Chapter 16
16
EVE CASSIDY
He’s sorry? For everything? Well hello, they’re words I never thought I’d hear.
My mind races as I lie on the couch, his apology hanging in the air like a delicate thread waiting to be pulled. Part of me wants to grab onto it and unravel the years of uncertainty, and finally find some closure. But another part of me hesitates, afraid that this new-found honesty might just be another temporary moment of vulnerability that’ll suck me back in only to spit me out worse than I was before. Would he ever have apologized had he not been hurt and ended up here?
I dunno. What I do know is that it’s way too soon to be having these thoughts. I mean, I figured we’d end up having some conversations about our history, but so soon? That surprises me, considering this is all I ever wanted to hear five years ago, yet he did not pick up the phone or show up at my door and say it when I needed it. For that reason, I thought I didn’t mean much to him. Now I’m second-guessing things.
The couch beneath me is soft, worn, and a little bit lumpy. The room is enveloped in darkness, but the moon’s pale light filters through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor.
Usually, I’m the most calm, cool, and collected person you’ll ever meet. It’s why I’m great at my job – nothing frazzles me. Tonight though, with his recent confession of regret, my thoughts are like a spider weaving intricate webs, constantly unraveling and spinning new ideas and fears into existence.
Did he finally say the words too late? The whirlwind of emotions sweeping through me says otherwise.
There is no way I’m going to be able to sleep. So, instead, when I hear the soft snores emanating from my room and I know the pain meds have knocked him out, I grab my phone and enter his name into the browser search bar.
Guy Foster, Famous 15. Enter.
The once blank page now fills with photos, articles and videos mostly all about the person I’m looking for. One particular image catches my eye, where he’s mid-air with his brightly colored bike, his arms spread out as if he’s soaring through the sky as he hovers just above it. He. Is. Nuts. Tempting fate every day of his life. I’m shocked it took him this long to end up in ICU, truthfully.
I click through the pages of search results, each with images of him performing daring stunts, showing off his tattoos and athletic build. They are a combo of goofy, fun Foster, and FMX pro Foster with an intense look of concentration as he performs for stadiums full of strangers.
Then I notice a video, dated only weeks ago. I tap on the preview and my Instagram app automatically opens to the Red Bull profile page. I unfollowed them a long time ago, precisely so I didn’t get caught up in this kind of stalker behavior. Keeping tabs on a boy you dumped isn’t usually my style. But here I am, in a world turned upside down by that exact boy – again.
This is the video Matty mentioned – the one Foster didn’t want to watch. I hit play. I need to see it. My heart races as I watch Foster riding toward the ramp with an exhilarating speed that makes my breath catch. The crowd cheers as he performs a jaw-dropping backflip, holding on only to the back fender of the bike, then landing smoothly on the dirt track. His smile is infectious, his eyes shining with pure joy and adrenaline when he rips his helmet off as he comes to a stop. That is a Foster I know, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride watching him do what he loves.
I swipe to the next sequence and this time, it’s the exact one I feared – of the accident that has him sleeping in my bed.
This is why I couldn’t watch him perform every day of the week when we were together. I was in awe of him but was also so in love that I feared exactly this would happen, right before my eyes, and I was certain my heart wouldn’t be able to take it. Based on how rapidly it’s galloping through my chest as I hit replay on the video, I’d say it’s not loving seeing it second-hand either.
How was he not killed? Seeing him in the ER now makes more sense, though even just thinking of it gives me the same anxiety I feel watching the video.
He lived. The lull of his snores right this second is proof.
I scroll through the comments to distract myself from watching the video for a third time and get caught up seeing fans gushing over him.
#PleaseBeOK-I luv u Foster!! 3
The profile picture looks as if this girl is still in high school. Disturbing. I continue scrolling comments.
Give the guy the grand prize for living through this! #OUCH
Crazy wipeout! Dude’s a legend! #FearlessFoster #Famous15
There’s the nickname he earned long before we ever met. And a new one that perfectly encapsulates his spirit and determination that I’ve no doubt he’ll adore – ‘Fearless Foster’. Yep, that’s him.
Without thinking it through, I find myself clicking on his profile, scrolling through the images and videos that document his daring feats and adventurous life. It’s like getting a glimpse into a world I hardly knew. One where Foster shines brighter than ever – the exact same Foster I fell in love with.
My hand instinctively presses against my chest, feeling the rapid thumping of my heart. My fingers tremble slightly as I scroll, the tips tingling with a mix of anxiety and… something I’m unfamiliar with. Confusion? Hesitation? Regret? Old photos and videos flood my vision, transporting me back in time to moments that we shared together. My eyes well up as I repeatedly see the familiar smile on his face, the same one that used to light up my world.
Each scroll of my screen is like trying to hold onto a swarm of butterflies, each carrying a different memory, all overwhelming and bittersweet. A sudden rush of emotions, a longing for the past, and a deep ache for what could have been, nearly suffocate me. I lay my phone screen down onto my chest, close my eyes, and inhale deeply through my nose and slowly out of my mouth.
This is why you made yourself never look back, Eve. Just relax. Breathe through the incoming panic attack. In through your nose, out through your mouth.
I do the breathing taught to me by my therapist a couple of times – just for good measure. Why does the logical part of me want to push him away? That’s right, because getting over him hurt. I was a mess for months. Yet now that I’m over him, the part that still remembers the way his touch felt wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, this apology is sincere – just really, really late. Does that fix the part of me that he broke? Do I want to find that out? Shouldn’t I have thought of this before I offered to nurse him back to health?
In through your nose, out through your mouth.
Five Years Ago
‘You nervous, Jellybean?’ Foster asks, patting my ass as I pace the tent.
‘How are you not , Candy Corn? You’re about to go out there and do something incredibly stupid, all for cheers from the crowd.’
‘Cheers, money, fame, women…’ Jeff mumbles in the background.
‘Listen to those roars,’ Foster exclaims, ignoring Jeff like it’s his job, with amusement in his voice. ‘It’s like a surge of adrenaline rushing through my veins. It’s fucking awesome.’
‘I think that’s probably the five energy drinks you’ve downed since we got here. Your heart is going to explode.’
I have never been this worried about someone in my life. The first time I saw him do this, I had no emotional attachment, and I pictured a crash more like the ‘hockey fights’ of FMX. Now, my boyfriend, a man I have fallen head over heels for, is going to tempt fate right in front of me.
‘Have you ever wrecked?’ I ask, the words slipping out fast enough that he lifts an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ he says, his voice lowered as he gathers my hands into his. ‘ Every rider’s had their share of falls. You walk it off and get back on yer horse,’ he utters in a deep velvet purr, drawing me in further with its hypnotic rhythm and seductive tone. His southern accent slips in and once again my heart melts at every word.
‘Was it bad?’
‘I didn’t die.’
This snaps me out of the lovesick spell. My eyes widen as if experiencing terror on his behalf.
‘Yet,’ I say.
‘Are you worried about me, Evie?’
‘Yes.’
He lifts both my hands, kissing my knuckles. ‘Not gonna lie, it’s cute, but don’t stress. I’ve been training my whole life. No matter what happens, I’m ready.’
I start to swoon at the hand-kissing but then my mind wanders to ‘no matter what happens’.
‘You’re ready for death?’
His smile is crooked but sincere. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he assures me. ‘Cross my heart and hope not to die.’ He makes the motion, then kisses my forehead, throwing an arm over my shoulders and pulling me close. ‘The only thing you’ll witness today is me winning first place.’
Finally, he cracks me and I begrudgingly chuckle at his arrogance – he’s not really. Well, maybe on the track, but all these guys are like that – it’s sort of like WWE in that way, where the riders sort of spur one another on when they’re on the track in front of a crowd but behind the scenes, they all seem to have one another’s back.
Foster and I stand together, overlooking the racetrack. His arm is around me as if trying to convey a sense of safety and comfort or maybe just claiming me as his own, which I’m cool with. My silence must be making him nervous because after minutes of silence, he speaks again.
‘You’ve got nothing to worry about. This isn’t a sport that you can just pick up a bike and excel at. It takes years of dedication and practice, not to mention a certain degree of natural talent. Take a look at Tommy over there, he’s up next. He’s exceptionally skilled and one of the younger riders. Of course, he’s not where I was at that age.’
‘Puh-fucking-lease,’ Jeff, technically a member of Matty’s team along with Foster, says.
Foster laughs, flipping him off. ‘Never listen to Jeff the Heff. He’s all sorts of jealous,’ he says with a smirk.
The dynamic between these two can best be described as a blend of competitiveness and friendship, or ‘frenemies’, if you will. My gaze shifts toward the track, where Tommy is stationed at the starting line, eagerly anticipating the signal to go.
‘He’s most likely doing his standard crowd- and judge-favorite stunts; the Superman or an upside-down Nac-Nac. Although these tricks are difficult to execute, he’s only been riding about five years so that’s usually why he doesn’t earn high scores.’
‘Supermans, Nac-Nacs, I don’t care how easy or hard they are. For me , a girl who knows nothing about this sport, and thinks the solid ground is safer, every trick is terrifying.’
Foster gently takes hold of my arms, turning me to face him. His touch sends a shiver down my spine. As I meet his gaze, his voice drops to a low and intimate tone. ‘Do you trust me?’ he asks, his eyes searching mine for an answer.
I find it strange that my heart races every time I even think about this guy I have known for only a few weeks. As I gaze into his eyes, I feel like I’m tumbling through a kaleidoscope of emotions, each one more vibrant and alluring than the last. And despite my rational mind telling me that this is too soon, I do trust him.
‘Yes, but?—’
‘No “buts”,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I’ll be OK. You’ll be incredibly impressed. And tonight, instead of partying with the guys, you and I will celebrate my win – romantically. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ I say without skipping a beat.
He doesn’t have to beg me to hang out with him because it’s literally all I want to do. I feel like a teenager in love as he kisses me softly. My skin is electric as his fingertips slide down the back of my arms and I like it – a lot.
‘Coming up, Famous 15, Guy Foster.’ An announcer’s voice rumbles through the track, detailing some of Foster’s achievements. I read about these things when I googled him after we met. He’s never bragged about them, but I’m seriously impressed. He’s placed in the X Games – many times.
‘Go. Win,’ I say, pushing him from me with one hand on his chest.
He steps back, smiling excitedly. ‘I’ll be alright, I promise. I’m always alright,’ he says, grabbing a helmet and sliding it over his handlebars, then speeding off to the track, doing a quick run around the outside to flirt with his fans.
His riding gear is black, white and green and covered in sponsor logos. His bike is a bright grass green color. The duplicate riding shirt I got when we met is on and tied at my waist. My eyes are on him and despite the danger of this sport, he is incredibly sexy while he does it.
‘He’ll probably be fine,’ Matty says, stepping beside me.
‘Reassuring,’ I say, not exactly amused. ‘And if he’s not?’
‘He’s pretty damn tough. I’ve never seen him not walk away from a fall. But if this is the moment he doesn’t, I could set you up with Jeff. He’s single and hot for pretty much anything that walks. He wouldn’t even think twice.’
I glare over at him. ‘I am not interested in Jeff the Heff.’
Matty laughs. ‘You say his name like poison! Just like Foster does. He’s really gotten to you. Are you in love with our boy?’
‘It’s been three weeks,’ I remind him. Not long enough to fall in love.
‘Instalove is a real thing,’ he says with confidence. ‘Just ask my wife…’
There is no way that’s a thing. I don’t think… Then again, with the way my heart is racing in my chest as I see Foster stop at the start position, this can’t be normal. This is the racing heart of someone on the bike, and I’m standing on solid ground. Crap-ola. Am I in love with Foster after three weeks?