23. I Hate the Rain

TWENTY-THREE

I HATE THE RAIN

Out of The Woods (Taylor’s Version), Taylor Swift

Roe

Registration was a bitch. There were so many people in line in this hotter-than-hell place, but it’s done and we don’t have to do it again. Tomorrow is our practice round and then Sunday we race. This is my least favorite track so I’m jittery beyond the norm. Last year, this was the track where I fell crossing the small river and had to wait for shit to work again. I lost ten minutes because I had to turn my bike over to get the spark plug out and let it dry. It didn’t matter much then because the other girls were slower and I was able to catch up, but ten minutes in this one could take me from third place to last.

I’m walking around the campground, looking at the setups. Families and their dogs are setting up camp or roasting marshmallows outside. Teenagers are riding One Wheels and bikes. Not a phone or tablet out, and this is what fills my heart. Nothing against technology, I don’t know what I would do without my Kindle or iPad, but it’s a breath of fresh air to see so many kids just playing outside.

“Excuse me,” a little voice says behind me, and when I turn, I see a little girl who couldn’t be more than four or five years old. She’s holding something tightly against her chest and her eyes shine under the moonlight. Her parents are standing a few feet behind her, silently watching and with pleading eyes.

I squat down to meet her eye-to-eye and say, “Hi, little babe,” offering my hand in case she wants to hold it, but what she does instead is place a photograph on my hand. A photograph of me riding, in the middle of a jump from one of my previous races. My hair is flowing in the wind and the bike is perfectly suspended. It’s one of my favorite pictures. “Oh, that’s me!” I exclaim, smiling at this little one.

“I know,” she adds. “My mommy saw you walking by. You’re my favorite rider, Ms. Sorelle. I just started racing and my bike is pink and black, like yours. I was wondering if you would sign my picture?”

Her voice is shaking. I wonder how much courage it took for her to come to talk to me. It’s not like me to become a pile of mush over the fact that this little one looks up to me. “Absolutely, do you have a pen?” I ask and she shakes her head. I take off my backpack to pull a marker from it and when she sees the goose, she instantly giggles.

“Do you want to hold Bruce while I sign this?” I ask and she giggles louder.

“Bruce—” she claps “— and Goose,” she says, clapping again. “It rhymes,” she adds and I just want to pick her up and squeeze her. Precious.

“Bruce the silly goose, he’s my favorite,” I reply, tapping her button nose and whispering “After you of course.” She holds the backpack tight against her chest and looks back to her parents who give her thumbs up. “What’s your name, little babe?”

“Emma,” she says and I jot it down on her photo.

Show ‘ em up, Emma. A. Sorelle.

I give the photo back to her and before I grab Bruce, I shout to her parents, “Can I snap a picture with her?” They nod and I grab my Polaroid out of my bag to snap a picture of us. I let it develop to make sure it looks good and give it to her when it’s done. She smiles big at me before throwing herself at me and giving me the biggest hug.

“Thank you, Ms. Sorelle,” she says in her sweet little voice, full of emotion.

“You can call me Roe, Emma. That’s what my friends call me.” I wink at her and ruffle her hair. “I’ll see you around, okay?” She nods and runs toward her parents who are waving at me with emotion in their eyes. I put the marker and camera back in my backpack and continue my walk.

When Saint showed me the Polaroids, I’m sure he didn’t know how much I appreciate pictures. After my parents died, I only had a handful of pictures with them due to a house fire. Now I cherish photos more than anything. When I was fifteen, right before my dad got diagnosed, we had an electric fire start in his closet. We didn’t notice until it was too late, and sure, we were fine and we didn’t lose the house, but the closet was torched. Burned to ashes with everything that was in there, including all of our family pictures. A house fire because, of course, losing everyone close to me was not enough; I had to lose everything that held meaning too.

When I get back to Saint, he’s sitting with his feet up and his eyes are following my every movement. There’s an empty chair next to him. I take it and prop my feet on his lap, secretly wishing he would take my shoes off and massage my feet like the other day.As if he can read my thoughts, he does. He takes off my shoes and socks and uses his hands to massage one foot. I might have hated getting my feet touched before, but now I crave his touch.

His knuckle pressing into the bottom of my foot as he quietly massages every knot he can find is fucking fantastic. I can feel the goosebumps rising from my foot to my back. His touch is pure magic. He’s inspecting my foot too and I get the sudden urge to squirm.

“You don’t strike me as someone who loves rainy days,” he says, touching my tattoo that says I do.

“It’s from a book. I hate the rain,” I reply, pulling my foot away from him before adding, “I actually don’t hate it; I just hate the muggy weather that comes from rain. Humidity and all. Plus, people forget how to drive in Florida when it rains, and I hate that even more.”

“What about this one?” he asks, touching the cursive letters that spell my dad’s name on the arch of my other foot.

“My dad’s signature,” I reply in a clipped tone. No more questions, please. Reading my mind again, he stops asking personal questions and hits me with a racing one instead.

“How do you feel about Punta Gorda?”

“I hate this fucking trail. Last year I lost because I fell in the water and had to drain my damn bike. If it wasn’t for the cumulative points, I would skip this one,” I add. It’s funny how a month ago, I wouldn’t have been able to tell him anything about this trail or how I feel about it. Yet here I am, sharing bits and pieces of me easily.

“I don’t like it either. I’ll watch your back this weekend, yeah?” he quips and I nod. He puts my feet down and gets up, walking toward the grill.

He opens the top, grabs two plates from the side of the grill, and places something on them before walking back and handing me one of them—a vegetable blend on one side with a burger on the other. There’s a dipping sauce next to it that looks a lot like honey mustard, which is my favorite. But I don’t know many people who use it for everything like me, so I assume it’s something different.

“You didn’t have to cook for me,” I huff.

“I know, but I want to make sure you eat. So, eat,” he commands, making me feel shitty for not thanking him in the first place.

“Thank you, this looks great.” I grab the fork to eat some of the squash and zucchini with the honey mustard and it’s fucking delicious. My body hums, igniting with the mix of flavors in my mouth. I look up and catch him looking at me, smiling. “What?” I sass.

“I love that you love my cooking,” he murmurs, surprising us both with his honesty.

“I like that you cook for me,” I say because I do. And if he’s willing to be vulnerable, I can try, too. I can pretend I’m not really dead inside.

“I knew the honey mustard was the way to go,” he adds when he sees me dipping a vegetable on it.

“How? How did you know?”

“It was the only thing in your fridge other than your drinks,” he answers, smiling at me and going back to his food. He pays attention, I’ll give him that.

We eat mostly in silence, but occasionally making comments about the track and the race on Sunday. He stops a few times to look at the sky as it changes color, and closes his eyes before continuing with his food. He does that often; the stopping, the looking, and the noticing. I wonder what it’s about but definitely don’t ask him.

I get up, dump the plate in the trash, and climb into the trailer to grab my wallet. Walking back outside, I start to open it to hand him some cash when his hands cover mine, and with a daring stare he asks, “What are you doing?”

“Getting some cash to pay you. You’re using your stuff and it’s the least I can do.”

“I’m not taking your money, princesa. I got this,” he says, zipping my wallet back up and walking to toss his trash, too.

He starts tidying up the space and I notice the noise around us has died down. Most people are probably sleeping or getting ready to go to bed. Tomorrow’s a long day, we all know it, and part of performing well is taking care of your body, which includes sleep.

“Well, I’m not just squatting in your space, Saint. Let me pay you,” I argue.

“I already told you no. I know you’re not used to hearing that but hear me now. You’re my guest. I dragged you here by my own decision. I always bring extra food and I have the extra space. It’s not a big deal.” He stops talking for a second, rubs his face and turns to me again. “Marco was supposed to come to this tonight and he didn’t last minute, so I already had enough stuff for at least two. He should be here tomorrow but not with enough time to cook and hang out.”

“So I’m your sloppy seconds?” I sass back.

“You’re nobody’s second anything.” He pauses, letting that statement simmer before continuing, “Now you can either help me put these things away or you can go inside and make yourself comfortable. Either way works for me.” He turns back to the grill, wiping it down and removing crumbs.

Fine. He wants to waste his things and his time on me, I’ll let him. I stomp back to the trailer and change into comfortable clothes. I plop myself on the couch and grab my phone to look up Emma’s name to see which class she’s racing tomorrow. After I find it, I make a mental note to go see her and grab my Kindle.

It’s hard to breathe and it feels like I have a hand on my neck cutting off all the air. The overwhelming feeling of helplessness comes and takes me whole in terror. No, no, no, I don ’ t want to die like this. I sit up with a gasp, my heart pounding loudly in my chest, making me feel like a trapped animal. It’s a never-ending labyrinth of memories and fears. Claws dragging me deep into the middle of my worst years and it’s then, hyperventilating on the couch, that I realize it was a nightmare again. I bring my knees up, putting my head between them, and rock back and forth. I can’t even focus on where I am or what time it is, trying to control my breathing and lower my heart rate.

I keep rocking until I feel strong arms around me holding me in place. What the hell ? I try to escape this hold but I can’t. Whoever this is, they are strong.

A low voice hums, “Sh, sh, tranquila,” bringing me back to reality. Saint. The race. The trailer. His trailer. It all comes back to me quickly. He continues to whisper things in Spanish, soothing me and calming my heart, even if I don’t really know what he means. His voice alone is getting wired in my brain as comfort. As safety.

Eventually I settle against him, his hand on my temple and the other one rubbing my arm. “It was just a dream,” I whisper as he nods against my head.

“A nightmare,” he says. “Do you get those often?” he asks, releasing me from his hold and standing up to grab a bottle of water. He opens it and hands it to me. My arm is wrapped around my legs and my head is resting on top of my knees.

“Sometimes,” I reply, taking a sip and looking at him, silently thanking him with my eyes. “I usually sleep with a weighted blanket and that helps.”

“Like a swaddle,” he says and I open my eyes wider.

“Do you have secret kids that I don’t know about, Saint?” I sass, trying to break the awkwardness of this moment.

“No, but I helped raise four little girls, remember? Isa needed a swaddle to keep her from waking up a million times in a night. Sounds like that’s what you need too.”

“I hate being wrapped but the weight of the blanket does help,” I add. “I usually don’t sleep a lot which is why I run so early in the morning; I might do that now.”

“It’s not even 11:00pm. You need to go back to sleep,” he says with the concerned tone he always seems to use around me, every time he tells me to do something.

Not even 11:00 pm? Did I just fall asleep here? Looking around, I see I’m still on the trailer’s living room couch, my Kindle next to me and a blanket draped over the couch that I’m sure was on top of me at some point. I did fall asleep here. Three times now I’ve fallen asleep out of the blue with Saint. I usually don’t do that; I’m too aware of what’s happening around me to let go and rest.

“I’m not going back to sleep; I’ll take a shower though.” I stand up and walk to grab some clothes from my bag but my bag is empty. Before I can say anything, Saint beats me to it.

“Your clothes are in the cabinet by the bed. I didn’t go through them so they’re not organized, just out of your bag,” he says, standing up and putting one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants.

Fuck me slowly, please .

This man wearing sweats and a fitted tee is more than I was ready for. And he’s fucking barefoot, too. The contrast between his golden skin and the white shirt is more than anyone can handle, especially not in the middle of the night in a space that smells just like him. Salty like ocean waves and fresh like mandarins.

“Kay, thanks,” I say, looking away before his gaze turns me to stone.

I take the quickest shower known to man and grab my pjs, or what I like to call the small piece of shirt and shorts I wear. I get out of the bathroom and back in the living room. I find Saint sitting on the couch, eyes on me, blazing.

“Thanks,” I say, plopping on the couch next to him and placing my feet on top of his thighs again.

“What for, princesa?”

“Agh, everything?” I let out a breath and drop my head back onto the headrest of the couch. It definitely feels nice to be able to just relax and have some company. I’m usually alone, which is fine because it’s my choice, but being near him makes me feel something that I didn’t think I would. He makes me feel at ease, like I can let my guard down and I’m not sure if that terrifies me, electrifies me, or both.

He clears his throat before saying, “I’m going to bed. Let me know if you need anything.” He gently moves my feet from his lap and walks toward the trailer’s garage. He said I could take the master bed and I guess he meant it. We walk in opposite directions, falling into a silence that haunts me more than the idea of talking to him.

I toss and turn all night, or what feels like all night. I can’t go to sleep and I’m not sure why. It feels like there’s too much space here. I also don’t have enough blankets or pillows. I try to make a fort to bury myself in and mimic the pressure of a weighted blanket but it’s not working. I’m tired and annoyed and all I want is to fall asleep.

I get a crazy idea and climb out of the bed, walking toward the back of the trailer, dragging two pillows with me. I open the sliding door gently and the movement wakes Saint, making him jolt up. His eyes roam my body and the surroundings, alert and frantic.

“Roe? Everything okay?” he asks, jumping out of bed and pulling me flush against his body. His heartbeat thumps under my ear, and I think I might have scared him.

“I can’t sleep so I was going to climb into bed with you, but your reflexes are beyond normal for humans. Are you secretly a werewolf?” I joke, hiding the fact that I had to come get him like a little baby. I’ve never been the needy girl, never, and yet here I am.

He wraps me up in his arms, lifting me from the ground. I wrap my legs around him and let him drag me to bed but he takes me the opposite way to the master bed. Okay, so he did mean it when he said he wouldn’t sleep with me. Except when we make it to the bed, he drops me on it and lays next to me, pulling me close to him and draping a leg over me.

“If we’re going to share a bed, it might as well be the comfortable one. Now sleep; it’s late and we have a big day tomorrow.”

“I’m not a cuddler, Saint,” I add but without any attempt of moving away from his hold.

“You said you use a weighted blanket. I don’t have one but maybe you can’t sleep without it. I’m sure my leg weighs enough.”

I freeze because this is the sweetest thing someone has ever done for me. So wholesome.

“Sleep, don’t overthink it. We can go back to you hating me tomorrow.”

I don ’ t hate you . I want to say but I don’t because the alternative is too terrifying. I just close my eyes and drift away.