he whole ride home, I start to question my decision. Things are already complicated enough when you start in a new town without adding racing to the list.

Maybe I should be focusing on my future or college or something else. But for some reason, I can't. Riding that circuit reignited something in me, a flame that I thought had died out; it's not easy just giving that up.

Back home, Mom is in the living room doing physio with Dad. I hover in the doorway, watching as she lifts his feet out of the footrests. She peels off his socks, using some special cream she bought online to massage his feet.

Dad refuses to look at her, instead opting to look at the wall with a pained expression. Not because he's in pain, but because having to be looked after by my mother is killing him. My dad has always been the nurturing type, the one who likes to take care of us, and now–even though he hasn't said it–he feels useless.

"This is pointless," he says, still looking at the wall. "I hardly feel anything."

"It doesn't matter," Mom says softly. "I read that it keeps the circulation going and helps strengthen your muscles."

"Strengthen them for what? What is the point in strong muscles if I can barely use them?"

There is a harshness to his tone that isn't usually there. Mom freezes, not used to being talked to like this, and I watch as guilt immediately crosses Dad's face.

"I'm sorry," he says, leaning forward. He closes his eyes and kisses Mom's forehead. "I'm sorry. I love you."

I back away from the door, unable to stomach it anymore. I hate seeing them like this. Before the accident, they never fought. They were the kind of sickly couple I loved to make fun of, the type to still hold hands and kiss. While my friends' parents seemed to be divorcing left and right, my parent's marriage was always unbreakable. It seems now, it's beginning to crack.

Up in my room, I spend the next hour or so unpacking the rest of my things. It's a big room, much bigger than my room back home, and now that there aren't boxes dominating every surface, it's starting to feel a little more like home.

Kianna texts me as I'm finishing up to tell me she misses me, and I send her a long text back before heading into the bathroom. I turn on the shower, glancing at myself in the mirror while I wait for the water to heat up.

The problem with riding is that the moment I take off my helmet, my hair is a mess. Right now, it tumbles down my shoulders in thick, knotted waves, stopping just short of my waist. I attempt to run my fingers through it before sighing and giving up.

In the shower is where I do most of my thinking. I stand still like a statue, hand against the tiles, and close my eyes, listening to the sound of my heartbeat. Like riding, hot water has the power to take me to a safe place, a place where my mind wanders without limit.

I think about home and everything I've left behind: Kianna, my riding friends, my childhood. For the first time since moving here, I let myself feel this loss, this uncertainty I've been suppressing. It's not easy moving to another state in the middle of the school year, especially after everything that's happened. We were only just starting to establish a sense of normalcy after Dad's accident, and now I'm having to get used to everything all over again.

Water continues to pound on my skin, relaxing my muscles. Riding might look easy–Kianna used to tell me the bike does all the work–but it's not. It requires precision and skill, requires using muscles you never knew existed. It's the stomach, forearms, and thighs that keep a rider balanced and controlled on their bike, particularly when moving around corners and bends, which is why if I want to compete, I need to start hitting the gym soon, too.

I work some coconut shampoo through my hair, using my fingers to invigorate my scalp. I think about the future as I'm doing it–the possibilities. I don't believe in God or define intervention, but moving to a town with such a prestigious race track right outside my doorstep has got to be a sign.

Without meaning to, my thoughts drift to Tyler. I picture the way his bike hits those turns, the way his dark hair curls on his forehead. The way his eyes are dark and hostile yet his grin sweet and boyish. It's clear he's going to be my main competition, which means he's the one I need to watch.

The thought makes me nervous, but also excited. It's the kind of raw feeling that I haven't felt since giving up racing, and now that it's back, I feel more myself again–more hopeful. Everything has felt dark and depressing since Dad's accident; now there is finally light.

Mom knocks on the door when I'm tucked up in bed and hovers in the doorway. After waiting a moment, she crosses the room and sits on my bed, pushing back the hair from my face.

"Hey," I say softly.

She smiles. "Hey."

"Everything okay?"

She's quiet for a moment, and I'm about to speak when she sighs and says, "I want you to make me a promise, Roxy."

I sit up and turn so that I'm looking right at her. "What promise?"

From the look in her eyes, it's not going to be one I like. "Promise me you won't race," she says. "Please, Roxy. I couldn't take it if something happened to you, too. I–" her voice cracks, and she stops to fight back the tears, but one escapes anyway and trails down her cheek.

Guilt tugs at my stomach. I pull her toward me and wrap her in my arms, laying my head on her shoulder. Of course the last thing I want is to see my mom suffer. I'm not heartless, I know the idea of me racing kills her, but the idea of me not kills me, too.

"I won't," I say, but it's a lie.

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