Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
I knew something was wrong the second he looked at my mouth.
Not subtle. Not accidental.
It was quick, yeah, just a flicker, just a second—but I've spent years reading people, reading opponents, reading every shift in body language on the track, and that?
That wasn't nothing.
And now it won't get out of my head.
⸻
The ride home is a blur of bad decisions and worse thoughts, the kind where I push the throttle harder than I should, like speed might shake it loose, like I can outrun the image of Aaron standing there, tense and breathing too hard, looking at me like—
No.
I cut that off immediately, jaw tightening as I weave through the road, engine roaring beneath me.
It doesn't mean anything.
It was just the adrenaline.
The race.
The moment.
That's all.
It has to be.
Because the alternative—
Yeah, no. Not happening.
I pull up outside the house and kill the engine, the sudden silence pressing in around me in a way that feels heavier than it should.
The place looks the same as always.
Small. Worn down. Lights on, but not bright enough to feel like someone actually lives there.
For a second, I just sit there, staring at the front door like it personally offended me.
Then I grab my helmet and head inside.
The smell hits me first.
Sharp. Bitter. Familiar.
Alcohol.
Of course.
I don't even bother taking off my boots as I step into the living room, already knowing what I'm going to find before I see it.
Mom's on the couch, half-slouched, half-sprawled, a glass dangling loosely from her hand like gravity hasn't quite decided what to do with it yet.
The TV is on, volume low, some random show playing that she's definitely not watching.
"Seriously?" I mutter, tossing my helmet onto the chair harder than necessary.
She stirs slightly, blinking like the world just came back into focus for her.
"Tyler?" Her voice is rough, slow. "You're... late."
"It's not even that late."
She frowns like she's trying to process that, like time works differently wherever she's been all day.
"Oh."
I run a hand through my hair, already feeling the frustration building, tight and familiar in my chest.
"How much?" I ask, gesturing vaguely at the glass.
She looks down at it like she forgot it was there. "Not much."
"Yeah, because you're great at stopping after one." I study her face for a minute. "It wasn't just alcohol, I see."
Her expression shifts, something defensive flickering across her face. "Don't start."
I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. "Start what? Saying what's literally in front of me?"
"I said don't."
"And I said—"
I cut myself off, exhaling hard as I turn away, dragging a hand down my face.
This is pointless.
It's always pointless.
"Did you go to the track again?"
Her voice is quieter now, but there's something else in it too.
Something tighter.
I freeze for half a second before scoffing, grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen.
"Yeah. So what?"
"You promised."
I turn back slowly, disbelief creeping in. "No, I didn't."
"You said you'd be careful."
"I am careful."
Her laugh is small, broken in a way that makes something twist in my chest whether I like it or not.
"Careful doesn't stop things from happening."
There's a beat.
A heavy one.
I know where this is going before she even says it.
"Your brother was careful too."
And there it is.
Something in me snaps so fast it almost feels automatic.
"Mom," I say sharply, the word coming out harsher than I intended. "Don't bring him into this."
"Why not?" she shoots back, suddenly more awake, more there than she's been all night. "You act like it didn't happen, like it doesn't matter—"
"I don't act like that."
"You do," she insists, sitting up straighter, her grip tightening on the glass. "You go out there, you ride like nothing ever happened, like I didn't already lose one son to that—"
"I'm not him."
The words come out fast, cutting through everything.
Her face falls slightly, like I just slapped her.
"I know that," she says, softer now, but it doesn't make it better. "That's exactly what scares me."
I shake my head, pacing a few steps because standing still suddenly feels impossible.
"This isn't about him," I say, forcing the words out, even though I know it's a lie the second it leaves my mouth. "This is about you not being able to handle anything without—" I gesture vaguely at her, at the glass, at all of it.
Her expression hardens instantly.
"Don't you dare."
"No, I will," I fire back, anger flaring hot and sharp. "You don't get to throw his name around every time you don't like something I do, and then pretend this—" I point at the bottle on the table now "—isn't a problem."
"At least I'm here," she snaps.
The words hit harder than they should.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I didn't leave," she says, her voice cracking slightly despite the edge. "It means I stayed, even when everything fell apart."
I stare at her, something twisting uncomfortably in my chest.
"Yeah," I mutter. "You stayed. Congrats."
Her breath hitches.
That one lands.
Good.
I should feel satisfied.
I don't.
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
I look away first, jaw tight, hands clenched at my sides.
This is going nowhere.
It always goes nowhere.
"You're just like him."
Her voice is quieter now, almost lost under the hum of the TV.
I tense. "Mom."
"You are," she insists, and there's something almost desperate in it now. "Same look in your eyes when you ride, same way you push too far, like you're trying to prove something—"
"I'm not trying to prove anything."
"Then why do you keep going back?"
The question hangs in the air.
And for a second—
I don't have an answer.
Because it's not just the track.
It's not just the speed.
It's not just the adrenaline.
It's—
I think of Aaron.
The way he looks at me like I'm something to fight, something to beat, something he refuses to understand.
The way he looked at me today.
My chest tightens.
"Tyler?"
I blink, dragging myself back to the present, back to the house, back to my mom watching me like she's trying to piece something together.
"Nothing," I say quickly, too quickly. "It's nothing."
She studies me for a moment longer, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"You're hiding something."
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, because that's the biggest issue right now."
"I'm serious."
"So am I," I shoot back, grabbing my helmet again because suddenly I need to get out of here before this turns into something else, something worse. "Drop it."
"Tyler—"
"I said drop it."
I'm already halfway to the door when she speaks again.
"Is it about the track?"
I pause.
"No."
"Then what is it?"
I don't answer.
Because I don't have one.
Not a real one.
Not one I'm ready to say out loud.
"It's that boy, isn't it?"
My grip tightens on the door handle.
Of course she notices.
Of course she does.
I turn slowly, forcing a scoff like this is ridiculous, like she didn't just hit way too close to something I'm actively trying not to think about.
"You're drunk." And high probably.
"That doesn't make me stupid."
I shake my head, pushing the door open. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" she presses, her voice sharper now. "Because you've been different lately. Distracted. Angry in a way that's not just about racing."
"That's called having a life."
"That's called being scared."
I freeze.
The word lands somewhere deep, somewhere I don't want to look at too closely.
"I'm not scared," I say, quieter now, but no less firm.
She watches me for a long moment.
"Then why are you running?"
I'm not.. am I?
My chest tightens.
I don't answer.
I step outside, the cool air hitting me immediately, grounding in a way the house never is.
Behind me, the door stays open for a second longer.
Then—
"Tyler," she calls, softer now.
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
"Be careful."
The words are quieter this time.
Not angry.
Not sharp.
Just... tired.
I don't look back. I just get on the bike, start the engine, and leave.
Because if I stay—
I might actually have to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.
And right now?
I'd rather pretend it's still just hate.
I don't plan to go there.
I never actually make the decision, never consciously turn the thought over in my head and decide that today is the day I'm going to dig everything back up, but somehow my body always gets there before my brain can catch up, like there's a part of me that already knows where I'm headed even when I'm pretending I don't.
One second I'm riding without direction, pushing the bike harder than I should, letting the engine scream beneath me like noise alone might be enough to drown out everything building in my chest, and the next I'm slowing down without really understanding why, my hands easing on the throttle as the road curves into something far too familiar.
The cemetery shows up gradually, iron gates worn and slightly rusted, gravel crunching under my tires as I pass through and cut the engine, the sudden silence pressing in around me so quickly it almost feels like it has weight.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands still wrapped around the handlebars, staring straight ahead like if I don't move, like if I stay completely still, I can still pretend I didn't come here on purpose, that I didn't already make the choice the second I turned down this road.
"Yeah," I mutter under my breath, the sound too loud in the quiet as I swing my leg off the bike. "Great idea."
Because clearly, I've decided today wasn't miserable enough.
The walk feels longer than it should, not because I don't know where I'm going, but because I know exactly where I'm going, every step automatic, every turn already mapped out somewhere in my head like it's been carved in there permanently.
I don't need to look at the names on the stones or follow any kind of path, because my feet take me exactly where they always do, like there's no version of this where I end up anywhere else.
I stop a few steps away, my body going still before I even fully register why.
And there it is.
Simple, cold, and permanent in a way that nothing else in my life has ever managed to be.
I stare at it for longer than I probably should, my jaw tightening slightly, my hands shoved deep into my pockets like that might somehow ground me, like it might stop everything else from creeping in.
It doesn't.
It never does.
"Hey," I say finally, the word feeling pointless the second it leaves my mouth, like I'm talking into empty space and expecting something to answer back.
I let out a quiet breath, shaking my head as I step closer and lower myself onto the grass in front of the grave, the ground cool beneath me, real in a way everything else suddenly isn't.
"Mom's still a mess," I add after a moment, my voice quieter now, steadier in that forced way that means it isn't actually steady at all. "In case you were wondering."
A dry, humorless laugh slips out before I can stop it.
"Yeah, I know... not exactly surprising."
The wind moves gently through the trees, soft enough that it almost feels out of place, like the world didn't get the memo that this is where things stopped making sense.
I start pulling at the grass without thinking, tearing at it just to give my hands something to do, something to focus on that isn't the name carved into the stone in front of me.
"She still blames the track," I continue, my gaze fixed forward even though I'm not really seeing anything clearly anymore. "Blames the bikes, blames the race, blames everything except the things she doesn't want to look at."
I pause for a second, my jaw tightening.
That wasn't fair.
I know it wasn't.
Doesn't stop it from being true.
"You remember that day?" I ask, even though the question doesn't make sense, even though I already know the answer before it's even fully formed.
"Of course you do," I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand down my face as the memory settles in whether I want it to or not. "You were there."
So was I.
That's the part nobody ever says out loud.
"It wasn't even a big race," I go on, my voice flattening slightly as the details sharpen in my head, each one too clear, too precise for something I'd rather forget. "Just some local thing, nothing serious, nothing dangerous, at least that's what everyone kept saying like that somehow made it better."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
"You'd done it a hundred times before, probably more, and you were still acting like every jump needed to be higher, every turn needed to be sharper, like you had something to prove even when there was no one asking you to."
A small breath escapes me.
"You always did that."
My chest tightens as the memory shifts, pulling me deeper whether I want it to or not, replaying itself in slow motion in a way that makes it worse instead of better.
"The jump wasn't even that bad," I say, quieter now, my eyes fixed somewhere past the grave. "You've taken worse, landed worse, walked away from things that should've taken you out completely."
My fingers curl into the grass.
"But this time... you landed wrong."
The words feel heavier now.
Harder to say.
"The back tire slipped just enough to throw everything off balance, and the bike twisted under you in a way that didn't make sense at first, like it should've corrected itself, like you should've been able to fix it mid-air the way you always did."
I inhale slowly, my chest tightening with it.
"You didn't."
Silence follows, thick and suffocating, stretching out in a way that makes it hard to breathe properly.
"I thought you were gonna get up," I admit after a while, my voice rougher now, less controlled. "Everyone did, because it didn't look that bad, not at first, not until people started running instead of watching."
That's the worst part.
It never looks that bad.
Until it is.
"Mom was there," I add, quieter now, my gaze dropping slightly. "She saw everything, every second of it, and I think that's when something in her just... broke."
I hesitate, searching for the right word even though I already know there isn't one.
"That's when it started."
The drinking.
The distance.
The way she stopped being someone I recognized and turned into someone I didn't know how to talk to anymore.
"She tried at first," I continue, softer now, like saying it louder would make it less true. "After everything happened, she actually tried to keep things normal, to keep me normal, like if she held it together hard enough the rest of it wouldn't fall apart."
I let out a quiet breath.
"That didn't last."
Another pause settles in, longer this time, heavier.
"I think she hates me for still riding," I admit, the words sitting wrong in my chest even as I say them, even as I know they're only half true.
I shake my head slightly.
"Or maybe she's just scared and doesn't know how to say it without turning it into something else."
I lean back onto my hands, staring up at the sky like it might offer something useful for once, like it might give me an answer that actually makes sense.
It doesn't.
Obviously.
"I tried to stop," I say after a moment, the words quieter now, almost reluctant. "After you..."
I trail off, my jaw tightening before I force myself to continue.
"...after everything."
"I lasted maybe two months before I couldn't take it anymore," I admit, letting out a humorless breath. "Which is probably pathetic, but it felt like my head was too loud without it, like everything I wasn't dealing with just got louder the second I stopped riding."
Because it was never just about the track.
It was about shutting everything else up.
"It's the only time it all goes quiet," I say, more to myself now than anything else. "When I'm riding, there's nothing else, no memories, no noise, no—"
Aaron.
I close my eyes briefly, exhaling through my nose like I can physically push the thought out.
"Yeah," I mutter, almost under my breath. "That's a whole other problem."
I sit up again, resting my elbows on my knees, staring at the name in front of me like it might judge me for what I'm about to say next.
"You know Aaron? I've been thinking about him lately," I admit slowly, the words feeling unfamiliar, like they don't belong to me.
"He's... complicated," I start, because that's easier than saying anything real. "Annoying, stubborn, constantly acting like he has something to prove, like the world owes him something and he's mad it hasn't paid up yet."
A small huff of breath leaves me.
"You'd probably argue with him within five minutes."
I hesitate, my fingers tightening slightly against my arm.
"He looks at me like I'm something to beat, like I'm a problem he hasn't solved yet, and I should hate that, I should want to prove him wrong and leave it at that."
My chest tightens slightly.
"But I don't."
There it is again.
That same uncomfortable truth.
"There's something off about it," I continue, my voice quieter now, more uncertain. "Something that doesn't fit with anything I thought I had figured out, and I don't know what the hell to do with that."
I let out a slow breath.
"I thought I knew how this worked, you know? Simple. Straightforward. Girls, racing, nothing complicated, nothing that makes you stop and think too hard about anything."
A short, bitter laugh escapes me.
"Turns out that might not have been true."
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
"I'm not—" I start, then stop, because I don't even know how to finish that sentence without lying.
Not to him.
Not to myself.
"I don't know," I admit instead, quieter now, the words settling somewhere deep and uncomfortable.
And somehow, that feels worse than anything else.
The wind shifts again, brushing past like it's trying to move things along, like I've stayed here long enough and it's time to leave before I start saying things I'm not ready to deal with.
I push myself up slowly, brushing the dirt from my jeans, my eyes lingering on the grave just a second longer than they should.
"I'm still riding," I say, more firmly now, like that's something I need to establish, something I need to hold onto. "I'm not stopping."
Not for fear.
Not for guilt.
Not even for him.
A small pause.
"But I'll try not to die doing it."
It's meant to be a joke.
It doesn't land like one.
I grab my helmet, hesitating just slightly before putting it on, my grip tightening around it for a second.
"...you would've liked him," I add quietly, almost like I'm not supposed to say it out loud.
Almost.
Then I turn, walk back to the bike, and start the engine, the sound cutting through everything instantly, loud and overwhelming in the best way possible.
Because noise is easier.
Speed is easier.
Running is easier.
And whatever the hell is going on with Aaron?
Yeah.
No.
That can wait.