Chapter 25
Leesa
‘Babcia says you’ve been working too much – in the evenings too!’
On the few occasions I’d taken some time out to go walking or take Babcia to the supermarket for kohlrabi, I’d been assailed by the intense desire to get on a bike and explore the hills and lakes I glimpsed from the car.
I blamed Colin Gallagher for that. I also blamed him for my tossing and turning most nights, vacillating between obsessive questions about his feelings for me and what they meant (my conclusion?
Absolutely nothing) and visions of him crashing and mangling his body during some cruel stage of the Tour.
Sometimes I wished I’d never seen past his big talk.
‘Overtime shouldn’t be an expectation,’ Mom continued on the video call, speaking in English – her professional language. ‘If they get the idea they can walk all over you, they will.’
Keeping true feelings from parents had probably been easier before the advent of FaceTime.
It took a lot of effort to resist rolling my eyes.
Mom wanted me to work hard, but not too hard.
She wanted me to make a success of my career, but assumed I could do it on my own terms, without sacrificing anything, just because I was her daughter.
‘They’re not walking all over me,’ I insisted. ‘I’m enjoying it – my work.’ I was especially enjoying combing through all my footage of Colin and reliving the past three weeks with my skin prickling and my heart beating a strange rhythm.
‘Well, that’s something, at least. Are they going to make your contract permanent?’
Mom hadn’t got the memo that nothing was really permanent for my generation. ‘I don’t know, but the client has been really happy with what I’m producing and my supervisor has been letting me do a lot more myself.’
I hated to admit that Colin had been right, but being back in the world of cycling had unlocked something inside me. I knew what I was doing – for the first time since my time on the team had come to an ignoble end in September.
It was strange how my brain had switched the emphasis of my memories. I seemed to remember more about Colin, now I knew him better. Except, I didn’t really know him. I’d only seen hints, put together a few pieces of the puzzle.
‘And what are you going to do if they don’t hire you? You have résumés out, I’m assuming? What about the professors at your school? You need to cultivate your network, especially in this creative sector.’
The way she said ‘creative sector’ sounded as though she meant ‘trash pile’. I couldn’t admit that I had been too busy staring at images of Colin to actually send out any Plan B job applications. I couldn’t see past the Tour.
‘I’ll get on it.’ I swiped my hair off my sticky back. I wasn’t sure how I would have coped with an LA summer when these Polish hills were bad enough. My hair was in a permanent state of frizz.
‘I took a look at this account you’re working on.’
Ohhh, no. ‘You’re not really the target market, Mom.’
‘I can see that,’ she said emphatically. ‘I must admit I didn’t realise you had to be so entertaining.’
She meant ‘vacuous’ or ‘frivolous’, I could feel it. I struggled against a blush, thinking of the reel featuring Colin licking PowerFuel gel off his finger with a silly, suggestive gaze.
I stilled, struggling to keep the doubt off my face. ‘The memes and funny stuff tend to get more traction.’
‘I can see how that would work. Your own Instagram account had some interesting moments too. It’s certainly not… what I expected, ?abka.’
It might seem strange, as the word meant ‘frog’, but when Mom called me ‘?abka’ in that soft tone, it was a rare glimpse into her true self. She even sounded a little impressed.
‘Did you just discover Instagram, Mamusia?’ I teased her with the endearment that usually made her smile and give me a hug.
‘We made an account for the practice a year ago,’ she replied indignantly. ‘And we didn’t even need help from our millennial daughter.’
I gave her a withering smile and resisted the retort that I was only just a millennial.
Usually I found the rueful disappointment with life from my generation intensely relatable, but just then I was too sensitive to the fact that Colin was most definitely Gen Z and still managed to have some stars in his eyes and some weird vocabulary.
Sometimes he felt a lot younger than me, and other times…
Other times he shot me cocky smiles and made me blush and then it didn’t matter so much that he was nearly five years younger.
‘I don’t know where you got your sense of humour from, but you got it. I can see you in your work and…’
Unexpected tears pricked behind my eyes. ‘I can only have got it from you and Tatu?.’
‘Or maybe you’re inspired,’ Mom said softly.
I hoped the heat in my cheeks wasn’t visible as my brain veered right back to Colin.
‘That rider you’re filming… What an accent! I think it’s very effective.’
My throat closed as heat whooshed up my chest. ‘Effective’ was one way to describe it, how he could make me forget my own name just by shooting me a lazy smile.
‘Handsome too.’
I choked, hurrying to change the subject. ‘It’s actually been really good returning to cycling. I missed it.’
‘Of course you did. You were very good at it.’
I blinked, certain I’d misheard the casual remark. How many times had I wished she’d acknowledge that, and now it was too late.
Swallowing my consternation, I asked, ‘Are you just saying that because I finally did the sensible thing and got a real job? At least, I’m trying,’ I added with a grumble.
‘Perhaps,’ she admitted. ‘I never understood your passion, but I haven’t been happy to see you without it these past months.’
Her statement made all my struggles real. The past ten months had been difficult. I’d been trying not to acknowledge how low I’d felt, blamed it on my broken wrist or the lack of endorphins and serotonin after quitting elite sport. But it was more than that.
I heard Colin’s voice in my head again, telling me I’d forgotten who I was; I felt the wind on my face as we weaved through the mountains that perfect day on training camp.
My medals were stored rather unceremoniously in a moving box at my parents’ place and only the stylised wave from the Great Ocean Road Race was on display.
Maybe I’d never had a chance at the big wins, but I’d been part of it.
Tears stung behind my eyes – something that had threatened numerous times over the past week and I couldn’t even blame my hormonal cycle.
The urge to cry usually hit me when I remembered Colin’s casual admission that he’d crushed on me for years – that he admired me for following my heart.
That confession had slowly reordered something inside me, as though the shape of my life was changing.
I’d never questioned my path before. After racing was supposed to come real life, but what if real life didn’t look the same for me as it had for my parents?
Wil’s offer to help me find a job lurked in the back of my mind, but staying in Europe felt like too big a decision – too close to Colin and the past – too risky.
‘I’m looking forward to following the team for the Tour de France,’ I managed to respond.
‘It does seem very exciting.’
I peered at Mom. ‘You sound more interested than when I was riding.’
She gave a slow sigh. ‘When you were riding, ?abka, I was beside myself with worry. Your poor father had to spoon-feed me beetroot soup to keep my strength up during these longer tours.’
‘It’s true!’ My dad’s face appeared in the side of the shot, salt-and-pepper hair and a broad, good-natured face.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I said with a wry smile, wondering how long he’d been lurking – and wincing when I remembered Mom had said Colin was handsome.
‘I didn’t understand it. I still don’t,’ Mom continued. ‘I just knew there was a chance you’d crash – more than a chance over the course of your career.’
A tear fell and I couldn’t stop it. ‘You know, I really wish you’d dealt with that and supported me.’
‘Hey, kwiatuszku,’ Dad crooned, calling me his little flower as he leaned closer to the phone, so the screen was filled with his big nose.
I had to chuckle through my tears, feeling like a train wreck, but in an unexpectedly positive way, like this would mean I could get back on the right track, once I’d suffered through the painful bit.
‘Sorry, I’m okay,’ I said – my automatic response to Mom’s stricken look, even if it was only in the background of Dad’s enormous head. Her back was straight and her face drawn. I swiped at my cheeks and sniffed. ‘You’re right. The last few months have been tough.’
At least that was the reason I was sticking to for this emotional breakdown. It had nothing to do with the imminent strain of the Tour, watching Colin write his destiny – while I considered my own. I should check if my tattoo was infected. Maybe I had a fever.
‘You’re tough too,’ Dad said – a platitude but an effective one nonetheless.
I smiled weakly at him. ‘Actually, I thought about riding again – amateur. I might just get back on for training and do a few races in the fall.’
‘In LA?’ Mom exclaimed. ‘You’ll lose your limbs! Or your head! A truck will squash you!’
Dad muttered something to her in Polish, too quietly for me to catch it, and patted her hand. ‘We’ll come and see you.’
The melting feeling in my chest was back. ‘Thanks, Tatu?.’
‘Now we’re starting to hand the practice over to Dr Bachchan, we’ll have more time,’ Mom added.
‘If you want us there, even if we have to shut the practice, we’ll come,’ Dad corrected with a pointed glance at Mom.
I thought of Colin and his dysfunctional parents, combined with this gesture from Dad – too late, but still appreciated – and I didn’t think I was going to be able to keep this down. I hiccoughed and had to press my knuckles to my mouth in a last-ditch attempt to pull myself together.
‘What is it, Leeska?’ Dad asked, using the made-up Polish diminutive of my name.
‘Nothing, I’m good.’
‘If you’re—’
‘I should probably go,’ I mumbled. ‘Babcia is obviously keeping you updated anyway and you can keep tabs on the PowerFuel Instagram account.’
I tried not to cringe at the thought of all the content I had yet to post – including the very thorough tour of Colin’s tattoos.
‘Bye! Cze??! Ciao!’ I tapped to end the call, hoping I’d timed my shoulder droop so they didn’t see it. Slumping forward, my elbows on my knees, I blew out a long breath and swiped a curl away from my face.
‘Ju?, ju?, moja maleńka,’ a rough voice crooned behind me.
There was pressure on my back and then a soft stroke down my arm. Babcia shuffled around the sofa and sat next to me, taking my hand and chafing it between her gnarled ones. If she hadn’t shrunk to the size of a gnome, I would have rested my head on her spindly shoulder.
‘Boys always cause troubles.’
My throat closed and I eyed her. I had a feeling she would be able to tell if I lied to her. I was a terrible liar in Polish anyway.
‘This boy especially,’ I whispered in reply.
‘Big troubles, big love,’ she said with half a smile.
I shook my head. We were talking about Colin Gallagher. I did not love him. I barely tolerated him most of the time. He’d tried to tell me his love language was fake insects and glue in my hair.
His love language…
‘No, Babcia…’ I trailed off. ‘It’s not love.’