Supercross Me (Motocross Me 2)

I toss my backpack on the bed and walk over to the window. I throw open the curtains and stare out at our vast backyard, hoping the sunlight will do something mystical to all of this angsty heartache floating around in my room. There’s a little drainage ditch that separates our yard from the motocross track, and my eyes immediately fall to the wooden bridge that crosses it. I think of the times I’ve walked that bridge hand-in-hand with Ash, and my stomach tightens into a knot.

I’d like to fall onto my bed and sleep the pain away, but I know the moment my head hits the pillow, I’ll be transported back to all the times Ash and I cuddled together on that very same pillow and watched TV. Maybe I should burn the pillow. And the sheets. And the TV. And the whole room.

Then I could get to work on that whole building-a-house-from-scratch idea.

I can’t help but chuckle to myself as I venture into my bathroom, shaking my head at this new level of pathetic. I am eighteen years old now, and I have been since December. My mirrored reflection looks back at me as I hold myself up by leaning on my palms on the bathroom countertop. You’re legally an adult, Hana. So start acting like one.

My breakup wasn’t exactly some dramatic, drawn-out, heart-wrenching nightmare. It was mutual. And up until now, my heartache had pretty much dulled to a low roar that I was getting good at ignoring over the last couple of months. Something about coming home really ripped this wound wide open, though. And now here I am splashing cold water on my face like some kind of relapsing drug addict. I stare into my eyes in the mirror and say it out loud, “It. Was. Mutual.”

Ash and I just couldn’t make it in a long distance thing. We cared about each other, but none of that matters when one of you is a professional motocross racer who gallivants around the country, attending parties and posing with models for magazine photoshoots every other day. Yep, it was mutual as shit.

I hear the rumble of the garage door opening, so I quickly towel off my face and rush out to see the family.

“Hana!” Teig calls out, running into the kitchen while I’m descending the stairs. “You’re home, right?”

“No, I’m just a ghost,” I say in a spooky voice, wriggling my fingers for the full effect. My eleven-year-old half-brother grins and runs up the stairs to meet me halfway. He throws his arms around me and I hug him back and wave to Molly, my stepmom, over his shoulder.

“Okay how are you this tall?” I ask, stepping down one step to put us on the same level. The exact same level. “You’re just a kid!”

He shrugs in this confident way that seems out of place but still adorable on someone so young. “Bet I could beat you at arm wrestling, too.”

I ruffle his hair just to put him back in his place. “Okay, well I bet I can beat you at driving a car, and passing the SATs.”

“How was the drive, Hana?” Molly waits for us at the bottom of the stairs and I head down and give her a hug. The scent of her coconut shampoo welcomes me home more than my own bedroom does.

“It was fine,” I say. “No murderous road raging lunatics crossed my path.” Lawson State University is only an hour and a half away but my step-mother always acts like it’s a trek across the continent each time I drive there and back.

The lines on the side of her mouth deepen. “Good. I worry about you.”

“She is the biggest worry-wart ever,” Teig teases once he’s a safe distance away from his mom’s slapping radius. “My friends are always surprised that she lets me race a dirt bike with how dangerous it is.”

“Keep talking,” Molly warns, pointing a finger at him teasingly. “I’d take that bike away in a heartbeat but then I’d be stuck with you all day.” She turns to me and her expression warms. “Want to help me start dinner? I’m making your favorite.”

I glance toward the kitchen island where they’ve dropped a bunch of grocery bags. “Lasagna?” My eyes widen. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Molly says. “It was Teig’s idea.”

“With cheesy bread?”

She nods. “Also Teig’s idea.”

“Oh my god, you are the best little brother ever,” I say in a voice that’s practically inaudible over my drooling. “I haven’t had Molly’s lasagna in months.” I rub my stomach. I’ve been living on dollar menu fast food, PB&Js, and Pop Tarts for longer than I care to admit. The best part about coming home is definitely the food.

We get to work unloading the groceries and Molly pops open a bottle of red wine. She makes me a glass without asking if I’d like some, and I wonder if she knows. I’ve never been a fan of alcohol thanks to growing up with a mother who treated it like her best friend, but this was my first year of college and yeah, I’d tried it.

I’ve been fairly drunk twice now, both times at a dorm party thrown by the same group of girls. I’m not really a fan. Especially because both occasions started out as a way to escape homework and my roommate and ended with angry phone calls with Ash. But tonight, one glass might calm me enough to take my mind off of that boy, so I take the glass and thank her and try not to drink it all at once.

Molly has me cooking ground beef in a skillet while she minces garlic for the bread. Teig disappears into his room for a while to put his stuff away, and when he walks back into the kitchen, I can tell by the smirky look on his face that he has something to say.

I look over at him and lift an eyebrow. He perches on a barstool on the opposite side of the kitchen island staring at his mom with wide, knowing eyes. “Well?” he says, reaching out and tapp

ing the baking pan in front of her to get her attention. “Mom? Hana is home.”

“Yes, honey?” Molly says without looking up.

His eyes get big. “Hana. Is. Home. Shouldn’t we, you know, tell her what’s been going on around here while she was gone?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, putting a hand on my hip. “Teig looks like he’s about to jump out and scare me or something.”