y dreams that night all revolve around Dad. I was waiting on the sidelines, cheering him on like the rest of the crowd, excited to see him win. Mom was beside me, her smile so big that it was almost contagious. Back then she'd been his biggest fan, always ready to drop everything to support him; that day was no different.

He was on his final lap, minutes away from winning. The high that day had been like nothing else, the crowd electric. Dad winning would never come as a surprise, but the way he raced kept the crowd excited, regardless. He was always so fast, powerful, verging on reckless.

Unstoppable.

Final stretch. He came flying up the side of a particularly steep hill. We cheered again, watching as he soared like a bird taking flight. It was always his favorite part, that second where you're neither flying nor falling, you're weightless. Free.

It should have been an easy descent, but suddenly his body twisted, pulling away from his bike. He clung to the handlebars, desperate to gain some semblance of control, but as the front wheel hit the floor, it bounced him up again and threw him right over them, straight into the barrier.

A silence befell the crowd. Then, in a shrill, desperate voice, my mother let out a scream. Everyone scrambled into action then, rushing over to Dad with their medical equipment. People fought to keep us back, to hide his mangled body from our view, but my mother pushed and shoved to get to him.

That was when I saw him clearly, through a gap in the bodies. His eyes were closed, the left half of his face completely covered in blood, but that wasn't what worried me. It was the position of his legs, which were bent in such a way that it looked unnatural and painful.

"He'll be fine," said an unknown voice behind me. "They'll take him to the hospital, sew up that cut on his head, and he'll be good as new."

But whoever it was that uttered those words was wrong.

Dead wrong.

I sit up in bed, heart pounding, lungs tight, the same way I'd felt watching Dad being rushed into an ambulance. What if Tyler's right? What if, deep down, Dad's crash is the reason I'm not reaching my potential?

What if I never do?

***

'm slow to get ready this morning. My body feels tired, sluggish – not because of my training sessions, but my lack of sleep. I'd been tossing and turning, unable to get those dreams to go away, so I'd ended up staying awake.

I hurry into the bathroom to brush my teeth, noting the anger in my step. It seems absurd to be having nightmares after all of this time, and it's all because of Tyler. He'd put the idea of not being over Dad's accident into my head, and now I'm having nightmares. Before he'd said anything, I was absolutely fine.

Breakfast this morning is french toast and fruit. Dad's in a stellar mood, singing and whistling along to the radio while mom chops the strawberries. It's nice to see them this way again – inspiring, in fact – like maybe I'm being silly for being so afraid.

"Morning, Sweetpea," he says. "You want some breakfast? It's delicious if I do say so myself."

I smile and, even though I'm not that hungry, say, "Yes please."

"Coming right up." He holds out his hand as Mom serves up a plate before passing it to him. He balances it on his lap, wheels himself over, and hands it over.

"Thanks," I say. "Looks delicious."

"You feeling any better?" Mom asks.

I crick my neck, still feeling a tightness in my muscles, but it's not my body I'm worried about. "A little."

"Well, take it easy at school," she says, "and if you're not feeling well enough, call in sick for your shift tonight. I don't want you to push yourself too hard, Roxy. You need to slow down a little."

"Oh, come on," Dad chimes in. "This is Roxy we're talking about. Slowing down isn't in her vocabulary."

"Or yours," Mom says with a pointed look. "Like father, like daughter."

He grins that mischievous grin before wolfing down his French Toast. Mom rolls her eyes and takes a seat at the table before starting on hers, too. For the next ten minutes, we just sit and eat breakfast, something so simple, yet somehow it fills me with joy. I'd been worried that we'd never find our way back to what we were, but maybe that's not the point. Maybe it's not about finding a way back, but finding a way forward.

For once, despite feeling tired, I'm glad to be at school. I fly through my work, throwing myself into my classes and raising my hand, something I'd rarely do before. It's therapeutic, in a way, to have a break from riding, to focus on something other than turns and speed and not getting killed. It's nice to feel normal.

At lunch, Vanessa and Niko are arguing about the first thing you'd do to survive on a desert island while I pick at my chicken, suddenly feeling antsy. In just a few hours I'll be starting my shift, and the thought of seeing Tyler unravels me.

"You try and find help first," Vanessa says. "Write in the sand or see if there is anyone else on the island."

Niko thinks for a moment as he chomps on his fries. "Nah, you'd take care of your basic needs first. You can call for help any time, but you don't want to waste all your energy walking around before you've even got food or somewhere to sleep."

"But you're jumping straight to living on an island," she says. "What if that isn't necessary? What if it turns out you're like five minutes from a town?" She turns and looks in my direction. "What would you do, Roxy?"

"Ask myself how I got into such a stupid situation."

She rolls her eyes. "You guys are no fun."

"Sorry," I say, "I'm just in a weird mood today."

"Anything we can help with?" Niko asks. "I'm a good listener."

"No, you're not," Vanessa says. "In fact, you're the worst listener. You always interrupt and come up with a bunch of solutions instead of just letting people vent."

His mouth falls open at the same time he puts a hand across his chest. "I do not. Plus, solutions are good. They help solve the problem."

Vanessa sighs and says, "People don't want you to solve their problems, Niko. They just want to vent and for you to say, oh my god, that totally sucks. Poor you."

Niko frowns and looks at me. "Okay, tell us what the problem is."

I shrug and pick up a fry. "Tyler said I'm never going to get better at racing because he thinks I have some mental blockage about my dad's accident. The worst part is that I have no idea whether or not he's right."

"Well," Niko says, "you could–" then he stops, looks at Vanessa, and says to me, "Oh my god, that totally sucks. He's such a jerk. Poor you."

I burst into laughter as the pair begin to argue, and just like that, I forget all about my nightmare this morning, about my shift tonight, and everything that comes with it.

Just like that, I feel better again.

❤️

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