Girl on Track

52| Friends

Moonlight falls through the slatted blinds, casting feathers of light across the bed. I prop myself up on one elbow and watch him, wondering how I got myself into this predicament. Being there for Tyler is one thing, but ending up in his bed – even if nothing happened – is something else entirely.

And yet for the briefest of moments, I think about lying here forever. There is something about the feel of his chest gently rising that makes my heart sing. My defences are down, and his arms around me are strong enough to make me forget everything that happened. Clearly, I am not as strong as I like to pretend, because all it took was Will you stay for me to crumble to his will.

I give into the feeling for a little while and snuggle further into his chest. Years of riding means his body is all angles and edges, but there's a warmth to his skin that counteracts any hardness, and I feel myself inching closer.

The alarm clock on the bedside table flickers to four a.m. I should already be making my way to the track for riding practice, but instead, I'm still here, mustering up the courage to pull myself away. While I'm reluctant to leave Tyler when he needs me the most, something tells me staying will make everything more complicated.

He shifts a little, his fingers involuntarily brushing my skin. I hold my breath, enjoying the light tickle of his skin against mine a little too much. When his fingers start to travel up my wrist in soft, gentle strokes, it's clear he's awake, but I don't dare move just in case I break the spell. His touch is magnetic, a sudden reminder of how much I've missed being bundled to his chest.

I run my fingers along the arches of his back, comforted by his proximity. He pulls me in closer, his mouth inching closer to the side of my neck, but the weight of the real world is calling. As desperate as I am to feel his lips on my skin, I keep thinking about the tournament and what it will mean for us when one of us loses. Would our feelings about riding end up overriding our feelings for each other? Before he quit as my trainer, I'd have said probably not, but now I'm not so sure.

He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head at the last possible second, so he catches my chin, instead. His eyes flutter open, and there's a moment where he looks at me in his half-asleep state like he's having trouble figuring me out.

I don't exactly blame him. Maybe once the race is over, we could try and make it work, but right now the thought of competing with Tyler is torture. My anger was one thing, it drove me forward when I felt like pulling back, but now that strength has wavered again, and all I feel as I stare at the vulnerable boy in my arms is confusion.

It's why, when he leans in to kiss me again, I gently pull the covers back and get to my feet. My riding gear is strewn on the floor, so I pick up each item and gather it in my hands while he watches. After a second or two, he lifts himself out of bed and rises to his feet before running a hand through his hair. I bite my lip and have to avert my gaze or else risk going back on my decision. Why is it that the moment you decide you can't have something, it's all you can think about?

"You don't have to leave," he says. "It's still early."

"I do. I should be at the track already." But we both know that's an excuse. The truth is, I don't trust myself around him.

He reaches out, tucking back a section of hair from my face. His eyebrows are furrowed, the confusion in his expression all too evident. "What if I don't want you to?"

It takes every ounce of my effort not to lean into his palm. "I'm really glad your dad is okay," I say. "You should go and check on him. If you need me–"

"I need you now."

I sigh and set my gaze on the wall, unable to look at him. Maybe I'm being harsh right now, but I have to protect myself too. My dad was right, I've been using my problems and distractions as a crutch, but I don't want to do that anymore. You're either ready or you're not, and the only way you'll know if you are is to trust yourself.

For once, I'm ready to trust myself.

"You broke up with me, Tyler," I say. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"No."

"Then what do you wa–" But I don't get to finish my sentence. His arms lock around me, pulling me close enough that I'm less than an inch away from tasting his mouth. He falters a moment, eyes dark with deliberation, then cups my face and kisses me.

The rush I get in my lungs is instant. I'd almost forgotten how soft his lips felt, but the taste comes rushing back as if it had never even left. I deepen the kiss, desperate to taste him that little bit longer, but he pulls back to watch me.

"The answer to that question," he says, voice rough, "will always be you."

And then he's kissing me again, and even though logic demands that I stop this, I feel myself folding into him. His lips ignite mine, hungry and demanding, but this time I don't deny it. I just kiss him right back, losing myself to the feel of his hands as they run along my hips.

I used to ask myself during cheesy romcoms what the big deal was about kissing, but it's not just the kiss, I realize, it's everything that accompanies it. The rush of adrenaline, the dash of dopamine, the butterflies. Every touch elicits a response, every spark of his fingers like a current through my skin, sending me over the edge: I just don't know what awaits me at the bottom.

"Tyler," I murmur, but it's hard to get words out when I can't even think straight. His hands are grabbing my thighs, and he lifts me up and carries me back until I'm pressed to the wall, where instinct forces my legs around him.

"Shit," he whispers. His breathing is heavy as he lowers his head to sprinkle kisses down my neck. I inhale sharply, telling myself this is the moment I'll pull back and say what needs to be said, but I don't. I just close my eyes, lost in the moment as he reaches for my underwear, fingers ready to dip further.

"Wait." My hands jerk forward, pressing against his chest in a bid to slow this down, and he stops. "Tyler, I can't."

His voice is rough and unsteady when he speaks. "Why?"

Why. Right now, staring at his red, full lips, it's hard to give him an answer. So, I focus on the wild look in his eyes and take a deep breath. "I don't want to keep going back and forth with you," I say. "If this is what we want, we need to make the decision after the tournament, once it's over and we know where we stand. Until then, I think we should focus on trying to be friends."

There's a second of silence. Then another. The look he gives me is incredulous. "You're asking to be friends?"

"For now." I hold my breath in the silence that follows, certain he's going to say no. But then he gently wraps his hand around a loose section of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. His eyes fall to my lips, just for a second, but long enough for me to see the longing in his gaze as he tears it away. "I don't know if I can be friends with you, sirenita," he says, and my heart starts to sink, "but I'll try."

It feels like a weight lifts off my shoulders. "Good," I breathe, and then I take a step back, because right now, he's too close for comfort. "Friends it is."

"Friends," he repeats with a gleam in his eye.

I just hope that it lasts.