We christen the hell outta the house, despite my lack of future inside it. Then we turn out the lights and Stewart locks the door with one last, regretful look inside. “You sure you don’t want to sleep on it? Nicole will be so disappointed, she thought you’d love it.”
“Then you can buy it for her,” I tease. “But no.”
He turns the key, snagging my arm as I turn, and presses me against the door, taking one more possessive, full-body taste, his mouth aggressive as his hands take a long survey of my body. When he finally releases me, I stay against the door, looking up into his face, partially in shadow, his looks no less devastating in the dark. “Thanks, baby. For thinking of me.”
“I love you. I want you to be taken care of.”
I smile. “I am. I don’t need a house for that.” I stick out my tongue playfully, and the serious moment is broken. He tugs at my hand and we return to his car. And then to his condo. Which we christen also—just for the hell of it.
A normal person would ask themselves who they prefer. If both men were standing on a cliff, and I had to push one of them off, who would it be?
But I’m not normal, and neither are they. Eventually, one of them will tire of this relationship, will want more. Will want a full-time girlfriend or mother to his children. And then I will ask myself if that is what I want. If I can be happy with one man. And if the answer is yes, then I will go that path. It seems strange but, despite their differences, there is a bit of each other in these men. And even if I leave one, I will always have part of him in the other.
Paul knows that one day that question will come, and he avoids it, will never bring that question to my attention. Stewart doesn’t have time to think about it.
VENICE BEACH, CA
DIDDY MOW: the worst kind of wipeout.
One that causes broken bones, missing teeth,
or loss of life
It’s one of those barely warm days. The kind that warns you to get out and enjoy the water, before it is teeth-chattering cold, with breezes that feel like the open door to a fridge. I closed the windows to the house this morning. Crawled back into bed and laid on Paul’s warm body. Let him wrap his arms around me and warm my skin.
We waited till noon, when the sun was out long enough to take the chill off the day, and then ran out, the initial shock of cold water goosebumping our exposed skin. Now, an hour later, our muscles are warm and we are contemplating the incoming waves.
I love the anonymity of being out here. The sand and water don’t care if you are a spoiled rich kid or a foster child. It doesn’t yield to society’s expectations or discriminate. And there is little you can buy that will improve your ride of a wave, or lower your risk of death. On the sand, in the water, we are all equal in the wave’s eyes. All opponents that will either conquer the surf or succumb to it.
I rode a surfboard before I ever did a bike. The waxed feel of epoxy underneath my soles is as familiar as sand. I am not Paul. I don’t ride on the edge of death, don’t tackle the monsters that rise above and crush down on innocent souls. I ride the waves I know I can handle, and don’t bite off more than I can easily chew. And this, this gradual curve that approaches, is a wave I can handle.
I watch it coming, feel the tug as it pulls from behind me, the subtle awakening of the surrounding water as we all prepare for its arrival. I glance around, Paul nodding, sitting up and gesturing for me to go, no other surfers around. A collision on a wave is dangerous, the hard impact of boards brutal at a time when the smallest mistake can mean danger.
I count the seconds, watching the curve of ocean, feeling the pull of current, and then lean forward, lying flat against the board, and paddle. Quick, strong strokes, the rush of excitement entering my muscles as I pick up speed. It is coming. I am ready.
PAUL
I love her. She knows it. I don’t hide the fact. But I don’t think she knows how much I love her. How much my chest expands to a point of pain when she smiles. How I ache when I leave her, how my hands shake when I finally get to touch her again. She is everything I don’t deserve, and everything I could ever hope to attain. I watch her, the glint of sun off her hair, her blue wet suit bending as she leans forward, her feet swinging onto the board, and her movement as she paddles away from me.
Her hair is loose, long wet blonde tendrils, falling off her shoulders, her yellow board cutting through the water. The wave lifts me, coming in strong, my feet pushed and pulled as it moves by. I frown, not liking the kick of water that spins beneath my feet. It is stronger than it looked, catching me off guard. I narrow my eyes and watch her form, her graceful leap onto the board, her arms steadying out. My angel.
I see her form rise and fall, and then she is gone, hidden by the curve of the wave.
The board vibrates under my feet as I move forward, getting my footing and balancing, my arms outstretched, legs bent. I hit my spot and feel the lift of the board. I lean a little right, the board responding, and we hit the swell and slide down, gliding along the surface, picking up speed, my hair whipping in front of my eyes, stinging my face. I bend slightly, resisting the urge to tuck my hair back, every movement on a board attached to consequences. Then we tilt, the entire world, the wave stronger, faster, than I had expected, and the board shoots from underneath my feet, and I am yanked by my ankle strap, my feet flying outward. Unforgiving water smacks hard against my back and I am yanked underneath, my mouth opening, a stolen breath captured before I am engulfed by ice cold water.
White noise.
The current is strong, unexpectedly so, and I tumble, pulled underwater, my eyes blinking rapidly as I am tossed around—the rough push and pull of water disorienting me, my struggle against the current useless. My lungs are beginning to burn, panic setting in, my foot pulled by my leash and I hope to God that it is pulling me toward the surface. The board should float, that should be the direction up. But my body is caught in a rip current and I fight it, kicking and clawing, black spots appearing in my vision, my lungs stretching and bursting in my chest. My hand breaks into air and I kick hard, my foot suddenly free, and suddenly I have too much to process and not enough oxygen to react.
I realize it all a second too late. A second before my face hits the surface, fins come slicing through the water, the yellow flash of my board, rubber-banding back, the pressing against the leash too great, its recoil effect headed directly toward me.
Impact.
PAUL
I cannot see her. The wave came, she stood, she rode, and then she fell. We all fall. I fall into five-foot monsters, the kind that eat up and spit out surfers like gum. It is okay. She knows how to fall, knows what to do if the current pulls her under. Knows to go limp and let it spit her out. But this one had a strong kick. I felt its pull, worried over its strength. But still. She will find the surface. I will see her bright yellow board, her mess of sunlit hair. I paddle forward hard, my eyes skimming, another wave coming, its back draw pulling me briefly away. Then there is a flash of yellow. Her board, bobbing to the surface. I pause, searching carefully, then frantically, for a sign of her body.
Dark blue expanse, occasionally dotted by colorful bits of surfer. White foam, dark seaweed, her yellow board. Nothing else. Dark blue expanse.
Then I see her suit, bubbling to the surface, facedown in the water, and my entire world ends.
I fly through the water, added by waves, at her board in seconds, my hands flipping her over, her body moving easily, without resistance. Without life. I pull her onto my board, bending down, undoing the velcro of her ankle leash, hesitating as I hold the cord. She will kill me if her board is lost. It is an extension of her, of her life on the water. We have fucked on these boards, kissed, slept on the water, and fought the demons in these waves. Then I push it aside and lean over her body. I pump at her chest, I breathe into her mouth, and I look to shore and wonder if I should paddle in.
It is a horrific decision to make. To continue working to save her life, or to take her somewhere where she might nee
d to be. The shore holds paramedics, defibrillators, oxygen. Shore means at least two minutes of paddling. Maybe longer, my speed hampered by her additional body on the board. I pray to a God I have ignored for too long and exhale into her still mouth.
The first time I kissed her was on the roller coaster. Hard plastic underneath me, the scent of sunscreen coming off her skin, she had reached over and pulled me to her like it was nothing. Like it was natural that we would spend that moment, as strangers, exploring each other’s mouth. She had been so gorgeous, so vibrant. It was like God had pumped so much life into her that it was spilling out; she overflowed with it. Just being with her, in line, on that ride, her hand in mine... it was intoxicating. That kiss was my first injection and she became my addiction, from that point forward. Addiction made me come back when she told me about the other man. When she shared that I would be one of two, owning only half of her heart. I worked it out then, and I don’t care now. I only need her in my life. The rest will fall into place.
It isn’t working. I push against her chest harder, the wet suit slick beneath my palms, my movement awkward on the thin board, a large wave knocking me off balance when I lift from her chest. I look to shore and lay down, as gently as I can, atop her body, and paddle as fast as my arms will go.
I have paddled hundreds of miles. Accelerated bursts of speed to catch up to a wave. Long sprints to race another surfer back to shore. But never has my stick moved this fast. I gasp for air, my heart squeezing in my chest as I move my arms, listening, straining my body for a hope of air, a movement in her limbs, a sigh. Something. I try to calculate time, to know how long it has been, but panic sets in, and I push those thoughts to the side. I notice the blood halfway to shore. Beads of liquid streaming down the board, coming from her head. Do the dead bleed? I scream, the shore approaching, and heads look up. Feet move along the sand towards us and I clear the final distance ‘til it is shallow enough to stand, and I sweep her cold body into my arms.
Her lips are blue. Her face is slack. I have failed her. I hold her tight to my chest and run out of the water.
HACK SHACK: (noun) Hospital
PAUL
I have only ever loved four women in my life. The first two are dead. I have lost communication with my sister. I am praying fervently for Madd. The paramedics surround her, their red polos bent over, voices crawling over each other and all I can see are her feet, sticking out, pointing to the sky, in a way I have never seen them. She curls into a ball when she sleeps, her feet tucked, her head often on my stomach or my arm, her mouth curved into a smile even when she is sound asleep. They push me aside, won’t let me close enough to see, but I can hear their words. There is a siren in the distance, and all I can do is thank God that we are in Venice. Where there is medical staff on the beach, ambulances around the corner. Not up in Lunada or out in Malibu where empty mansions would quietly watch her die.
There is a cough and my heart leaps. More coughs. Hard, hacking sounds that she has never made, the type of sound that must come from a grown man. Her foot moves, and I pray to God a medic didn’t bump it. An engine rumbles, and I am pushed aside once again as an ambulance pulls onto the sand. The last thing I see is her limp feet as she is placed on a stretcher. They wouldn’t load a dead person on a stretcher, wouldn’t send them in an ambulance.
Right?
I get the attention of an EMT, grabbing his arm when he shuts the ambulance doors. “I’m her boyfriend. Can I ride with you?”
The man turns, his thin face looking me briefly up and down. “They won’t let you in the hospital without a shirt and shoes. We’re taking her to Venice Regional. Why don’t you grab some clothes, for you and her? Just in case. Also, if she has any identification, numbers of friends and family... grab that type of thing and meet us there.” He moves around me and opens the passenger door. I turn, my feet slipping on the hot sand, and run. Past familiar faces, past a dread headed stranger who is examining my board, jumping over a handrail, my feet pounding a path that I have taken many times before. With Madd and without her. I round the corner to an alley and bump into a man’s chest, stumbling past him, ignoring his curse. Two blocks. One block. Then I am taking the stairs, knocking over the ceramic frog that Madd brought back from Tijuana, grabbing the key and turning it in the lock.
Home. It will never be home without her. Even now, with her scent in the air, the sheets twisted from an early morning fuck, it feels wrong. I shut the door, not wanting to let out any of her air, and move to the counter, grabbing her keys, phone, and wallet. I am torn between wanting to examine every item, to grab her sweater and inhale her scent, and the urgency that pushes me forward. She may be alive. She may die. I need to get to the hospital. I grab a trash bag from underneath the sink and stuff into it the first two stacks of folded clothes from the top of the dryer. Folded by her. I shove my feet into flip flops and run downstairs, pocketing the key, yanking the door shut behind me.
The hospital. I’ve broken at least nine laws to get here. I leave the truck under a blinking red sign that says ‘ER’ and grab her things, running into the lobby and approaching the desk.
She is alive. It is the first thing I ask and is answered without hesitation, followed instantly by two words that make my heart drop and chest ache. “For now.” I can’t take this roller coaster. The high that I hear at the announcement of her breath, intense joy flooding my veins. Despair at the possibility that I might still lose her. They won’t let me back there. Not yet. Not until some future point that is not explained by the haggard receptionists. Then the door opens and a woman in white steps out, her eyes finding me and stepping forward.
“Are you the boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
She smiles, the motion not reaching her eyes. “She is breathing, but it is assisted. She’s had pretty severe head trauma. That, combined with the six or seven minutes she was without air... we have induced a coma until we can get her stabilized.”
“Induced a coma? So she can be brought out of it?”
She looks into my eyes. “If she still has brain function. She may not make it to a point where it is feasible to pull her out of it. You should call her family. Any close friends, and have them come here. She may not survive the night.”
I ignore the sentence, even as it stands in the center of my mind and shouts, overpowering any thought process I struggle to have. “Can I see her?”
She glances at her watch. “They’re working on her now. I’ll have someone come out and bring you in in about thirty minutes.” She smiles grimly and turns, her coat flaring out, and she is gone, the white doors swinging shut behind her.
They’re working on her now.
You should call any family or friends.
I step forward dumbly, until I am before a chair and I turn, sinking into it, my hand loosening around her wallet and phone, the items sliding into my lap. Call family or friends.
Friends. Madd doesn’t really have a lot of friends. We have a big group that we hang out with—several of the guys professionally surf, and all of the girls hang out together. But they are the type you call when you are five blocks away and have a flat tire. Not when you are on life support and might not last the night. Madd and I could disappear from this stretch of beach and it’d be weeks before anyone noticed.
Family. Madd’s entire family consists of one drunk individual. A mother who I vaguely remember being in Tuscany. But I’ll call her cell, just to make sure. I open her phone and scroll down the numbers, looking for ‘M’. Just one contact line up from it, my breath stops.
Lover.
Him. If I love half of her heart with my whole one, this man has claim to the other half. The other half of that heart that is struggling to beat. I have seen his name displayed on her phone before. But never have I had the desire to call. I have no need to disrupt the perfection that is our life, no need to rock that boat. I know nothing about this man. He may be married. Older. Younger. Black. White. He is wealthy, I know that, her wrist and ears o
ften glittering with presents, the new convertible in our garage proof of that. I know that he wanted her to have a steady man, is regretful of his time spent away from her. That is either because he doesn’t care, because she is a piece of ass who he uses when he can—or because he loves her and wants what’s best for her. And knows she would not put up with being put in the corner. Played with when he has time and otherwise ignored. There is so much I don’t know about this man. So much I never wanted to find out. But here I am, her phone in my hand, his name staring at me.
I am torn. She never wants us to meet. Wants our lives to play out separately. And I am torn between respecting those wishes and knowing what I, if I were him, would want. To hold her warm hand in mine in case it went cold forever. To hear her soft breath before it stopped eternally. If she wakes, she may hate me for it. But if she doesn’t, I might not forgive myself for taking this moment from him.
PAUL
I press the CALL button, working through words in my head, steeling myself for an unknown outcome. How will I react to hearing his voice? Will he be friendly? Cold? Will I leave a message if the machine comes on? The female voice surprises me, chirping through the receiver with friendly efficiency. “Hey Madison.”
I look at the phone, at the words ‘Lover’ clearly displayed on the front. I have dialed the right number.
“Madison?”
I clear my throat. “I was trying to reach...” I feel sluggish, like my brain can’t formulate a single articulate sentence.
“Stewart? You were calling for Stewart?” the perky voice asks helpfully.
Stewart. That is his name. A name that inappropriately brings to mind visions of my brother’s face. A brother I haven’t thought of in some time. I swallow, returning to the uncomfortable task at hand. “Yes. Is he available?”
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