“Do you even know what taking too many pain meds can do?” I ask, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“I…” he starts, but at the look on my face, he closes his mouth.
Good.
There’s a fucking reason the idea of him abusing meds rankles me. It’s more than the doping. It’s about what that roadleads to.
I should leave it there, shut my mouth, and walk away, but the track is empty, and somehow, this weird, quiet kid beside me, I trust him. Maybe more than I should.
And, fuck me, Icareenough to want him to know why.
The silence stretches between us, and he starts to fidget, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows like he’s too warm or restless to sit still, revealing those wildflower tattoos creeping along his arms—black ink, delicate lines, brutal and beautiful all at once. I’m not sure if the sight of them is ironic or tragic.
Maybe both.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out, and my fingers trace the edge of a petal. The skin beneath my touch jumps, and goose bumps rise in a slow ripple under my fingertip.
“My mum was a florist,” I say quietly, still tracing the ink. “When I was little, she used to drag me through every botanical garden in the damn country. She loved showing me the names, teaching me what each flower meant.”
Mini Crews doesn’t move or speak. He watches me like he knows this moment is different and that I don’t give this part of myself away.
“Dad was a motocross racer. A good one.” I glance up. “You’d think they wouldn’t fit. Dirt and grease on one side, flowers and delicate hands on the other, but it worked.”
I swallow. My hand pauses on the curve of a daisy. The line of the stem feels like a scar under my fingertip.
“One time, when I was with Dad at a race, my mum…” I stop, my throat tightening around the words. “She was raped.”
His breath catches. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” I nod, eyes still on his ink. I drag my fingertip along another flower, slower this time, like it might calm the ache inside my chest. “We went to court, but there wasn’t enough evidence. The guy was rich and had a good lawyer. It was her word against his.” Another harsh breath leaves me. “And he walked.”
His fists curl in his lap. I see it, the way it hits him. The fury.
Same.
“She started self-medicating with painkillers and sleeping pills. Maybe to dull the trauma or to make everything quiet for a while. I don’t know.”
I glance at him, but he’s looking down at the dirt with a clenched jaw.
“She overdid it once and took too much. I don’t think she meant to, not really, but she never woke up.” My throat closes around the last words. “All because something horrible happened to her, and no one fucking listened.”
He lifts his head slowly. “That’s why you don’t speak up.”
I shrug as if he hasn’t summarized the darkest, most private part of who I am.
“Why these flowers?” I ask, my thumb brushing lightly across his skin, pale and soft against the rough contrast of my own. The question feels too gentle, too intimate, but I don’t take it back.
Silence stretches between us for so long, I wonder if he’ll even answer. I stop tracing, and that seems to jolt him.
“No,” he says quickly, his voice catching on the word like it’s trying not to break.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I start again, gentle strokes over the petals and stems, letting the motion calm us.
“No matter how chaotic life is,” he says quietly, trying again as he watches my fingers move. “Or how horrible their environment… wildflowers still bloom.”
My heart aches like it was crushed under the bike.
“That was your mom’s story,” Mini Crews says just as quietly. “What’s yours?”
