Chapter 3
3
FORD
T he private plane touches down at the small airport in Mooresville. I have been traveling in the air for thirteen hours.
I grab my bag. The rental car is already parked on the tarmac when I get off. A black convertible Porsche 911. Derek wouldn’t rent me anything else so as not to upset my sponsors.
After driving for about an hour, my phone rings through the speakers as the Bluetooth picks up, and I see it’s Trent. He is the only one I’ve kept in touch with after I decided to leave Airy after my fallout with Chris.
Chris didn’t take it well when I left before prom, leaving everything and everyone behind. He didn’t understand. No one did. But I had to do the right thing.
“Hey, did you just get in?”
I glance at the screen with the GPS. “I’m an hour away.”
“Where are you headed first so we can catch up?”
Trent has been working to open his garage since he graduated from high school. His dream was to fix cars, and mine was to race them.
“I have to pick something up.”
I didn’t plan to put my name on the order at Sugar Coated Sweets when Derek placed it or pick it up myself, but I needed to see her.
“Where to?”
“Nowhere important. I’ll meet you at the garage in the morning, and we can catch up. I’m jet-lagged and need some sleep.”
I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I need to see her. To make sure she is okay.
“No sweat, man. I can’t wait to catch up and have you around for a while. Until you get the itch to leave again anyway. See you tomorrow.”
“Alright, man. Later.”
I pass the welcome sign. Town of Airy Population 15,000 . The sky is a backdrop of blue behind tall trees on the empty road. The sun blazes in the sky, and the rays on the blacktop make the surface appear like shimmering water. The air conditioner blows at full speed. I forgot how hot it can get.
I place the car in third gear, the engine emitting a deep growl. I press the accelerator and push it into fourth. The car leaps forward with the surge of power, the tires gripping the asphalt and the tress blurring.
The sudden flash of red and blue appears in the rearview mirror. A siren’s wail slices through the air.
“Fuck,” I mutter and let my foot off the gas, gearing down as I slow the car and pull over to the side of the road.
The police car stops behind me. I watch in the rearview mirror as the driver’s side door opens and the officer steps out.
I let out a frustrated breath and roll down the window.
“License and registration,” the officer says in a stern voice.
I hand him my license and the rental agreement.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he asks, flipping over the rental agreement.
“Not really,” I say flatly, looking at him through my black Persol sunglasses.
“What are you in town for besides speeding?”
I chuckle sarcastically, looking straight ahead. “Come on, I wasn’t going that fast. I grew up here. I’m…visiting.”
“This isn’t a racetrack.”
Looking over, I see him reading the rental agreement and checking my ID. I hate cops. All racers hate cops.
“We don’t often get celebrities running through here. How long are you in town for?”
However long I want. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a time limit. It is a free country.
I zero in on his name tag. “I’m not sure, Officer Mays.”
Everyone in this town knows who I am. It’s all over social media that Ford Keller grew up in Airy, North Carolina.
“Hang tight,” he says, walking back to his cruiser.
This cop is a dick. I don’t know what crawled up his ass or what donut he didn’t get to eat this morning. Not that he looks like he eats donuts.
He looks in his late twenties. One of his toned and sun-bronzed forearms has a sleeve tattoo of skulls and other random shit. With a clean-shaven face, gelled dark hair, and eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses, he looks like he belongs in a “Say No To Drugs” ad.
He walks back. “You were going ninety-five in a forty-five. I could arrest you. This isn’t Le Mans, F1, or whatever you race, kid.”
Kid?
“So I’m guessing you don’t want my autograph?”
“Sure I do. You can sign your ticket.”
“Can I go now?” I say caustically.
He hands me my license, rental agreement, and speeding ticket. “You can go. Be sure to slow down… have a nice rest of your day.”
I rev the engine to annoy him. His jaw grows tight. I rev it again like a visceral snarl. “You too, officer.”
I wait until he gets in his car and drives off to get back on the road.
Dick.
I drive steadily into town, turn left at the light, then right on Wilson Street. I’ve been thinking about coming home for the past six months. I’m tired of random hotel rooms and living out of a designer suitcase while flying to different countries. Eating gourmet meals that taste like shit. Drinking until I didn’t know what day it was. Sleeping with different women who didn’t fill the void. The only thing that kept me going was winning, but when the race was over, I was right back where I started. Unstable.
Rolling down the street, I notice the town looks the same. The same stores line Main Street with fresh paint. The antique turret clock tower that sits in the center of city hall at the end of the street, the black streetlights that line the sidewalks, and the grocery mart that closes at six every weeknight.
I drive to the next block and see the sign Sugar Coated Sweets Bakery. There is an old van parked out front with the bakery’s logo. I wonder if she is in there now. I check the time and see that I’m early.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Will she remember me? And if she does, will she tell me to go fuck myself? I’ve thought about her a lot over the years. I could never get her out of my mind if I tried. The way she looked at me the last time I saw her. The way she smelled when she got in my car soaking wet that day after school. She smelled of rain and sugar. I imagined tasting it on her skin. I’ve had a lot of women since then, but I don’t remember any of their scents except hers. I also remember the regret I felt when I dropped her off without asking her out. For not telling her how beautiful she was when they would call her ugly or how delicious her cookies were.
I’ve ordered a batch every week for the past four years online. I also made sure everyone knew that her grandmother’s bakery was the best since she doesn’t have a social media account.
I park near the high-end boutique stores to avoid drawing any attention to myself as I’m sitting there idling in the expensive rental car.
It’s almost five o’clock. The jewelry store is about to close. I don’t want an audience when I finally get to see her.
When it’s five minutes until pickup time, I run across the crosswalk. I hesitate, but if I’m going to see her, it’s now or never.
When I’m almost to the door, an elderly woman walks out with a big box cake in her hand. I catch the door above her head to let her pass.
She turns her weathered face to look at me. “Oh…thank you, young man,” she says with a slight quiver to her voice.
I give her a polite smile. “You’re welcome.”
The smell of sugar, cake batter, cinnamon, vanilla, and even a hint of chocolate from baked goods lends a sugary note that hits me, followed by the bell as the door closes.
From behind the counter, not looking this way, Dulce’s busy setting a platter of muffins onto the display.I remain motionless for a moment, taken aback.
She's beautiful without trying— her long, straight dark brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, a few strands framing her face. Her lips are plump but not too big. Pretty brown eyes that slant a bit at the ends. Skin clear and smooth. She is wearing a pink dress with folded sleeves on her slim arms. Her waist is still small like I remember. I swear I could wrap my hands around it.
I walk casually to the counter.
“We’re almost closed for the day,” she says. “We’re all sold out except for muffins.”
“I’m actually here to pick up an order I placed.”
She looks up with a polite, blank expression.
She grabs a tablet. “Name?”
My eyes run over her slowly. Unapologetically. The tension rides thick as I take in every inch of her, trying to see a flicker of recognition in her gaze, but there’s nothing.
She doesn’t recognize me.