by Jay McLean
7
—Joshua—
The pounding on the door matches the throbbing in my head, and my first thought is that it’s Aaron knocking. That Becca had gone back to her bed and back in his arms, crying about the way I’d left her on my steps. But then I remember it’s Chaz’s birthday, and I curse myself for staying out so late last night and forgetting my plans. I put on some pants and tear open the plastic around a new Globe T-shirt sitting in my suitcase before shrugging it on. Then I rub my eyes and inhale deeply, hoping to make it through today. For Chaz, and maybe for my own goddamn sanity.
A middle-aged man looks up from the clipboard in his hand when I answer the door. “You Josh Warden?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
He hands me a stack of papers. “Here are the non-disclosures and insurance papers you requested. All my workers signed them.” I can tell he’s holding back an eye roll, and to be honest, I understand why. But Chris makes everyone who does work for me fill out the stupid papers. “What are you anyway? One of those reality stars or something?” he asks, looking into my two-bedroom garage apartment.
I drop the forms on the entry table. “Or something.”
“That’s cool.” He shrugs, already bored with the notion. “Where do you want us to set up?”
I step out, shutting the door behind me, and lead him to the backyard. The driveway is already filled with catering vans and decorators, and even though it’s just a small party with Chaz’s church lady friends, I wanted to do something nice for her. I owe her that much. “So you guys will be done by 1? It’s a surprise, so I’d like it ready before she gets back from church,” I tell him.
He grins. “You had the funds, I got the manpower.” And with that, he gets to work.
I watch, making sure they don’t do any damage to Chaz’s garden. A few minutes later Robby shows up, his truck loud as it reverses down the driveway. I walk over and inspect the timber loaded in the bed. “It looks good,” I shout while he jumps down from his seat.
He closes the door. “Of course it does. You seem to forget I taught you everything you know,” he says, stopping beside me. “It’s to the exact specifications you wanted, Josh. I went over it fifty times. Even had Kim out with the measuring tape just to be sure. I know how important it is to you.”
“I appreciate it. I just wish I had the time to do it myself.”
“We can say you did. She doesn’t have to know.”
“And live the rest of my life under God’s watchful eye knowing I lied to her? Nah, man. I’m good.”
He laughs at that before motioning to my cast. “Are you going to be able to help me put it together, or you want me to call one of the guys?”
As if right on cue, the front door opens and Aaron and Martin walk out, Becca following behind them. “You guys need a hand?” Aaron asks.
I look over his shoulder at Becca, who’s looking down at her feet.
Then I nod.
I smile.
And I act amicable toward him, just like I said I’d be. “That would be swell.”
“Swell?” Robby whispers.
I turn to him, baring my teeth with the fakest of all fake grins. “Just fucking swell, Rob.”
* * *
With Aaron’s help, it doesn’t take long for us to put together the arbor I’d had Robby build. For the past six months, Chaz had been hinting about it. Talking about it. Showing me pictures of it. Asking to go on trips to the lumber yard to pick out the material. Even going as far as making copies of the picture and wallpapering my bedroom with it while I was out of town. “I got jokes,” she’d said when I confronted her. But I don’t think it was about the arbor itself. I think she did it for the same reasons Robby built the half pipe in his yard. It was a reminder that I had a family and a home, and they were all here waiting for me.
I sit on the grass and compare the picture in my hand to the arbor itself and smile a genuine smile for the first time today. “It looks really good, man,” Aaron says, sitting down next to me.
Taking a breath, I try to ignore the anger and jealousy building in my chest. “Yeah, it turned out amazing.” I don’t know what he’s doing—sitting next to me trying to drum up conversation like we’re old friends. I stare down at my shoes and clench my fists, mentally picturing them smashing his face. Over and over. Right in his perfect poster-child Abercrombie model looking douche-tool teeth.
“So Grams tells me you’re home from a media tour or something?”
I hate that he calls her Grams. I hate him. Still, I smile, my hands now fisted in the grass beside me. I’m about to answer, but something cold, something wet, is placed on my arm, and I know what it is without looking. My eyes drift shut, memories of a scorching summer day with the exact same sensation filling my mind. Blindly, I reach for the glass next to my arm and take a sip of the ice-cold water. I don’t look at Becca when I mumble, “Thanks,” but it doesn’t matter because she’s walking in front of me now, her legs only inches away, and it takes everything in me to not reach out, to not touch her. But he does. He wraps his hand around her ankle as she passes him his own glass. “Thanks, baby,” he tells her, and I puke. In my mouth. Just a little. I wait for her to leave because I can handle her, I can even handle him, but I can’t handle them together. She doesn’t leave, though. Instead, she sits down opposite us, not in front of me, but not in front of him, either. She crosses her long, perfect legs, and I blink hard, pushing away the reminder of what it felt like to be between them. Her hands settle on her lap and she chews her lip, her gaze moving between Aaron and me. Then she pauses on me, her eyes pleading. For what? I have no idea.
I have absolutely no fucking clue what she could possibly want from me. It should be enough that I haven’t broken a skateboard on her boyfriend’s face, but now she’s looking at me, wanting more, and I have nothing more to give.
I’ve given her everything I am.
“Thanks for your help, man,” I tell Aaron, standing up and taking my glass with me.
I spend the next half hour pretending like I give a shit about balloons and flower arrangements and cheese fucking platters. It was a lot easier to pretend I cared about those things than to pretend like I didn’t care that Becca and Aaron’s existence was crushing my heart, stomping on it, shredding it to pieces. “You good?” Robby asks, standing next to me.
I pick up a flower from a vase and replace it in the exact same spot. “I’m fine.”
“So… Becca just asked me to ask you if she could help with anything.”
I turn to him before looking for her in the yard. I scoff when I don’t see her. “She can ask me herself.”
“She said she would if she didn’t think you hated her.”
“I don’t hate her,” I snap.
“I know that,” he says, leaning against the catering table. “But she doesn’t, and you speaking to her boyfriend but acting like she’s invisible isn’t helping.”
I blow out a breath, my shoulders dropping with the force of it.
“Maybe just talk to her, man.”
“No.”
“Josh.”
“What?!”
Rob shakes his head. “Don’t be an asshole, okay? You’re not the only one who went through what you guys did. In fact, she had it worse. Have you even stopped to think how brave it is for her to be here right now? She’s come back to a place that’s caused her pain and grief and enough suffering to last a lifetime. Maybe try not making it about you this time and—”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He sighs. “I like Becca. She’s a good girl. And she was good to you and she loved Tommy—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, my tone flat.
“Just talk to her. She’s out in the driveway.”
* * *
Two years ago, I’d stood in this exact same spot beside her, watching her do the exact same thing… holding a camera to her eye, one hand
gripping the body, the other twisting the lens. I remember looking at her profile, her dark skin and high cheekbones beneath eyes I wanted nothing more than to get lost in. I’d asked her why she was taking photographs of a dying flower. She’d turned to me, my breath catching when her eyes caught mine. And I’ll never forget what she said: “Some things will always be beautiful, even in the face of death.”
I’d wanted to ask her what she meant. I didn’t. Maybe I should have. Maybe that simple question could’ve saved us.
Now, she’s holding a different camera.
But she’s still the same Becca.
And I’m still so miserably in love with her.
She snaps away a few more times before lowering the camera and turning to me, her free hand pointing to herself, and then to the yard. She begins putting the camera back in its bag, and without meaning to I reach out and stop her, my hand covering hers. “I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’ve been acting like an asshole—”
Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and I feel the stabbing pain of the knife in my heart, over and over, because I caused that. Regardless of how many times people have told me that it wasn’t my fault, that a lifetime’s worth of torture and turmoil led to her actions, they’re wrong. And I know that, because with every single click of a shutter I hear, every piece of elation I feel when I land a trick, every time my name’s shouted from the stands, I think of her. And I know that it’s because of her I get to have all that. And I wonder if every time she opens her mouth and silence falls from her lips, every time she types on her laptop to communicate, every time she shows a message on her phone because her voice no longer works—she thinks of me. Because I’m the one who made her that.
“It’s hard for me to have you both here,” I continue, my voice cracking. “But that’s on me, not you. I’m sorry I keep hurting you, Becs. It’s the last thing I want.”
She looks up, a perfect frown on her beautiful mouth, and I force myself to not reach out and run my thumb across her lips. After putting the camera away, she grabs her phone from the back pocket of her denim shorts and starts to type, moving closer so I can read it. Friends?
No single word in the history of unrequited love has ever caused more pain than the word friends. Not that I’d know. I had Nat, and then I had her. I smile. I nod. “Sure.”
Her grin is instant, and for some pathetic reason it causes more pain than that single word. But I remember Robby’s speech and remind myself that it isn’t about me, so I return her smile and throw in another nod, because it’s what I promised I’d do, but in my mind, I’m already picking out the boards I plan to smash the second she leaves. But then she steps closer, and closer again and her arms start to rise and a part of me wants to run, wants to push her away, because I know she’s about to touch me… and when she finally does, her arms around my neck, I feel the burst of life kick in… the exact same moment I feel a part of me die.
Her cheek presses against my chest and my arms go around her waist and I die a little more, and the longer we stand there, my arms wrapped around the only person who’s ever truly seen me, I can feel myself sinking, drowning, begging for air. I force myself to pull away, but she holds me to her, her head lifting and her eyes locked on mine. Her smile’s gone now, the frown back in place, and I get lost in her gaze, a place that holds all my secrets, my fears, my desires. Then she rises to her toes, her mouth against my ear, and her breath warm against my skin. “Thank you,” she whispers.
My eyes widen in shock, my heart… I have no idea what it’s doing, but apparently she finds my reaction amusing because she laughs, or at least her version of a laugh and seeing it gives me the same feeling of life and death. I’m about to speak but my name being called cuts me off. Chris walks up the driveway, his look of shock matching mine from only seconds ago. “Becca.” There’s distaste in the way he says her name and I know why, I just don’t want her to know why. So, I release her quickly and turn to Chris, squaring my shoulders as I move her behind me.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him.
“It’s no problem. In fact, I’m glad I showed up. Who knows—”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“No, Warden,” he says. “I think we should talk about it now.”
Shaking my head, I narrow my eyes at him. Then I give in to the inevitable and turn to Becca. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Her bottom lip traps between her teeth, her eyes worried as she looks between Chris and me.
“It’s fine,” I assure her, then face Chris and motion toward my apartment.
The second we’re behind closed doors, he lets me have it. “What the hell are you doing, Warden?” he yells.
“I’m not doing anything! Jesus Christ.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks, his eye roll adding punch to his sarcasm. “I can totally see that.”
“Not here. Not now,” I grind out. “Give me a fucking break!”
“A break? You had a break! You took two weeks off after the shit you pulled in St. Louis.”
My head lowers, my hands at my hips. “So fucking what?”
“So fucking what?” he repeats. “This isn’t a fucking game, Warden. You’re a pro athlete now. You have people paying you big money and those people depend on you—”
“I don’t want any of that shit! I told you that. I just want to skate.”
His eyes narrow. “That shit is what allows you to skate for a living. It’s what allows you to travel with your son everywhere so you don’t have to miss a second of him growing up. You think I’m doing this for me? I have money, Josh. I couldn’t care less about any of that.”
“Get off your high horse. I’m the one who fucking earned it!”
“Exactly!” he shouts, his voice echoing in my ears. “You earned it, Josh, and you can’t just throw it away over some girl!”
I step to him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
“This is bullshit,” he murmurs.
“Why are you even here, then?”
“Because as much as you don’t want to believe it right now, I’m your fucking friend.”
“Yeah, well you’re not being my friend right now. You’re being my agent.”
“No. Right now I’m being both.”
I shove his chest. “What the fuck is your point, Chris?”
His jaw sets, but he doesn’t push back. He seems to take a calming breath, or ten, all while the frustration and anger settle in the pit of my stomach. He says, “My point is that if her being here is going to push you off track again, then let me know. If I need to cancel your commitments for the next few weeks, then I’d rather do it now, so I can get us prepared to lose another major sponsor, maybe even drop a couple world ranks like last time.”
“Fuck you.” I don’t wait for a response; I simply open the door and prepare to walk out on him. But I can’t. I don’t get further than a step because Becca’s standing just outside the door, her eyes wide, and her hand raised in a fist. Her mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, and with each second that passes, her tears build, and I know she heard everything. Everything. “Becca,” I say through a sigh.
She drops her gaze and points down the driveway where Chaz’s friends are currently moving toward us.
“Becca,” I say again, and she looks up. Not at me, but at Chris behind me.
“It’s nothing personal,” Chris tells her. “It’s just business, Becca.”
8
—Becca—
My dad spends hundreds of dollars a month on the best speech therapist in St. Louis. He and my therapist were the only people who’d been able to reap the rewards of his hard earned cash. Until I was in Josh’s arms and for a moment, the safety in his touch outweighed my fear, and I gave him a piece of me I’d been saving for a moment worthy of it. And it was. The look on his face was completely worth it. Until Chris showed up and spat my name like I was trash. I was confused, at first, but then I saw Grams’s friends show up and when I went to knock on Josh’s door, eve
rything became clear. A little too clear. I guess the guilt Dawn had pushed me to rid myself of was justified. And, somehow, I had to find a way to spend not only my time here, but the rest of my life, dealing with it. I remind myself that seeing him when he was in St. Louis was on The List, and that it had to be done. Because at some point, or so Dad keeps telling me, I have to put myself first. But at what cost?
I did my best to keep my chin up and not let it bother me. Grams’s reaction to her surprise party helped a lot, but the feeling was still there. Still in the back of my mind, in the ache of my chest, in the turning of my stomach, eating away at my thoughts. It wasn’t until she and her friends were clearly drunk on what they called “Jesus Juice” that some of those thoughts faded. It helped that they did everything in their power to tease Josh in ways that had him blushing like I’d only seen when we first got together.
I’d watched interview after interview, promo tape after promo tape of him, and not once did he seem as embarrassed as he did when Mavis, one of Grams’s oldest friends, asked him to take his shirt off so she could sell it on eBay. The teasing was relentless. At one point, Mavis asked Grams if she remembered all those times she’d come over here when Josh first moved in under the pretense she wanted to make sure the young punk wasn’t taking advantage of Grams… turns out she was here just to watch Josh skate shirtless out in the driveway.