Page 4 of Heart of the Race

I didn’t get Nico’s fascination with every girl he saw. I had no interest in them, and by the time I hit high school, I understood why. Women were not alluring. They were nice, I liked them, they made for incredible friends, but not to kiss or do anything else with. Men were a whole different story. The posters in my room were not on the walls because I loved the teams they played for, but instead for the various stages of undress. Removal of sports equipment was a convenient excuse for them to all be half naked. Of course, David Beckham was on the ceiling above my bed in all his tattooed glory, and when Varro was there, splayed out, he never missed a chance to remark on how weird it was.

“That would creep me out, waking up and seeing that poster every morning.”

By seventeen, it took everything in me not to say I wished it was him I could wake up to instead. More than anything, I wanted to sleep with my best friend, have him in my bed, between my sheets.

I dreamed about him being the one who did things to me I read about and saw pictures of on the Internet. Every cell in my body screamed for him, yearned for him. Having him in my room, close to me, stretched out beside me, was maddening, but worse was the realization that, just as Nico did, Varro loved girls. And they loved him back.

I finally got it through my head that my life was not a movie. My best friend would never one day just turn, grab me, and kiss me breathless, no matter how much I hoped. It was a painful realization, but owning it made me feel better, and soon after, I started putting distance between us.

When I came out, the Daciens were fine with it, supportive and accepting, giving me the same safe-sex lectures Varro and Nico got, especially since I was going away to college and they wouldn’t see me every day. Mrs. Dacien was worried as much about me not eating as she was about me not using a condom. I promised to be vigilant about both.

Leaving for school was easier than I thought it would be—with the one exception of Varro. Being apart after nine years of constant togetherness was painful.

It turned out the whole sharing-a-brain-with-someone thing was not something you could just turn off and on. I was in Chicago, getting my business degree, but Varro was calling, texting, and emailing because he was excited to give me the news.

“Motorcycles?”

“Yeah.” It sounded like he was vibrating, he was that happy.

“You’re kidding?”

“No,” he snapped. “Why would I be kidding?”

“Why are you mad?”

He was always pissed off lately. The happy-go-lucky guy I’d known for years and years had disappeared once we weren’t living together anymore.

“I just don’t need one more person telling me it’s stupid.”

“So now I’m just another person.”

“No.”

“That’s what you just said.”

“Fuck you, Brian!” he yelled, and then he was gone.

I was stubborn and didn’t call back, so the next communication I got was an email directing me to join the SuperbikeSteel website so I could watch videos and basically stay on top of all the news related to racing on the international stage. My foster brother, first crush, first love, had decided he was going to race motorcycles for a living.

I called Nico, absolutely frantic.

“Don’t get me started.” He was trying not to hyperventilate himself.

A trust Varro’s grandfather had set up for him that he received when he turned twenty-one made his dream happen. We were all worried—the whole family—and when I checked in with Varro, finally got him on the phone, I asked him.

“Why not a car?”

“Too constrictive.” He yawned and made a noise like he was stretching, which I could imagine him doing. All the long muscles moving under his smooth skin…

“Brian?”

“Sorry.” I coughed. “But, uhm, motorcycles are dangerous, V.”

“Oh c’mon,” he husked. “Riding a motorcycle at two hundred miles an hour—it doesn’t get any better than that.”

I understood, of course. Speed had always been Varro’s greatest love.

And so it went. Nico and I were the boring ones: he was going to be a doctor; I was learning about finance and marketing. Varro called me from places like Monaco at all hours of the night and day, always drunk, always with noise in the background. Circumspect Varro was a thing of the past.