I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find his picture. My thumb hovers …
He picks up on the fifth ring. Was he away from his phone or had he thought about letting it go to voice mail? “Hello?”
“It’s Ben.”
“I know.”
“I … I miss you.”
I hear him exhale, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Dave?”
“What do you want me to say, Ben?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that you miss me too? That this hard for you? That …” That you love me too?
“Of course it’s hard for me. I was ready to ask you to move in with me. I wanted us to have a real partnership.”
“I want that,” I whisper. Tears are pricking my eyelids, and I don’t care if he hears me sniffing. It’s not like there’s any dignity in begging your lover to take your sorry drug-addict ass back to begin with, is there?
“Jesus, Ben. What exactly do you see that partnership being? You say you want it, but do you have any idea what it’s like to look at you and know you see your life as a string of bad choices?” His voice is rough.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m proud of the shit I’ve done. I’m okay with my choices.”
“Not your past, Ben. Your future. You only ever see a bad ending. You never let yourself think about the possibility of being happy.”
“I can be happy. I’m happy when I’m with you. And when I ride. And …” And I’m not with him. And eventually, I’ll have to stop riding. Either because I’ll destroy my body or because I’ll destroy my life.
“I can’t do it, baby. I can’t be the only good thing you’ve got. And I can’t be with you and know that you’re out there risking yourself like you do. Remember what you said to me the day we met? That I was fragile? Well, guess what, Ben, you aren’t Superman either.”
“Dave …”
“I’m sorry, I have to go. Please don’t call me again.”
He hangs up. It’s really over.
I slam my fist into the wall, the pain radiating up my shoulder and down my side, provoking a dull throb from my already-aching lower back. Damn. As if the world hurting me, Dave hurting me, aren’t enough, I have to pour salt in the wound. I don’t want to feel anything anymore.
I go to the kitchen and grab an ice pack from the freezer and press it to my bruised hand, letting the cold numb me. I wish they made ice packs for goddamned broken hearts.
They do. They’re called opiates and vodka.
Well, hell. Am I tempted? Yeah, I’m tempted. I wouldn’t have thought it if I wasn’t.
Dave’s right, I’m not Superman. I’m stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place, and it scares the fuck out of me. I’ve lost Dave. I shouldn’t be riding. Is this what the rest of my life is going to be? Legend of the sport, sitting alone in his pro shop, too scared of the doctor’s knife to get better? Lying to himself that surgery is the only thing that could risk his sobriety?
What harm would come from consulting with the surgeon? Maybe I’m no longer a candidate for surgery. Maybe the technology is better. Maybe it’s less risky. Maybe it could give me back the chance to ride without fear. A consultation isn’t a commitment.
I call Eddie before I lose my nerve.
“Darling, this better be good, I’m tied to the bed. By the way, you’re on speaker.”
“I’m going to talk to Dr. Thompson about the surgery.”
“Red.”
His safeword? I wince, not even wanting to think about what he’s doing.
“Okay, you have my undivided attention.”
“I just want to talk to him. And I know this makes me a big chickenshit, but I need you there. I can’t do this alone.”
“Make the appointment, I’ll clear my schedule.”
“Eddie … Dave ain’t gonna take me back.”
“I know, darling. I’ve been coaching him. We’ve talked about you.”
“I’m doing this for me. Not for him.”
“Good. I’m proud of you, Ben. And you can come stay with me as long as you need afterward, okay? I’ll take care of you.”
I hear the unspoken promise: I’ll help you stay sober. God, I really won the friend lottery with Eddie.
“If I do this, it might be like the early days again, Eddie. Can you go through that with me one more time?”
“Darling, I just told you I would.”
“I’m not promising I’m going to have the surgery. There are risks to consider. Not just my sobriety, but it’s been years; things might not look the same on an x-ray as they did a decade ago.”
“I know, darling. I’m just glad you’re open to the idea. Now, it’s been months since I’ve been tied down and flogged by anyone who was fucking decent at it, so I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I don’t know this feeling, this fucking scary thing in my chest when I hang up the phone, but I think it might be hope.
Holy hell, could the magazine selection in this waiting room be any worse? I’m tempted to bring my back issues of Wakeboarding for the rest of the poor souls who come for a consult with Dr. Thompson. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind the ancient copies of Reader’s Digest, but I swear they were the same ones there the last time I was in this office.
“Stop that,” Eddie murmurs.
“Stop what?”
“You’re tapping your foot so hard the whole waiting room is shaking. Stop it.” He puts a hand on my knee. “It’s going to be okay, Ben.”
Before I can reply, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Hey, Dave. It’s not a good time. I’m at the surgeon’s office with Ben.” He tilts his head to the side as he listens to the reply. I try to catch a hint of Dave’s voice, but I can’t hear anything.
“Well, you know, sweetheart, if you want to be the guy here with him, you have to be the guy here for him … No. Well, no, that’s up to Ben. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Okay, I’ll see you later.” He hangs up, puts his phone in his pocket, and turns to me.
“He wanted me to tell you good luck.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, nodding. “What’s up to me?”
“He asked me to let him know what happens today. Is that cool with you?”
“Why does he care? It doesn’t change anything.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. “Darling, if you think he has done anything but care for the last few weeks, you have another think coming.”
“He told me not to call him again.”
“Ben Warren?” Before Eddie can reply, a woman in scrubs smiles at me from the door leading to Thompson’s office and the exam rooms. We stand and follow her as she leads me through the hospital routine, weighing in, stating my height, getting my blood pressure checked, and answering questions about my lifestyle habits.
“Blood pressure is a little high—have you had problems with it before?”
“Nah. I’m just nervous.”
“And he drinks too much caffeine, don’t you, darling?” Eddie adds.
“Is this your partner?” She gestures between us.
“No, he’s my boss.” I shoot him a glare. “And I only have a couple of energy drinks a day.”
“Mmm. Okay. The radiologist is going to do your x-ray first. He’ll be in, in a minute. I want to take your blood pressure again before you leave. Suit up.” She hands me a faded hospital gown.
The x-ray is quick, then I’m back in the exam room where Eddie is texting someone, fingers flying across his phone. He looks up as I come through the door and smiles at me. After he finishes his text, he shoves the phone in his pocket.
“That was Dave, wanting to know how it was going. He told me again to wish you luck. I think Bedhead is as nervous as you are.”
God. That hurts. He could have texted me himself. But at least he’s thinking of me. It’s not much consolation, but it’s something.
“Um, thanks.” I hoist myself onto the exam table, feeling ridiculously exposed in the hospital gown.
Eddie
looks like he’s going to say more, but then Doc Thompson comes in. I’ve technically been under his care for fifteen years, but I haven’t laid eyes on the man in most of them. He was a cocky young hotshot when he performed my first surgery. Back then, he always looked like he had something to prove. He carries himself differently now, more confidently, less swagger. It looks good on him. Maybe this consult will help me find some confidence too.
“Ben Warren, welcome back.” He shakes my hand briskly. “Fifteen years ago, you suffered a trauma resulting in fracture of the neural arch on the vertebra designated L-5 in the lumbar spine.” He hangs the x-ray film and switches on the light, indicating the vertebra with a tap of his finger.
“At the time, you underwent surgery to stabilize the spine, with the understanding that after eighteen to twenty-four months of physical therapy, you would most likely require a lumbar spinal fusion.”
“Right.” I nod, rubbing sweaty palms on my thighs.
He looks me dead in the eye. “Ben, I don’t know about you, but that was the longest eighteen months of my life.”
I frown, staring down at my hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one suffering from spondylolisthesis. It’s indicated in your chart that you have concerns about narcotic addiction. I understand that, and we can be conservative in our pharmacological treatment, but I am going to advise you undergo the fusion anyway. Let’s talk about the risks.”
By the time he finishes going over the statistics, my head is spinning. On the one hand, Thompson has a high success rate. On the other hand, my prior surgery puts me in the highest risk for a failed fusion. But the hardest part to hear is the doctor’s ultimatum.
“No wakeboarding until a year postsurgery. And if you don’t do the surgery? No wakeboarding at all. Your posture—the way you lean forward as you walk—and the tightness in your hamstrings may feel like no big deal, but they are symptoms of a slip here.” He points at the x-ray again. “You’re one impact away from trouble I can’t fix.”
It should hurt to hear that. I think it will hurt, later. Right now I’m just cold and numb. It’s true that what I do on the water now is just a shadow of my legendary rides, but it’s all I have, and I’ve been happy—even fucking grateful—to still have that much.
“But it’s the only thing …” I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s the only thing I’m any good at. It’s …”
“It’s over, Ben.” Eddie takes my hand and squeezes it. “But it doesn’t have to be forever.”
“Your friend is right.” Doc smiles encouragingly. “You can schedule the surgery next month, and by this time next year you could be almost ready to ride again. It’s only a year.”
“If you cut me—and it works–it’s a year. Otherwise it’s forever.”
“That’s my advice.” He nods.
This decision is huge, heavy. I could give up riding for a year. But if it doesn’t work? I’m sick with dread at the thought. I glance over at Eddie, but I know he can’t make this decision for me.
I can’t decide now.
“Okay. I need time to think about it. The tournament is this weekend; I’ll call your office to let you know one way or the other next week.
“Which in Ben time is six years?” Doc teases.
“No, for real. I’ll call next week.”
Walking out to Eddie’s car, I’m still numb. His phone buzzes and he looks at it before he starts the car, but he doesn’t say anything to me.
“Tell him anything you want,” I mumble, and the hurt finally starts to sink in. Eddie reaches out and squeezes my knee.
“Okay, darling.”
he Lake Lovelace Tournament and Double-Up Contest is like a huge party. A two-day festival at the end of the summer before the kids go back to school and shit gets boring again. The men’s competition is Saturday, women’s Sunday. This party has been running for twenty years straight. Tons of people come out on their boats or jet skis to watch, and even more fill the bleachers put up around the competition area. Although the big board companies sponsor some of the riders, the event itself is local-run. Several of Eddie’s businesses are sponsors, and I’m paired with Miss Lake Lovelace (yes, we honest-to-fuck have our own pageant too), tiara and all, to emcee the event. According to Eddie, the beauty queen is majoring in journalism and wants to be a news anchor when she graduates.
“Ben!” I hear a shout behind me, and then a familiar bark. I turn to see Tina and my favorite beagle-dachshund-Labrador mix running toward me across the beach.
“Hey, girl,” I greet Tina. “Hey, Elvis, you little shit.” I crouch down to pet Elvis, and I’m rewarded with a sloppy kiss.
I stand to greet Tina, who’s dressed to ride—board shorts and a bikini top. She looks good, like she’s been working out, and I feel kind of shitty about being so wrapped up in my summer drama that I never invited her to ride with us, not even once.
“You look amazing. Are you competing tomorrow? It’s been years.”
“I wish. I’m in great shape for it, but they didn’t decide on my eligibility until after the deadline to register had passed. Still, I have a feeling I’m going to be all pumped to ride after the show.”
“Your eligibility? Because you used to ride pro?” Tina and I had been on the circuit together back in the day, but she’d retired not long after I did.
She rolls her eyes at me. “I can’t tell if you’re playing dumb or if you’re really so sweet you don’t get it. Not because I used to ride pro; because I used to ride with a dick.”
“Oh.” I blush. Of course. I should have known better. “I guess I didn’t think about trans athlete eligibility.”
“You really are that sweet. God, baby, I wish I could bottle you.” She gives me a big hug then, and I have to laugh. I’ve known Tina since high school. She had a different name then—Timothy—a different body, even a different voice. She may be a couple years younger than me, but she’s pretty much always treated me like she treats Elvis—except I talk back.
“Yeah, yeah. Your pet blond.” I squeeze her a little tighter. “So what did they decide, after the deadline passed?”
“I’m eligible to compete against the other women in the amateur levels.”
“Shitty they waited until after the deadline to decide.”
“Well, Rodney Romeo was on the committee, so you know how that goes.”
I must be the only queer in Lake Lovelace who hasn’t had a run-in with this guy. Probably because I never left my safe little cocoon, not giving a shit about the world outside my pro-shop doors.
“And yet his own kid is eligible to compete as a professional even though he’s only thirteen and unsponsored? Yeah, no fucking favoritism there.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice when I mention Dave’s brother.
“Meh. Not Ridley’s fault his old man is the biggest asshole in Lake Lovelace. I’m used to people not understanding. Hell, look at Lisa. And technically, we’re still married.”
I wince. Lisa loved Timothy, and as far as she’s concerned, Tina killed him. Tina still loves Lisa, and their relationship posttransition breaks my heart. What the fuck do you say? The best I can come up with is this choked sound, followed by: “I thought you two were gonna get a divorce?”
“We were. But she lost her job and I still have health insurance for both of us, so.” She shrugs. “Until she finds a new job with benefits, I can do this for her at least. It’s not like I have a girlfriend to get upset over my marriage.”
Christ. Time to change the subject.
“So, wanna meet Miss Lake Lovelace?” I elbow her gently and waggle my eyebrows.
“Is Miss Lake Lovelace a lesbian?”
“Do you really care about the orientation of twenty-year-old eye candy?”
“Point taken. Lead on, my friend.”
So I bring Tina with me to the announcer’s booth, where we have a pretty bitchin’ view of more than eye candy. The booth is basically just a covered platform o
verlooking the competition area and the stands, and we can see everything. There’s a camera set up from the local news, pointed right at the chairs, and some fancy headset microphone things. Most of the action will be shot from cameras down on the water, so this stuff has to be for us. Fuck me. Why do I ever let Eddie sign me up for this shit?
’Cause he’s your boss and your best friend and you owe him for just about everything.
Miss Lake Lovelace is a green-eyed brunette named Amber. She’s wearing more makeup than a drag queen, a sequined bikini, and high heels. Someone from the local TV station is messing with her hair when we approach, and she keeps swatting at his hands as if they’re overgrown mosquitoes.
“Amber? I’m Ben.”
“Thank God you’re here.” She stands and shakes my hand. “But where’s your sequined Speedo?”
My jaw drops, and then she winks. “Nope, I’m here for the objectification, you’re here to lend your gravitas.” Her gaze drops to my crotch. “If that’s what they’re calling it these days.” She puts on her tiara at a decidedly impudent tilt. The hair guy from the TV station tries to straighten it, but she shoos him away.
“Seriously, he would have put another pound of makeup on me if you hadn’t gotten here just now. So, bless you a thousand times for that. Who’s your friend?”
“I’m Tina. Former pro rider, just here for the show. And this—” she gestures to the dog “—is Elvis.”
“He is adorbs. Hi, Elvis!” The beauty queen waves at the little beast and coos until he flops on the floor for belly scratches.
Together, Tina and Amber start up a semiflirtatious banter that is almost enough to quell the butterflies in my stomach until I see the first batch of riders boarding the tournament boat.
Dave.
He looks good. Red board shorts riding low on his hips, his skin gleaming in the sunlight. The other riders in the beginner category are all younger, some of them better built, but I only have eyes for him. He’s tapping his fingers on his board and looking around nervously. I watch him wave at someone and follow his gaze to see Ridley waving back.
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