe after I do it, I’ll know for sure if I want to move on or not. But if I don’t want to move on, it’ll be wrong to have used Lincoln for my own soul-searching.

My phone lights up with a social media notification.

Lincoln Atwell would like to be friends.

I click on his profile and smile when his default picture pops up on my phone. It’s him standing next to Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. It’s a recent picture, but he almost looks like a kid, his eyes glimmering in the excitement of meeting the mouse. I am immediately tempted to go through his entire profile to figure out the kind of guy Lincoln Atwell is in real life and not just on the track. A rush of nervous energy runs down my veins and I stop scrolling. Before I allow myself to cyber stalk someone, I should probably decide if I want to date him or not.

I click on the home icon and check for any other notifications. The first thing I see on my news feed makes my blood turn to ice. My hand shakes so badly the screen is hard to see, but I’ve already seen it.
Motocross Weekly
magazine has uploaded a dozen photos of a recent supercross after party. The very first one has just made all of the light fall out of my world.

I close my eyes, willing the image to go away, but it’s as burned into my memory as my own phone number. Ash Carter with Dylan Bakers and a beautiful blonde goddess between them, her hand wrapped around Ash’s elbow. Her eyes, all shimmery with eye shadow, give a smoldering love-sick gaze at my ex-boyfriend.

The lump in my throat grows to a lethal size and I have to tell myself to breathe, otherwise I might pass out from the heartache.

And it’s stupid, I know it is, but I do it anyway. I call Lincoln.

“Hana,” he says, by way of answering the phone. “What’s up?”

I picture the look on his face when he got to meet Mickey Mouse and I focus on that image, not the other one that’s ripping my heart to shreds.

“I do want to go out with you,” I say, but the words sound like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth.

“Awesome. Mike’s next Friday?”

“No,” I say, gazing out my window. My heart is pounding so hard it might bring down this entire house. “I don’t want to wait that long. Let’s do something tomorrow.”

“Okay . . . dinner?”

“No, sooner.” I swallow and my throat is on fire. “Coffee. Brunch. Let’s do brunch tomorrow morning.”

“We have work in the morning, Hana.”

“I’m the owner’s daughter. We can show up a little late.”

Lincoln’s voice changes, his smile apparent on the other end of the line. “Okay then. Brunch it is. I’m looking forward to it.”

I touch the curtain, pulling it away to where I can see the track in the distance. “Me too.”

Though I haven’t read a single handbook for how to handle a breakup, I am almost certain that these books exist. I am even more certain that in these books, there’s at least one chapter called Stay the Hell Off Your Ex’s Social Media Accounts. This fact should be obvious, an easy way to not obsess over someone who is out of your life. But such common sense does not easily translate into action. I told myself repeatedly to say off the website, to power down my computer and forget it even exists. I thought about having Teig log in and delete Ash from my friends. I thought about a lot of things.

But I did the exact opposite.

I stayed up until midnight, scrolling through Ash’s racing fan page. He doesn’t have a personal account, and this page was created for him shortly after he became a professional racer. He manages it now, and he’d even downloaded the app on his phone so that he could stay in touch with fans better. Looks like he’s done an excellent job of
staying in touch
with the fans.

My mind races even as I stare up at the ceiling in bed. It’s seven in the morning and I’ve just woken up from another nightmare where Ash was making out with that blonde girl and I was forced to watch. I am exhausted, but I know I can’t sleep anymore. The images in my nightmares are worse than the ones in my daydreams. That girl was in every single photo from the party.

She was also in a few photos before then. After careful examination like some kind of crazed lunatic, I’d found her hanging out in Ash’s proximity at the last four events he went to for Team Yamaha. Even in a two-dimensional digital picture, the desire in her eyes is hard to miss. She looks like she wants him bad, and now it looks like she’s got him.

He used to be mine, and he’s not anymore.

He’s
not anymore
.

I let the shower water scald my back, tilt my head into the stream and wish it’d sear away my thoughts. Instead, it just steams up the shower until the bathroom is as cloudy as my mind. The glass shower walls sweat like the tears that roll down my face.

The worst part of all of my internet sleuthing is that I still don’t have any answers. That girl is definitely into Ash; her eyes look exactly like mine did in all of the photos we’d taken together over the months we dated. She holds onto his arm every chance she gets. She is always
there
. But none of the photos have them holding hands, fingers laced together like a real couple. There are no kissing shots or telltale signs of a real relationship. Whatever goes on behind closed hotel doors, there is no real evidence in the photos online.

It’s the not knowing that’s killing me. I’m not an idiot, though. I know something is going on, and that means it’s officially time for me to move on as well. When I text Lincoln to make sure we’re still on for brunch, he insists on driving over to pick me up even though he lives closer to the café than I do. That’s a move that guys make on a real, legit date.

I swallow my anxiety and shake off the cloak of pretending that’s been draped over my shoulders for the last twenty-four hours. I am no longer hanging out with Lincoln as some kind of pretend way of seeing another guy. This is a real date, and I should treat it like one. I should get butterflies in my stomach and shaking eyeliner lines because I’m so nervous about looking good for him.

I sit back in my vanity, examining the black lines around my upper and lower eyelids. Perfectly smooth. Guess I’ll have to conjure up some nervous energy before he gets here.

Lincoln’s voice rises up the stairs the moment I leave my bedroom. I check the time on my phone—he’s five minutes early, and I still don’t have nervous butterflies yet.
Maybe they’re all dead
, I think sarcastically as I head into the living room. Teig and Lincoln are standing near the fireplace while Molly makes small talk about one of the family vacation photos on the mantle. Dad is already at work, so I’m spared at least one third of the familial embarrassment.

“Where are you two going so early in the morning?” Molly asks, gripping her coffee mug in her hands.

“We’re getting brunch,” I answer for him, stepping into the living room.

Lincoln turns when he hears my voice, the corners of his lips twisting upward in an impish grin. His hands are shoved firmly into the pockets of his dark jeans and he’s traded in a Mixon Motocross T-shirt for a navy pearl snap shirt. The sleeves are rolled and shoved up to his elbows and his dark hair has been brushed and swept to the side with a crisp part. He’s even cuter than usual.

“Brunch will be fun!” Molly says with a little too much enthusiasm. “Just don’t offer Hana any coffee or she might throw it on you,” she adds, cupping her hand toward Lincoln as if we all couldn’t hear her.

“Oh I already know about Hana’s extreme aversion to coffee,” he says. “Any other food warnings I should know about?”

“No,” I say, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him toward the front door. “We will not be discussing my quirks in front of everyone. Let’s go.”

“Have fun!” Molly calls out as I shove Lincoln out of the door and close it quickly behind us.

“Sorry about that,” I tell him as we head toward his truck. It’s a blue Chevy pickup almost identical to my red one. “You know how it is with family . . . they won’t let me go anywhere without embarrassing me first.”

He clicks the door lock with his keys and opens the passenger side for me. “Nah, your family is cool.”

I thank him and climb into the truck, feeling like this whole open-the-door-for-me thing is a little too serious, too date-like. And although this
is
a date, it’s also happening at ten in the morning, and I’d wanted it to be a little more casual. I don’t need
Acts Like a Gentleman
to be added to the list of reasons why Lincoln would make a great new boyfriend.

My phone buzzes and since Lincoln’s driving, I break the rules of polite dating and check the message real quick. It’s Teig, and he’s being a little brat.

He’s nice and all but he’s no Ash.

I glance over and Lincoln is focused on the road, so I quickly type back to him and hope my little brother catches the venom in my words.

Ash doesn’t want me so seriously just shut up.

“Sorry, Teig was just asking me a question,” I say, shoving the phone back into my purse.

Lincoln glances over for a moment before turning his attention back to the road. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I was texting, and that’s rude on a—” I can’t bring myself to say the word and heat rises up my neck. I glance quickly at my fingernails.

“Date?” Lincoln says as if he’s not sure that’s the correct answer.

“Yeah.”

He lets out a chuckle through his nose. “Hana, this is just brunch. It’s not a big deal. It kind of seems like you’re a little freaked out, and that’s not at all what I intended when I asked you to go to the party with me.”

“I seem freaked out?” Just when I thought I was holding it all together . . .

He nods. “It’s cute. But you can text if you want to. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. I just wanted to get to know you because you seem like a cool chick.”

“You seem like a cool chick too,” I say too quickly for my words to make sense in my head. “I mean—dammit, no. I meant a cool guy.”

He glances over at me. “See? Told ya. You’re a little freaked out, and this is just brunch, Hana. No pressure, I swear.”

Our eyes meet and then we both laugh. “Okay, no pressure,” I say.

“I’m glad you called,” Lincoln says, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He’s a good driver, cautious and confident, and although I’m not
trying
to make a list in my head, that gets added to it. “I mean, I would have been happy just going to a party with you, but brunch is even better.” He looks over at me, a coy quirk in his gaze. “It’s not every day a hot girl asks me on a date.”

“Excuse you?” I lift an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask you on a date.”

“Uh, yeah you did, Hana. You called me last night and asked me out. I remember it word-for-word.”

My cheeks flame and I must stay silent for too long because he leans over and nudges me on the shoulder, that cheeky smile back again. “I’m just playing with you. I asked you out first, but you asked me to go out sooner. I’ll just take that to mean you can’t stop thinking about me.”

Or I need to stop thinking about someone else
,
rather
.

At the café, our waitress looks about a hundred years old, but she has the personality of a cheerleader. Her baby blue waitress uniform is complete with an apron and a sparkly brooch she keeps pinned by her nametag. Luckily, she doesn’t ask any awkward questions about us, and she doesn’t stay around to chat. The last thing I want is to field questions about whether or not Lincoln and I are dating to some old woman.

I order French toast and bacon, and the food is to die for. It’s probably even better than Molly’s French toast, but I’ll never tell her that. Lincoln tells me about growing up in Mixon and how he’s known all of the same people for his entire life.

“Homeschooling sounds awesome, but I probably would have died of boredom if I didn’t get to go to school.”

“It did get a little lonely,” I say, recalling my days of teaching myself with second-hand textbooks and the internet. “But I always assumed I was doing it the best possible way, learning on my own time without worrying about waking up early or dealing with teachers or bullies.”

He nods and pours more honey on top of his pancakes. “Did you play any sports as a kid?”

“Not really,” I say, shaking my head.

“Just motocross?”

“Nope.” I take a sip of orange juice. “My dad always did motocross here, but I didn’t see him a lot when I was little, and when I did, I thought dirt bikes were soooo boring.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously? Do you know how many parents won’t let their kids ride a dirt bike at all, and yet your dad owns a track? You were so freaking lucky.”

I shrug. “I’ve never ridden a dirt bike. So all I ever did was sit around the track and sweat my butt off, wishing I was home in the air conditioning.”

“That’s weird,” he says, brows narrowing. “Mr. Fisher lets Teig ride. Why didn’t he let you? And don’t give me any of that girls are breakable nonsense.”

I shake my head. “Dad has always wanted me to ride, but my mom wouldn’t let me. She pretty much swore he’d never see me again if he ever let me get on a bike. So he didn’t.”

Lincoln looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, choosing to look down at his pancakes instead. “Well if you ever want a dirt bike lesson, now that you’re officially a legal adult and all, I’d be happy to teach you.”

My heart clenches. Ash used to say the same thing. I nod, staring at my food. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

My phone buzzes from inside of my purse, but I ignore it. With permission or not, it’s still rude to be on the phone when you’re on a date. Lincoln starts telling me about the first dirt bike he ever had, a hand-me-down from his older cousin, and my phone vibrates again, longer, like a phone call. I reach my hand into the purse and press a side button to stop the call.

“You can get that if you want,” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m not going to be rude on our brunch date.”

He leans forward, dipping his eyes to meet mine. “How many dates do I get this special treatment?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. “As many dates as I still find you interesting.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Our waitress appears, paper check in hand. “I’ll just take care of this whenever you two are ready,” she says, setting it in the empty space between our plates. “No rush though. We aren’t exactly busy,” she says with a laugh as she looks around the nearly empty diner.

Lincoln takes the check and my mouth opens. I should offer to pay for my part or half of it or something.

He shakes his head as if he’s some kind of mind reader. “I’m paying for this, don’t even try to argue.”

When our eyes meet, he winks at me. “I’m staying interesting. Plus, I’m a southern gentleman.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll pay for the next one then.”

“Never. It’s my pleasure to spend time with you.”

My phone buzzes again before I can think of a witty reply. Lincoln looks toward my purse, which is hanging on the back of my chair. “You should probably get that. It might be an emergency.”

I groan. “Okay fine, but only as we’re walking to the car.”

He leads the way toward the parking lot, holding open the diner’s door for me as I root around in my purse and find my cell phone. It’s only Shelby calling, and I’m relieved that Dad hasn’t decided to call and bitch at me for Lincoln and me being late to work. By the time I find the phone, the call has gone to voicemail. I go to call her back, but she calls me again immediately.

“You okay?” I ask instead of a hello.

“Hana,” Shelby breathes. “Hana, are you there?”

“Yes, what’s wrong?” Lincoln opens the truck door for me, but I stand there, unable to get inside.

“Hana, I don’t know what to do!” Shelby’s words are frantic, rushed. There’s shuffling on the line, and I think she’s running until I hear the sound of her car starting up.