Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (2 page)

Chapter Three

Escaping the school, I huddle against the cold rain in my parka and hop the silver cobbles back to Vieux Nice
.
The street corners are crammed with tourists, and I don’t know what brings people to Nice in this horrid weather.

If I had rain boots, I’d stomp through the water troughs in a tantrum. I don’t care if it’s February. I came to the south of France expecting sunshine. It’s spent half of this month raining. I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of teaching.

This assistantship, my coveted Fulbright—that I worked my ass off to get—was supposed to be eight months in France for free, in exchange for teaching English to French high-schoolers. It has been the most exhausting experience of my life, worse than graduating summa cum laude, majoring in pre-med and minoring in French at an Ivy League school.

I arrive at my café and sit there, warm and dry, for three hours.

None of the cyclists show. Just the two old men behind me, talking too loudly about digestion issues with their wives’ cooking.

Yuck.

Each time a customer walks in, my eyes snap up. I never used to notice how the door hinges creak.

I struggle through my self-imposed reading assignments. I stole syllabi from graduate French courses at home to get ahead in my studying. Even though what I should be doing is planning better lessons for my teaching. It takes longer than it should to mark up the Verlaine poems, and I peruse an entire act of a Beaumarchais play before I realize I have no idea what I just read. I dread the philosophy readings.

Blue streaks pass the window.

I crouch toward the glass. My chest lifts at the sight of them, except there’s only four this time. They stack their bikes side by side against the window and come inside.

I crane to see their faces.

None of them are Braker.

I bite back the disappointment. It’s not like I expected to talk to him. Not really. Sort of. I shouldn’t.

Two speak English together. The one with ragged dark hair and a round solemn face is the tallest. The other is super skinny—like, scrawny as a beanpole thirteen-year-old.

The other two riders chat in Basque-accented Spanish. I don’t speak it fluently like I do Italian, but I grasp the basics.

They sit with their espressos at a table by the door. Their spandex jerseys and matching shorts gleam a bright sky-blue, with the giant letters BG on the back. I have no idea what that stands for.

“Good he rides alone,” says one of the Spanish riders.

“Not good,” says the other. “He will be more moody later.”

“It’s the diet, you guys,” the tall one says in a broad American accent. “And the pressure to keep his numbers up. Don’t take it personally. The taper starts next week, and he just needs to get racing.”

The beanpole guy snorts. “If he doesn’t win, he’ll be even more of an arse.”

The American lifts his eyebrows. “But if he does win, we’ll be set for the season.”

None of them eat anything. I have a croissant here every day, sometimes two, and occasionally a third to go. Even my cappuccino with whole milk is more calories than their zero in one shot of espresso. Four male athletes, after a day of training, only having espresso. They must be miserable.

Finished, they pick up their helmets, and, with their shoes clacking, walk stiffly out the door.

On impulse, I throw my books into my bag and follow them. I push through the door too fast and trip.

“Umpf!” I slam into the back of the American guy.

“Whoa!” He stumbles.

I veer sideways, and when I put my hand out for balance, it lands on the handlebar of one of their bikes. It teeters and falls to the pavement, taking all three other bikes with it.

My shoulder slams into the shop window, and my messenger bag falls off.

The sidewalk is a crash of four muddy, tangled bikes.

“I’m really sorry.” My brain reverses to French. “
Je suis désolée
.” I remember they’re Spanish but Italian pops out. “
Mi dispiace
.”

All four of them stare at me, their lips twitching. I almost apologize again, then they erupt in laughter.

Mortified, I shrink, wishing I could sneak back into the café.

I don’t need to stand here and watch. I yank my bag onto my shoulder and wince when it bumps the spot that connected with the window. I’ll have a bruise tomorrow.

“Wait,” the tall American says, still hiccupping with laughter. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I don’t know about your bikes though.”

The other guys, chuckling and shaking their heads, jerk pedals from chains and handlebars from wheel spokes.

“Did I wreck your bikes?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Gary, by the way. What’s your—”

“Aurelia.” The excitement of talking to someone from my own country eclipses my embarrassment.

My enthusiasm startles him, but he nods politely.

I bounce on my heels. I don’t know how to stop. “Are you sure they’re okay? I hope I didn’t break anything.”

“We crash them all the time.”

“Oh.”

Gary fiddles with the parts on his bike: tires, brakes, gears. The way he jiggles with the mechanics does not look like there’s nothing wrong.

Beanpole smirks at me. “You’re the gal that’s always reading in the corner, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“She insulted Braker,” one Spaniard says.

I scratch my head. “Yesterday wasn’t my best day.”

Gary turns to me, his neck thick with corded muscle. “It was awesome. You should do it again.”

He swings a leg over his bike, and the other three ride off the curb, their chains popping over gears.

“I’m sorry again about your bikes,” I say, wishing I could talk to him for another minute.

“No worries. See you around.” He clicks his shoes into his pedals.

“Where is he?” I blurt in my non-thinking fashion.

He puts a foot down to stop his bike. “Braker? He’ll be back tomorrow.” He shakes his head.

“What’s his name?”

“Terrence.”

“Oh, okay.”

He mutters to himself, “Wins them every time,” and rides into the street.

Chapter Four

Wow.

I have gone gaga over a boy.

Embarrassment doesn’t come close to describing the itch in my throat. I crashed into their bikes like a klutz, then asked his name like I’ve been waiting for him all day.

Okay, so I kind of have, but I don’t need him to know that.

I drag my feet over the cobbles, and confusion wads in my belly. I am an independent, autonomous woman. I am not desperate for a guy.

“Hey, Frenchie!” The voice startles me from staring at my feet.

Braker—er, Terrence—makes a U-turn and pulls up next to me. His mega smile jams me in the gut. If my face was still hot from my collision with the bike squad, it’s flaming now.

I can’t let him think he makes me speechless. “So…umm…what’s up?”

“Just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi.” I clench fingers in my coat and wait for him to mock me for knocking over his friends’ bikes.

He coasts beside me on his bike, and I can feel his smile widen, though I don’t know how that’s possible. “Did you finish your book?”

I sneak a look at him. “Why do you care?”

“Must not have been a very good book. Or are you having a shit day?”

“Sure.” I imbue as much “go away” into my tone as possible.

“Okay, I get it.” He turns his bike to leave.

My heart thumps, and I realize he didn’t come to make fun of me. “Wait, I’m sorry.”

He veers his bike back to me. “What’s your deal, Frenchie?”

“My name’s Aurelia.”

He nods, small smile returning. “What really made your day so shitty?”

“Students.” Blame it on the job; much easier than admitting that I’m so insecure I insult people.

“You’re a teacher?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I teach English at Lycée Masséna. It’s a high school.”

“Teenagers? That’s rough.”

“Yeah.” I glance at his spandexed legs. They’re so close I could touch them.

I shouldn’t be doing this, no matter how much I want to. I should be at home, working on things for my students.

He rubs his nose. It’s tinged bright pink in his pale face. The glasses perched on his helmet are covered in water drops, and his neck is speckled with road cinders.

“Riding in the rain,” I say. “That can’t be fun.”

“Definitely shitty.”

“Then why do you ride in it?”

“Better the rain than inside on rollers. Boring as hell. I got to get my six hours in.”

“That sounds excessive.”

“Nah.” He points to my bag. “How many hours a day you read?”

I concede, “More than six hours sometimes.” I’m annoyed that he’s still wheeling beside me. “Can’t you walk?”

He unclips his foot from the pedal. “Shoes. Flat foot, slick bottoms do not work on wet cobbles.”

His shoes are genuinely weird—no sole, just hard plastic from toe to heel with a metal lump on the ball of his foot. “How do you stay on the bike?”

“Clips in.” He sticks the ball of his foot into the pedal with a click.

“Weird. Keeps your foot on the pedal?”

“Yeah. And makes the pedal stroke an even circle.” He demonstrates turning his pedal backward in one smooth push.

“Huh. I’ve never seen that before.”

“Yeah. The shoes always impress the girls.”

My brow scrunches. Why would shoes impress girls?

“I’m kidding,” he says. “You don’t smile much, do you?”

“I smile plenty.” Not really, but I’m not telling him how homesick I’ve been feeling.

“So, what brings you to France?”

“French.”

“Oh, come on.” His voice is so flirty and fun, like he’s got cheeriness to share, like he actually wants to make me smile. “I haven’t gone to college,” he says. “But I can still—”

“You didn’t go to college?” Even football players go to college. I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

He shrugs, looking forward. “Went to the Olympics instead.”

Okay, maybe I don’t feel sorry for him. “That’s…amazing.”

His dimple emerges. “It was for track cycling. No medals, but I’ve won plenty of things since then. It’s all good.”

He talks about winning like he would about what he’s having for dinner. “So how come you’re an American living in France riding for a European team?”

“Cycling’s not like other sports.” He says more, but I’m struck by a question.

After six hours of riding in the rain, he must be freezing. He should be riding straight for home and a hot shower—not talking to me. Just like I should be at home working.

A hot shower. Steam rising around his bare skin. He’s so lean, under the spandex, I bet there’s not an ounce of fat on him. Only hard muscle.

He’s still talking. I’m thinking about him naked, not listening to what he’s saying. He pauses, and his mouth has a different perk to his lips than before. A salacious mischief flashes in his eyes, like he can read my thoughts and likes it. His eyes, in a non-subtle way, dip to my chest and back up to my eyes.

He looked at my boobs. I cross my arms over them and turn my heating face forward again. I’m wearing a rain jacket, for heaven’s sake. Granted, my chest is sizeable; a good portion of my love of cheese and croissants stores itself there.

I start walking again. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped, and he pushes his bike to moving again with his foot.

“BG offered me a contract,” he says, for the second time. “Neither of the American-sponsored pro teams wanted me two seasons ago, before I started winning.”

“Are you going to win the Tour de France or something?”

He chuckles. “Something like that. Do you know how long the Tour de France is?”

“It’s supposedly the hardest race ever, right? Like, hundreds of miles.”

“It’s twenty-one days over two thousand miles.”

“Uh…” We reach a corner and I stop walking. “Is that humanly possible?”

“Sure.” He stills his bike and crosses his arms. “I won two of the sprint stages last year. This year I’m going to win the final day in Paris.”

“Modest much?” His cockiness doesn’t bother me, though. It’s alluring.

“Modesty doesn’t win races, sweetheart.”

Again with the sexist pet names. “It’s Aurelia.”

He nods and glances at my bag. “What are you reading?”

“French literature. Poetry, novels, plays, philosophy. That sort of thing.”

“Wow.” His mouth opens. “That’s a lot of books. You a student too?”

“No. I’m just on a teaching assistantship. I want to get a Ph.D. in French Lit someday though.” I really must be lonely to be sharing my dreams with an almost stranger.

I start walking again, crossing the street. I expect him to say goodbye.

He pedals beside me. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Book?”

“Yeah, your favorite author.”

“Proust. His writings are extraordinary,” I ramble, walking fast. “His descriptions are so vivid they transport you into another world where you can taste and smell the things he experiences.”

“He?”

“The main character, the author. You should look him up sometime. It’s semi-autobiographical. He’s brilliant.”

“Is he your boyfriend or something?”

I halt. My teeth grind and my nails dig into my palms.

That’s exactly how I think of him some nights, when I have nothing to do but read him. The writings are so tangible it’s like he’s there in the room with me. I lie there wishing he was real.

To have this disturbingly sexy man, who’s talking to me for some unknown reason, tease me about it highlights my social deficiencies. I’ve never been ashamed of my Proust obsession before.

“I don’t expect you to understand. No one does.” I march on, hoping to lose him.

His voice lightens, like he’s amused rather than annoyed. “Hey, don’t be like that. I told you about cycling.”

“I guess. But I didn’t make fun of you for it.”

“Sure you did. You think my riding bikes is ridiculous.”

It’s true. In my world of academics, riding bikes ranks nowhere. “Okay. I do.”

“You can say it.”

“What?”

“That I’m a dumb jock.”

I stop and stare at him.

He puts his foot down. His mocking eyes kick at my anger.

I put my hand on my hip. “Fine. I wouldn’t expect a jock with no education, who’s never read a book in his life, to understand anything I value.”

His mouth pinches and his smile drops.

Oh, no. I’m being mean. Again.

His eyes tighten, but I catch a glimpse of softened melancholy. “Well, I wouldn’t expect a girl with no friends to know how to be one.”

It stings. If what he said before about Proust being my boyfriend was sort of true, this I know is true.

His mouth morphs back to the smile. “Later.” He makes a U-turn and heads back the way he came, leaving me feeling like a nasty ogre, who will never have any friends.

* * * * *

My shoebox apartment is barren except for a bed and a gas stove that terrifies me. The first time I tried to light it, I ended up with a flame six inches high and nearly singed my eyebrows.

I chuck off my shoes by the door. My mother’s voice in my head won’t let me do otherwise. There’s half a baguette and a block of cheese sitting on the stovetop. My dinner.

Self-loathing burgeons in my stomach. I wish I had better company than bread and
fromage
.

Terrence—no, he refuses to use my real name. I should think of him by his nickname—Braker. I wish I hadn’t insulted him so badly he’ll never speak to me again.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for him. I have a finite number of days to live among the French.

Grabbing the plate of cheese and bread, I crawl across my bed to the small window that opens onto the roof. I swing the glass open, and because it’s
just
big enough, I squeeze through the window. The iron frame scratches my considerable hips, and I wriggle around my belly roll. Every time I do this, I swear I’ll eat less cheese and fewer croissants.

I reach inside for a blanket and, sitting on it, I brace my feet on the railing and my back against the terracotta tiles.

The night is salty with the sea air and the priceless view. The copper roofs of Vieux Nice stretch to the horizon. The clouds tinge with the remnants of the sunset, and if I crane my neck, I can see a patch of the Mediterranean. It’s grey in the dimming light, but it glitters. Sitting out here usually makes my heart sing.

Today, it feels cold.

And lonely.

I don’t know how to make friends. I never have. I’ve always blamed it on other people being a waste of my time, but maybe—maybe I’m just a bad friend.

What few friends I had at graduation, I haven’t contacted since I arrived here. I read an article about how bad social media is for language immersion. My teachers at home said I should restrict my usage so that I get the most out of this experience. But doing it their way is miserable. I miss Facebook.

I thought being in France would be better.

A part of me came here hoping I could fall in love.

I’ve never been in love.

Wriggling back inside, I roll onto my bed and glance at the tome sitting on the floor at my bedside: Proust,
À la recherche du temps perdu
. Post-its and stickies hang out the sides in various sizes and colors. My guilty pleasure. The usual flighty feeling I get doesn’t come.

“Is he your boyfriend or something?”

I shove it with my foot into the opposite wall with a bang. I’ve been crushing on a book boyfriend for years. Proust has been dead for over a century. This has got to stop. I can’t go on living like this.

I don’t want to be lonely anymore.

I don’t want to be loveless forever.

I want friends.