Page 11 of Homecoming

Finding a boy, and, later, a man who wouldn’t try to push me down, make me small so that he could be a big, strong man, was quite the undertaking.

Not to mention a million little daily challenges we all go through every day that barely register anymore.

Over the years I had missed Ian acutely. I carried the pain of his loss with me constantly, and I often found myself thinking about the day we would run into each other, and how he would react. I dreamed up hundreds of different scenarios but in none of them did I foresee the hostility with which he reacted to my presence. I couldn’t figure out what I had done to deserve it.

The kicker was, I was too scared to ask.

As he heard my voice, his eyes changed. He watched me as if I was a deer while his hand slowly lifted.

He gently cupped my chin, his thumb sweeping across my bottom lip, catching on it and pulling it slightly down.

“Ian,” I breathed, lost in his blue gaze.

“Lola.” The way he rasped my name made me shiver.

“Williams!” A shout rang from the entrance of the garage, and it was as if someone flipped a switch on him. Ian let me go, took a step back, and once he looked at me, I was positive I was hallucinating seeing the glimpse of the Ian I knew. Ice blue was back, and it was colder than ever.

Without anything further, he slashed me with his look, turned around, and walked away.

The whole time I tracked his every move.

The whole time my heart was in my throat, beating an erratic rhythm, trying to suffocate me while my chin and lip tingled from his touch.

That fact alone was telling. It said I was way over my head.

The fact that I couldn’t move because if I did, I would faceplant into the ground, since my knees weren’t working, told me I was fucked.

Chapter Three

Lola

The night was filled with the sounds of cheering, the fireworks going off, rendering the announcer’s voice incomprehensible over the loud techno music. A man and a woman were screaming, trying to get the drivers' attention, which they had to know was in vain. The noise was deafening.

Our weekend in Saudi Arabia was over. The end of it was marked by the announcement of the winner of the Grand Prix (I had no idea why it was called that—in my mind it was a simple race).

Ian Williams.

My previous experience with Formula One was a boring one. I could never figure out why so many people loved it. It was just twenty cars going in circles, with little to no excitement.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Being a part of it, as closely as I could get without any active role in the running of a team, was exhilarating. From the moment the cars lined up at the start position, with Ian in third place, something that was met with both excitement and desperation from every side, adrenaline spiked in my blood, and with every pump of my heart, I cheered along with everyone.

Watching the race on TV was a sure thing to put me to sleep. Watching it in person—hearing the sounds, and smelling the oil and gas swirling all around us—was something else altogether.

I finally understood why so many race drivers said that they felt alive while on track.

There was no other way to describe it. And that was only while standing on the sidelines. I couldn’t fathom what it must have felt like driving the damn cars.

Watching Ian as he sprayed his team with champagne, screaming wildly, a big smile stretched across his face, I couldn’t help but feel his joy.

After two races, he had two wins under his belt.

He was on his track to make his plan for the season come true. Take the double crown for both himself and his team.

Ian Williams, whose name even Colton Donavan, one of the most famous drivers in history and Rylee’s husband, uttered with respect.

Ian Williams, the boy I once knew and the man who haunted my dreams again; a man whose gentle touch I still felt on my skin. It was an innocent touch, really. But the feel of his skin on mine, no matter how innocent, sent waves of electricity throughout my whole system, making me aware of every inch of my body.