Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 by Robin Lovett Read Free Book Online

a strange girl for sex, who cuddles up to the same girl on a street corner, at night, and kisses her neck.
    My ex in college was a good guy, but when we decided to have sex, it was a very methodical process. I was a very willing participant, but it left me underwhelmed and wondering, “Is he done yet?”
    There has to be more to sex than that.
    I go back to the café that afternoon. It doesn’t matter if I blush at him or have only awkward things to say. The café is my spot, and I will go there if I want.
    He doesn’t show; none of them do. I should be relieved, but after days of nervous exhilaration, the letdown shoots depression through my veins worse than even my coldest dinners.
    I sit in the café every afternoon for three days. Nothing and no one, and I haven’t seen them riding either. The depth of my loneliness falls so low that when the Fulbright request to go home early resurfaces in my desk, I’m too weak to resist. I fill out the form and mail it.
    I have less than two months now, if they approve it.
    It doesn’t assuage my loneliness, though. The resultant feeling of inadequacy produces layers of guilt. I’m a failure as a Fulbrighter. But as powerful as the guilt is, I can’t stay here until June. I’m too lonely to make it that long.
    I give in to my need for contact from home and check Facebook. Even though I don’t leave comments or update my status, just reading what my friends from college are doing helps. The world I left at home still exists.
    On Saturday, I’ll treat myself to a trip to the Promenade des Anglais. Maybe I can find Terrence’s apartment again, see if the team is still in town.
    It smacks of desperation, like I’m some groupie following him around for his autograph or for—other things—which he freely offered me. But I can’t imagine not seeing him again.
    * * * * *
    I plug one ear with my finger and cower in the corner of the little booth. “Hi Mom,” I say into the phone. The timer on the wall counts down from ten minutes.
    “Aurelia? I can’t hear you. Talk louder.”
    Before going downtown to search for “him”, I call home. Except, thirty seconds in, I’m regretting it.
    I shout into the receiver. “Can you hear me?”
    “That’s better,” my mom shouts back.
    I hold the phone back from my ear, fearing for my eardrums. “When are you going to learn to use Skype?” I could talk to her on my laptop for free at the school.
    “I forgot to ask your cousins. How are you?”
    I tell her about teaching, leaving out the uncomfortable parts. I mention Carnival, leaving out the things I hated. I reference the volunteering that I’m supposed to be doing at the hospital, though I don’t even know where the hospital is.
    It’s nice to hear her voice, though.
    “How’s Dad?” I’m glad he’s not on the phone. He’d drill me about medical school applications.
    “What else are you doing over there?” she shouts.
    Four minutes left on the timer. I have to think of something to say. “A team of professional cyclists has been visiting my café.” Not sure why I say it.
    “Professional cyclists?” she shouts with disdain, like it’s a disease. “They make money riding bikes? French people are crazy.”
    “There are Americans on the team, actually.”
    “Oh. Did you hear Maria got a scholarship to dental school?”
    My mother drains the last three minutes with tales of all my cousins, and the children of family friends who they call my cousins. Though I’m grateful she doesn’t pester me about finding a hospital internship when I get home. It’s a thing with my family—I’m supposed to go to medical school. Part of the reason my parents emigrated to the US was so any children they had could go to the best ones.
    Add to my situation that I’m an only child, me going to graduate school for French is a laughable goal overwritten by “that’s never going to happen”.

Chapter Nine
    Finishing my weekly trip to the bibliothéque , the library, there’s