Double Up

by Vanessa North

  live this dream for two weeks. Some days he has to meet clients and suppliers, but the days he doesn’t? We ride. Sometimes Eddie joins us, sometimes he doesn’t, but Dave progresses steadily even on the days it’s just the two of us. It’s been years since I’ve enjoyed riding—or coaching—this much. And when we aren’t riding?

  We frolic. God, he makes me shameless. The way I crave him isn’t about sex; it’s about him. It’s about how reading his blushes makes me smile, and how getting him to laugh puffs me up with pride. I spend the night more often than not, and on those nights, I end up stashing my riding gear in his boathouse and energy drinks in his fridge.

  “This is the wakeboarder’s equivalent of a drawer in my dresser,” he observes one morning as we’re stashing my gear next to his after a ride.

  “Does it bother you?” I meet his eyes warily. It does feel very domestic.

  “Not at all. I like you all up in my space.” He leans in for a kiss, and I fall into it, loving the taste of him. He pulls back and adds, “And if you want a drawer in my dresser, or a key to my house, that’s cool too.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I bite my lip. “This is getting kind of serious, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. I want it to be. Do you?”

  I swallow hard. Do I? Yes. But I still haven’t told you …

  “I … yes. I think I do.”

  “You think; you aren’t sure?” He takes my hand and leads me out of the boathouse and up toward the house. He watches me curiously, raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything further. I love how patient he is. I don’t answer him until we’re inside, shedding our clothes on our way to the shower to rinse away the sunscreen and lake water.

  “I like you a lot, Dave. I like being with you and spending time with you and having sex with you. I like all those things, and I don’t want to do them with anyone else.”

  “So what’s the problem?” He walks ahead of me into the bathroom, but looks back to let me know he’s still listening.

  God, this isn’t the time for a serious conversation, not while he’s turning on the shower.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” I hold up a hand and step under the spray. “I’m not saying I don’t want to talk about it at all, or even soon, but I don’t think this is a conversation we should have while we’re naked.”

  “Okay.” He shrugs. “But there is a problem?”

  “Not with you.” I frown. “But I need to tell you something kind of major, and it might change your mind. Maybe we can talk at dinner?” My gut churns. But I owe him honesty. I can do honesty, remember?

  “That’s fine. But, baby, I don’t think anything you could tell me is going to change my mind.”

  I hope he’s right. Because it might just break my heart if it does. In the meantime, I can’t think of a better way to end the morning than blowing him in the shower.

  Now that I’ve gotten over my awe of his spectacular home—well, some of it anyway—I can really appreciate the comforts of being there with him. It feels nice, letting myself in to the smell of something amazing cooking in the kitchen, knowing he’s waiting for me. But tonight, there are butterflies in my stomach, because the conversation we’re going to have is the one I’ve dreaded since he said the word “relationship” on our first date.

  “Dave?”

  “Hey, I hope you like Bolognese. I started the sauce just after you left this morning.” He comes out of the kitchen wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt. He’s blushing again. I’m starting to get a read on most of his blushes now. This one is his “I’m happy to see you” blush. It might be my favorite. God, this could be the end of everything. I’m not ready.

  “That sounds wonderful.” If only I had an appetite.

  “I can put the pasta in now if you want? Or did you want to talk first?” He leans in to kiss me, and there’s that soft feeling swirling around in my guts again.

  “Yeah. Let’s talk. This would be so much easier with a glass of wine. Shit.” It’s been a long time since I’ve entertained the idea of alcohol as social lubricant, let alone said it.

  The concern on his face is stark. “Ben you’re scaring me. Let’s sit down.”

  He leads me over to the couch and we sit, facing each other, and he doesn’t let go of my hand. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as you think it is.”

  Oh, yes it can.

  His thumb brushes across the back of my hand, raising goose bumps all the way up my arm.

  “I’m an addict.”

  “What?” His head snaps back in shock, but he doesn’t look disgusted, so I barrel ahead.

  “I’m an addict. A drug addict—the prescription variety, not the kind you shoot, snort, or smoke. I’m also an alcoholic, but you probably guessed that already.”

  He nods, his eyebrows drawing together and his brow furrowing. “Okay, Ben, when you say you’re an addict, do you mean you’re using? Or you’re recovered?”

  I look down at our joined hands. “I don’t care what anyone says, addicts don’t recover. I’m clean. I’ve been clean for eight years. I sometimes think there is nothing that could make me take pills again. But I know that’s not true. Under a perfect storm of circumstances”—boredom , pain, loneliness—“I could. And I wouldn’t have any trouble getting the drugs.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Are you offering me a choice?” I smile. “Yeah. I’ll tell you.”

  But I sit there forever, staring at his hand in my own, unable to choose the words.

  “I’m going to go stir the sauce.” He squeezes my hand. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  I nod. He returns a few minutes later with something pink in a glass. He hands it to me as he sits down.

  “Sprite and grenadine.”

  “Thanks.” I take the candy-flavored soda from him, take a sip, then set it on a coaster. It’s easiest just to tell it outright, just as it happened. The death of hope isn’t easy to describe, but I could handle the events leading up to it.

  “I broke my back. I had surgery, physical therapy, all that. And I had painkillers. Lots of them. My doctor kept prescribing them because I was legitimately in pain. And I took them for pain. Then out of boredom. Loneliness. Desperation. It was clear after five years there was no comeback in my future. I wanted the entire fucking world to go away and did everything I could to make it happen.”

  “So what made you stop taking them?”

  “Tina and Eddie. Tina’s an old riding buddy—she came over one night to borrow some tools and found me passed out. I was drunk, but had also taken some pills earlier in the evening. She couldn’t wake me, so she called an ambulance.”

  “But that’s not what made you stop.” It isn’t a question.

  I swallow hard, feeling the prickle of tears, a sting in my nose. All these years later, I’m still ashamed.

  “No. Eddie did that. He asked me how I would feel if I had to come to the hospital because he’d overdosed. He laid the guilt-trip on so hard, I promised him I’d try to get sober. It took me two years and a couple of relapses. I lived in his house for the worst of it—I wasn’t easy to live with—and somehow he kept forgiving me. If you ask him, he’ll tell you he guilt-tripped me sober, and that’s about as close to truth as it gets.”

  “Okay.” Dave squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you told me. So you’re worried I’m not going to want to be with you now that I know?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I want to be with you. And I’m glad you felt it was important to tell me this, because it means you trust me. That’s a huge deal. Knowing the truth doesn’t change who you are or how I feel about you.”

  There’s no doubt in his expression, and that’s all wrong. There should be doubt. He’s opening his heart and his house to an addict, there should be fucking doubt.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” I stand up and start pacing. “It doesn’t fucking matter if I trust you or not. You shouldn’t ever—can’t e
ver—trust me.”

  “Ben.” He reaches for my hands again, and I fling his away from me.

  “Let me explain what it means to live with an addict, Dave.” I point to the wine fridge. “I get the stomach flu? You count the bottles in the wine rack before you call the doctor. I sleep in late one morning? You count the pills in the medicine cabinet. You can’t trust my sobriety. I can’t trust my sobriety.”

  “Ben—”

  “How long, Dave? How long do you give it before you realize you don’t want that life? Six months? A year? When I’m head over heels for you and it’ll fucking kill me?”

  “Stop.”

  I shut the hell up and stand there, shaking.

  “Don’t do this to yourself.” He comes over and wraps his arms around me, hugging me close. “I’ll get rid of the wine rack. I’ll chuck whatever’s lurking in the medicine cabinet. But I’m not going to throw you away. You’re scared you’re gonna fuck up? Okay, that’s legit. I get that. But I’m not gonna let you push me away because of it. What’s going on between us is big, and it’s stressing you out. But it’s between us. Let me carry some of that stress for you.”

  He’s feathering his hands along my back now, and where his hands trace, the muscles relax until my shoulders start to soften and my hands stop shaking.

  “Why do you treat me so nice?”

  “Because you let me. So, just keep letting me be nice to you, okay?”

  I nod against his shoulder, calmer now. If he’s going to trust me, the least I can do is try to trust him too, even though I know this isn’t going to be the last hard conversation we ever have. Maybe I should tell him about the surgery I’ve avoided for fifteen years too. But I didn’t expect this to go so well, and I don’t want to ruin it. I let it go.

  He lifts my head to kiss me. It’s not one of those crazy-hot-can’t-get-enough kisses I’m used to from him. This one is different—like he’s kissing straight through the physical parts of me, the flesh and bone, and touching that soft feeling inside, stoking it, making it bigger and stronger. This lake-rat redneck has a huge gooey center.

  “Ben.” He rests his forehead against mine. “You’re so fucking sweet. Do you even know? You came over here expecting me to throw you out, and you told me anyway.”

  “You deserved to know.” Embarrassed, I push away and scrub the heel of my hand over my face. He uses the arm around my waist to pull me back, and I let him.

  “You know the last five years of my life, since Dad died, I’ve been alone. I had boyfriends, yeah, but I didn’t have family. And I never had anyone I cared about like you. It’s only been a few weeks, so it feels like maybe it’s just drama, but it’s not drama, Ben. It’s not drama for me, it’s building something together. Let me be nice to you because I need family too, okay?”

  This time I shudder as I nod, the rest of the tension leaving my body in a rush.

  “You hungry now?” he asks, squeezing me a little tighter.

  Surprisingly, I am.

  have a surprise for him. We haven’t been riding on the weekends yet, but I told him I wanted to take him out today, Saturday, so he could see what it was like to ride in choppier water. He’s been steadily improving, can jump wake-to-wake, and is landing pretty consistently. It makes sense I’d throw a bigger challenge at him.

  But that’s just a cover for the real plan.

  When we pick Eddie up, he’s actually wearing board shorts—brand new from the pro shop. They’re purple and red, so still very Eddie, but I notice he’s toning down his flamboyance too, and I’m touched he’d do that for Dave.

  “Bedhead, darling. We’re going to go riding on the south side of the lake today,” Eddie announces. “Brawny here wants you to see something.”

  It only takes ten minutes to reach the area where the younger riders hang out. I haven’t ridden here in years, but some things never change. There are boats running up and down the length of the cove, and several others tied up together at the shallower end. Girls in bikinis lie on the sundecks, and pop music blares through speakers loud enough to shake the windows on the nearby houses.

  Rodney Romeo owns a bright-yellow Malibu, which isn’t hard to spot among the other boats. Though Rodney is nowhere to be seen today, the thirteen-year-old Ridley is holding court in the bow of his dad’s ride, waving a can around as he tells a story to his friends.

  Dave’s gasp lets me know he’s seen his brother. It’s a hungry sound, a longing sound, and I really hope I did this right.

  “Hey, Eddie, can you go ahead down there to the shallow end?” I point toward the cluster of boats.

  “You bet.”

  When we pull up, one of the older kids recognizes me.

  “Y’all, it’s Ben fucking Warren!” he crows, jumping up on the swim platform. He tosses a rope in our direction, which I catch, and Eddie cuts the engine. I maneuver close to the other boat, put out the fenders, and tie up. The serious riders in the group are starting to gather, curious about the so-called legend among them. I’m uncomfortable with that kind of attention, and I usually avoid it, but this is for Dave.

  I hop across to the other boat and gesture for Dave to do likewise. He hesitates, but then follows, leaving Eddie to secure Dave’s Nautique to the other boats.

  “What’s up, man?” I walk over to the guy who greeted me. A handshake pulled into the chest, a thump on the back. Like we’re “bros” and not strangers.

  “Ben.” Dave grabs my hand and starts to hold me back. “What are you doing?”

  “Something nice for you. C’mon.” I squeeze his hand and turn back to the others. Ridley’s stopped telling his story and is making his way toward us, a look of curiosity and cautious recognition etched all over his young face.

  “Look, he’s got freckles like you,” I whisper, and Dave’s grip on my hand tightens.

  “Davis?” The kid’s voice cracks in the middle of Dave’s name, and some of the other guys start to give him shit, but he holds up a hand and they quiet down.

  “Hey, Riddles.” Dave chokes out the greeting.

  “What are you doing here?” Ridley looks at his brother, then at me. When he glances down at our joined hands, his eyes widen and his lips make a perfect O.

  Dave tosses me a desperate glance and then turns his gaze back to his brother.

  “We came to watch you ride, if that’s okay?” I squeeze Dave’s hand again, trying to encourage him.

  “Hell, yeah!” One of the other kids slaps Ridley on the back. “C’mon, Ridley, I bet Caden will pull you.” He hops onto Dave’s boat and starts waving down one of the others.

  “Is that cool?” Ridley turns to me. “I mean, I could ride behind y’all’s boat if you want, but Caden knows what I like.”

  “It’s fine. We’d love to watch.” Dave’s voice is steadier now. “I’ve missed you.”

  Ridley blushes—so damned like his brother it makes my heart ache. “You too. I mean …” He looks at his feet. “I’m glad you’re here. Mom and Dad … they won’t talk about you or anything, but I found pictures of us when I was a baby. Then I found your picture online, on your firm’s website.”

  “Ridley!” The other boat pulls up alongside, and Ridley grins and hops across, instantly switching from cute-younger-brother to alpha jock. He beckons us over with a little wave and then says something to the driver, who nods and points to a board on the tower.

  “C’mon, Dave.” I nudge him toward Caden’s boat as Ridley gears up. “We’ll see better from there.”

  “Caden, Mark, this is my brother, Davis, and that’s Ben Warren.” Ridley smiles at us from where he’s lubing up his bindings. “I don’t know the other guy’s name.”

  “Ed Russell,” Eddie introduces himself as he comes up beside me, and we all proceed across to Caden’s boat.

  Ridley glances up at Eddie, and then turns his gaze to Dave. “Oh yeah? I really better not tell Dad he’s here.”

  “I’m not afraid of your daddy, Ridley.” Eddie snorts.

  “
He’s sure as fuck afraid of you.” Ridley hoots with laughter.

  “You kiss Mom with that mouth?” Dave’s voice is a little sharp. I’m surprised—Dave’s never once taken me to task for being a potty mouth—but all that emotion is churning around on his face. He’s just flailing about for something to say.

  I sit and tug him down next to me. “I’m sorry, is this too much?” I should have asked instead of springing it on him.

  “It’s okay. It was a surprise is all. It’s the nicest thing, Ben.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of it surreptitiously.

  “Oh.” It’s my turn to blush. “Well, you’re welcome.”

  The boat engine starts, and I look up to see Ridley in the water. He waves to us, and Caden pulls the boat out toward the mouth of the cove, taking up the slack. Another wave from Ridley and he’s up.

  The kid is fucking amazing. He goes at the wake like he’s attacking it. He doesn’t go for huge air, but rather for distance across the wakes, and he uses it for spins, mostly three sixties and five forties. They aren’t the biggest tricks, sure—some pros are landing ten eighties, and one guy even stuck a twelve sixty a few years back. But where Ridley really shines is style. He doesn’t just grab the board; he twists and arches into the grab, his body, the board, the rope all becoming a line of poetry over the water.

  “He’s really good, isn’t he?” Dave asks me.

  “He’s better than good. Look at his lines. He’s gorgeous.”

  When Caden turns the boat around, the other guy—Mark?—nudges Dave and says “Watch this. Rid’s gonna show off for you on the double-up.”

  This, I’m really looking forward to. I look at Dave, his chest puffed up with pride, and a warm rush of God only knows what thumps around in my chest. I’m pretty sure right now in this moment that I’m crazy in love with him.

  Did I say Ridley didn’t go for big air?

  I was wrong. When he hits that double-up, it’s like time freezes as he soars. He hangs suspended before twisting his body into a Tantrum—a big invert, a classic backflip. But the direction Ridley’s heading, he’s going to have to land it blind, his back to the boat and the handle wrapped behind him. I’ve seen riders lose their sense of direction and crash hard trying this, but not Ridley. His Tantrum-to-Blind is a big, beautiful invert, and he lands it perfectly.