Don't Come Home First

Three tries, then the engine catches. Green light shakes across the rain. My left hand still remembers the hospital rail from last July. I miss second at the underpass; eleven red lights multiply. The motor coughs, the rear end wanders, somebody laughs across the band. By the time we clear the warehouses, the whole race fits inside my mirror. Dad taught me: look beyond the corner. Mom said speed collects its due. Then your fingers gripped my jacket like they already knew. “Don't come home first, just come home. Let them take the lights and chrome. I don't need your name in gold. Don't come home first, just come home.” I quit chasing all eleven; I take one wet turn at a time. Number ten runs wide by Mercer, number five loses the line. The wipers cut the signs to ribbons; blue and magenta flood the glass. At the river ramp I'm second, with The Viper's tail lamps close at last. “Don't come home first, just come home.” Your voice stays low beneath the motor. I can almost see you waiting with my spare key in your palm. I am not that broken summer. I am not what fear has owned. But don't come home first, just come home. He gives me half a lane beside him, then turns his door into my side. My right wheels kiss the silver railing; old white headlights fill my eyes. I hold the skid and clear the pillar. He points one finger: one more try. The last tunnel takes our engines and throws their anger back twice as high. He moves across to crush me. I hear you, not the crowd: “Come home.” So I brake before he touches me. His car bites air, then concrete. There is open road ahead, orange fire behind. I choose the fire. I tear his buckle loose. He cannot say my name. We hit the pavement together before the fuel becomes a flame. When I climb back through my window, every rival has gone on. I drive toward an empty finish sure the race and chance are gone. I didn't come home first; I came home. Past twelve cars waiting, engines low. No one crossed until I reached them; no one took the open road. They can call it first or last place. That is not what I was shown. I didn't come home first; I came home. You touch the dent above my door. I say, “I thought tonight I had to prove that I could win. But I had to prove I still knew what I wanted to come home for.”