Page 95 of Racing Hearts

Downstairs, the doorbell rings in a muffled sonata of chimes.

Rob, maybe? But, no, Mom already left for the evening. She didn’t say where she was going, but an hour ago, she flounced out of the front door with a jingle of bracelets and about three accompanying words.

The doorbell rings again, this time with the demanding urgency of someone who has held the button for longer than socially acceptable.

I guess it could be Adrian? I was supposed to meet him at his apartment, though. He wouldn’t ring like that—or get the time and place wrong—unless something has gone wrong. I cast aside my notes and jog down the stairs, taking them in twos.

When I pull open the door, my body goes cold.

Maxwell.

He’s wearing a polo shirt that makes him look like he belongs in a country club, not standing on a faded welcome mat surrounded by antique wind chimes and overgrown succulents. For a reason I can’t possibly fathom, he’s holding a bouquet of red roses.

His eyes are obscured by reflective sunglasses, but he flashes a set of impossibly white teeth. “Hey there. You look fit.”

I cross my arms, a half-protective measure to shield my lacy top from his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Maxwell moves forward expectantly, like he’s stepping in for a hug. Reflexively, I step back. He ends up just far enough into the threshold that he’s both crowding me and still blocking the door from closing.

“I brought these for you.” He tugs off his sunglasses and presses his bouquet of roses into my hands.

My fingers awkwardly close around the still-damp stems. I’m too stunned to do anything else with them.

“Can we sit?” he asks.

Cool evening air from the open door raises the hairs on my forearms. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

His eyebrows tighten. I have no idea why I once found those eyes attractive. Or really, any of him. His hair is too coiffed. His facial hair is too clean. He even has his collar upturned slightly, like it’s been accidentally ruffled. I’ve seen him spend a half hour pressing that shape into place.

“You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts,” he says, as though that explains why he flew five hundred miles to stand at the threshold of this living room.

“Because we broke up.”

“Right. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

I don’t say anything.

A flicker of doubt creases Maxwell’s expression. He forces a smile and rubs at the back of his neck. “Okay. I guess I deserve some of that reaction.”

He folds his arms, collects himself. Maxwell, if nothing else, has an excellent game face. He can get himself psyched up for basically any challenge—it’s one of the many things that makes him such an accomplished athlete. He’s gearing up like that now, with the quiet intensity of a champion golfer approaching their last hole.

“Katherine,” he says, back straighter so he’s nearly two inches taller. “I won’t sugarcoat it. I’m man enough to admit when I’ve made a mistake. And, with you, I did. You and I—we’re right for each other. We make sense. I shouldn’t have denied it.”

I think my mouth might be slightly agape, but I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to snap it back into place. “You…I’m sorry, what are you saying?”

“I’m here to pick up where we left off.” He turns up the corners of his mouth in the self-assured smile of a man who doesn’t feel any remorse. “I rented a car and I have my bags. We can fly to Pan Ams together.”

He rented a car? He’s going over logistics?

“You said—” I start. Shake my head. “I’m sorry, just so we’re clear. You want to get back together? With me?”

Maxwell takes another step toward me, like he’s misreading my confusion for excitement. “I was wrong about you. About us, too. I’ve seen you in the videos. It’s really impressive stuff.” He yanks a small notebook from his back pocket and riffles through the pages. “And, I made some notes for you. Your times are great, but that chin tilt is still holding you back. I wrote down a bunch of new drill ideas to fix it. If you get them in daily before you race next week, I think it could make a big difference.”

He holds out the notebook and touches my upper arm, like he’s angling me toward it. “I’m willing to bet you can do this, Kath. You can win this thing next week. And I can help.”

As his words permeate the thin membrane of my mind created by sheer shock and disbelief, I’m struck with a sudden clarity about just how ridiculous this is. No, not just ridiculous. Sad. Sad because, two months ago, this stunt probably would have worked. I was so caught up in predictability and familiarity that I might have taken him back just to avoid the terrifying vastness of change.

That fact, more than anything else, throttles my disbelief into anger.