Racing the Sky

by Layla Dorine

  I wanna thank you again for getting me here. I know I was a real pain in the ass and that I scared the hell outta you. I’m sorry; it was a shit thing to do. I swear I’ll find a way to make it up to you. I should have handled things better, instead of taking it out on everyone who tried to help. I feel like a dick for yelling at Vic as much as I did, and for making Gray go away. I know I wasn’t always nice to you either, and I’m sorry for that. I just wanted to be normal again. I wanted someone to erase what had happened, not force me to learn to live with it. I’d better go for now. I should probably at least pretend to rest.

  Talk to you soon,

  Nicky

  Grinning, River bushed a strand of hair from his eyes and started writing, eyes darting to the horizon every now and again, drinking in the beauty of the view. He didn’t care how many doubts Nicky had; he was certain that come next year he’d be up here with them and everything would be back to normal again. It already sounded like the place was helping Nicky learn to be independent again. That was everything he’d hoped for when he’d set out to convince Nicky to go. He just wished he’d done it sooner.

  Dear Nicky,

  I was glad to hear from you. To be honest I was kinda scared you’d take off the first chance you got. I had all these crazy visions of you finding your way to the train station and buying a ticket somewhere. Being a hobo or something, though I never was quite sure exactly how it would work with you stuck in that chair. Gotta love the imagination, huh? I’m glad I was wrong and you stayed put.

  As for the shop, it sucks. Jason quit, the new guys are slow as fuck, and Dean gave up on the Impala after Terry quit. Just yesterday, one of the new guys, Chad, redid an exhaust system on a car that had been brought in for a brake job. The customer was livid, and just be glad you didn’t see Dean’s face. You can’t even call it red, more like this purple eggplant looking shade of rage. It was almost funny. Best and worst thing that happened all week.

  I started going bouldering with Vic. I’m actually writing this to you from my perch on top of one. He’s sitting a few feet away, watching the setting sun. He said you liked to come with him sometimes, when you could get away from Terry. You’ve gotta join us when you’re better; just don’t ever stop working to get better. So what if your swimming isn’t graceful? At least you’re swimming. That’s better than a week ago.

  Stop worrying about all the things you might never be able to do later and focus on the things you can still do now. I think you’ll surprise yourself. Who knows, maybe we’ll get you a dune buggy or a jeep to roll around in when you get out. Either of those would be great for a surfing weekend. Only this time we won’t try to put nitrous in it or jack up the back. Think of all the sand clogged carburetors we could have saved ourselves, not to mention the skin burn from rough landings.

  I’m glad to hear that you’re trying to maneuver yourself around; that’s all I ever wanted. You don’t have to apologize for being angry though. I get it. I’d have been angry too if everything in my life had gotten derailed and I had no control over it. It’s easy to look back and say how you should have acted, but none of that matters now. The only thing I care about is you getting better and coming home.

  I miss you too, write back soon okay, and as for making anything up to me, put it out of your head. That’s what friends do for each other. Just have my back when I need you and it’s all good.

  Take care,

  River

  ***

  Nicky read the letter in the silence of his room. When he closed his eyes he could see his friends perched upon those rocks, the endless view of jagged stones and towering trees, the circling eagles, the setting sun. If he could have nothing else of the past, he wanted that.

  On the wall of his room he made a collage of pictures cut from magazines and taped them to the pale green paint: mountains, sunsets, winding trails, campfires, and tents. Anything to remind him of that goal. It was the first thing he saw when he woke in the morning and the last thing he looked at when he went to bed. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to climb, at least not the first time they went, but if he could go and walk up that trail, then that would be something. That would be freedom; that would be a piece of the past that he loved.

  Sometimes he found himself tracing the outline of the rocks, wondering what River had thought about his first climb. Nicky remembered the ache of stretching to reach handholds, the way his arms had shaken a little as he pulled himself up to the top of a particularly large boulder, only to forget that he was exhausted when he’d seen the view. He could almost hear Vic’s laughter still rolling through his mind, the way it had after they’d made the final climb. Camping meant junk in a pot tossed together over a campfire, the smell of onions, tomatoes, and beef filling the air.

  He’d missed so many chances to go in recent years. Now, as he sat there on that bed, he vowed never to turn down the opportunity again. Those were the memories that he clung to when they started adding weights to the machine and encouraging him to try and move it. Those, and the memories of Gray and the few fun-filled weeks they’d had together before his whole life had turned to shit.

  Those memories and everything that had happened since then were the reason for the balled up pieces of paper that littered the floor in front of his bed. He’d been trying to write to Gray for over an hour and nothing he put on paper seemed to be what he truly wanted to say. He knew he’d fucked things up badly—he couldn’t even be sure that Gray would read the letter when it arrived—and yet he wanted to reach out, just once, and try to put into words what it had meant to him to have Gray in his life.

  Cursing, he added another paper to the pile, fingers gripping the pen hard enough to crack the plastic. Dammit all, this shouldn’t be so difficult. He placed the tip to the paper and tried again.

  Dear Gray,

  This is the thirteenth time I’ve tried to write, but none of the letters seemed right, so I keep starting over again. I hope I can finish this one. I miss you. How have you been? Christ, this is already starting out like those letters they use to teach us to write in school. I never understood why, when most people just send emails or text. Anyway, I do miss you, even though I don’t expect you to miss my shitty attitude. I was a real bastard and you didn’t deserve that. I was too caught up with feeling sorry for myself to see that I was hurting my friends. I was so angry about the accident and how much it had changed my life that I refused to see the possibilities.

  The first morning here was the first time I really tried to do something for myself, and I’m ashamed to say it was seeing how much worse off some of the other patients were that finally woke me up. Kinda hard to let people wheel you around when you’re watching people with half their leg blown off and their arms a mess of scars getting their own food while on crutches. I can pretty much get to all of my PT sessions on my own, except the pool. The left turn is still giving me problems.

  I wanted to thank you for trying to help me; you didn’t have to. Most guys would have been gone as soon as I got myself splattered all over the track. I know that I meant more to you than just a hook up and I want you to know you mean more to me too. I’m grateful for the time spent together and I wish I hadn’t pushed you away. I loved our cooking lessons. I still wouldn’t try to bake anything without help, but at least I can make myself a meatloaf when I get out. I’m looking forward to it actually. I think I’ll still have to get my potatoes from a box though. I hope everything at the diner is going well. If it wouldn’t be too awkward, I’d love to come visit you and have another slice of pie when I get home.

  Take care,

  Nicky

  ***

  Gray sat on a stump behind the diner reading Nicky’s letter for the third time. He’d never admit to the feeling of excitement that had surged through him the moment he found it in the box, but he could liken it to feeling like a kid on Christmas morning. Reading it though, he wasn’t sure what to think. It had felt flat, almost impersonal, and he wondered what had been in the letters Nicky had
torn up. Had they been colder and even more distant, or had Nicky fully spelled out his regrets and admitted to wanting to fix things between them rather than try for some awkward friendship?

  Gray ran a hand through his hair and read the letter again, already formulating his reply. It would have to wait until he was done with his shift in the kitchen, but maybe by then he’d have sorted out what he wanted to say. It was hard though, he thought, as he folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Should he bare his soul, or should he keep on waiting and hoping that Nicky would bare his first?

  The breakfast rush was gone, and the lunch folks were mostly older and retired, coming in for sandwiches, coffee, and pie. Grabbing some pecans, he poured them in a pan and shoved them in the oven to toast while he thought about just coming out and admitting that he was still in love with Nicky and wanted him home. Would Nicky even want to be with him, once he was healthy again, or would he be glad that he’d ditched Gray so he didn’t have to deal with an “old man” trying to fit in with all his friends?

  “Get a grip,” he muttered to himself as he rolled out a pie crust. Thirty-four wasn’t old, and he had life experience to draw from, and patience too. But maybe he’d been patient long enough. Everything he’d learned about Nicky’s relationship with Terry had shown him that Nicky had no concept of what a healthy relationship was. Maybe spelling out to him exactly how he felt and what he wanted once Nicky was home was exactly what his younger lover needed to hear. Maybe then they could finally start looking toward a future instead of dwelling on the mistakes of the past.

  By the time the lunch and dinner crowds had come and gone and the late night chatters and dessert eaters had left the diner, Gray had fully composed the letter in his mind. Hurrying to his trailer, he headed first to the shower, turning it on hot and stepping beneath the spray. As he scrubbed off the flour and grease of a day’s work, he was reminded of that first shower with Nicky—the way Nicky had tiled his head back beneath the water, pressed into his touch, and rested his cheek against Gray’s chest, practically begging to be hugged.

  He’d have given anything to hold Nicky close to him right now, to smooth back his hair, kiss his lips, then head out to the living room to hold him and listen to music, or talk until they were too exhausted to hold their heads up. Just one of many things that would have to wait; but one of many things he wanted Nicky to know was waiting for him, if he desired it.

  Gray rinsed the soap from his skin and reached for a towel, roughly drying himself before stepping into a pair of shorts. The air outside of the bathroom was a little chilly, so he pulled a T-shirt on too before sprawling in his chair. Paper and pen were in a box beside it and he grabbed what he needed, turned on the radio, and began to write.

  Dear Nicky,

  First of all there will be no more box potatoes. I’ll teach you how to cook them right when you get out of there. Nor will there be any awkward visits over pie. If you truly miss me and regret kicking me out of your life, then the simple solution is to let me back in. If you know, truly know in your heart, that I was there for you because I wanted to be—because I love you—then you know that hasn’t changed and isn’t going to change. I left when you asked in the hope that you’d calm down and see that all I wanted was to help you heal so we could be together. I know you’re proud and stubborn and, after Terry, didn’t want to trust too deeply or feel too much, but if I had been the one hurt, wouldn’t you have been there for me? I know you would have done everything in your power to help, because that’s the kind of heart you have.

  I’m happy to hear that you’re doing your best to get yourself around, and working hard in rehab. All I ever wanted was for you to put in the effort, because I knew if you did you would start to see results. You are so much more than just a freestyle daredevil or Supercross racer. It wasn’t your talent or your job that I fell in love with, it was you. It was the hesitant way you first came into my trailer and shyly asked me to help you forget your ex. It was your smile when I told you that you were welcome to come back, and your laughter when I was tickling you. It was all the conversations about cowboy movies and wanting to see Texas and visit outlaw graves.

  It was the guy who promised to teach me to surf, and the man who lay stargazing and telling me all about the music he loved, and his failed attempt at learning to play the harmonica. Every moment with you was another chance for me to fall deeper because you are special. I hope your time there will open your eyes to that, and what we could have together. You just keep working hard and stop tearing up letters. I don’t want proper, I just want you to tell me what’s in your heart.

  I miss you, Nicholas. My living room is empty without you to sit with. I want to hold you and talk about our plans for the future. I never did get to tell you about how I got into cooking in the first place. It’s a funny story; I think you’ll like it. Let’s just say it involves self-preservation and meatloaf that could have been used as a hockey puck. You never did tell me about Juno beach, or how in the world you got out to Florida. I’m betting that’s one hell of a story.

  I’ve got a list here of all the places we talked about going and the things we planned to see. I never forgot my promise to take you fossil hunting, or out to South Dakota where I grew up. Haven’t forgotten your promise to take me skinny dipping either, long as you know I won’t be keeping my hands off you once we’re in the water. Everything we planned is right here, waiting for you to come home. I am right here waiting for you to come home. Don’t ever forget that.

  Love,

  Gray

  Chapter Fifteen

  Terry drove the ax head through the wood and listened to the sharp crack, followed by the thunk of it falling off the stump. His shoulders ached and his hands were starting to form calluses, but at least that was better than the blisters he’d had the first week. So far his father had taught him to use the jigsaw in the shop and how to evenly apply stain. This wood, however, was for the stove on which they cooked their meals. While the place had electricity, Terry was quickly learning that his father rarely used it. He said that getting back to his roots was a nice change after so many years of excess. Terry wished he didn’t consider an electric stove to be excess; though chopping wood did give him plenty of time to think. He had to admit that he was gaining more muscle, and with each passing day the tasks were getting easier. It was getting easier to talk to his father too.

  The distance that had always been between them was still there, but it didn’t seem so vast anymore. They avoided the subjects of his mother and racing, and talked instead about the business and all of his father’s plans to make the place support itself. They also talked about Terry’s plans, or a lack thereof, for the future. His father was starting to give him options, none of which appealed to him so far; but at least his father had said that he could stick around until he figured it out. He was grateful for that, and living just up the road from his granny’s was giving him the chance to reconnect with his grandparents too. Tonight they were going there for dinner, and the cousin closest to his age was going to be there. He hadn’t seen Jake in years. He’d never been particularly nice to him and he wondered if Jake remembered all the times Terry had shoved him around and called him names. Guess he’d see tonight. He wondered how much Jake had changed; he’d always been a scrawny little kid growing up.

  Terry finished the chopping and put the axe away, then carried the wood to the pile and stacked it neatly. When he was done, he checked the list in his pocket. Only two things left: check the snares and check the garden. The vegetables would be easier, so he grabbed the basket and started collecting what was ripe. While he worked, he considered the things he didn’t miss about the valley. Like the parties, clubs, and bars. He didn’t miss rush hour either, or how crowded it was. Nor did he miss the car windows rolled down and the tons of dueling stereos, people always in a hurry, brushing past without a word or trying to run you over just to get where they were trying to go. So different from here.

  This morning, his fathe
r’s neighbor, Willie Conway, who lived up the road, had knocked on the shop door and asked his father to help with a tractor. Terry had gone too, and working side by side with the two men to discover and fix the problem was far more fulfilling than helping fix some stranger’s car and send them on their way, never to see them again. There had been coffee and conversation, and the accomplishment had left Terry with a feeling of pride. Kinda like he was feeling at the moment as he carried the basket inside and set about sorting everything he’d picked.

  Any excess would go to the stand to be sold alongside his father’s woodwork. Tonight, when they returned, it would be with the excess from his granny’s garden too. Terry put the tomatoes aside. Those would go to Granny for canning. She’d send back soup and sauce once she’d finished making them. Better than a grocery store. He always hated shopping anyway and had been grateful that Vic hadn’t minded it, or cooking. In a lot of ways, he missed him and wished he’d been a better friend instead of having spent so many years keeping him at arm’s length and viewing him as a rival.

  One thing he did miss was riding his dirt bike. There were plenty of country roads to take it out on, or so his father had told him, but he hadn’t really taken the initiative to go exploring, even when his old man gave him some free time during the day. The bike was in pristine condition since he always kept it competition ready, but the element of fun was gone, and every time he looked at it he saw Nicky’s face after the crash: the smashed visor and golden skin streaked with blood. It was always enough to send him out of the shed where the bike and all the spare parts were stored. A few times the memory had made him so nauseous he’d even vomited. Maybe he should just to sell it all. Though parting with them seemed like a betrayal of all those years of dreams. He hated the confusion; he’d never felt so indecisive and unsettled. Terry felt tears prickling his eyes and sucked in a breath. All those emotions and regrets were foreign to him.