by Roxie Noir
I put my dress back on, and search for my underwear for a while before I remember what happened to it. I look at myself in the mirror and pray that I don’t look too much like I’m taking a walk of shame.
I drain the coffee and toss it into the trash can. I still don’t feel like a person, but Jackson comes over and gives me a long, slow kiss anyway.
“I think I have horrible coffee breath,” I say when he pulls back.
“Yep,” he says, and kisses me again. I’m still not really awake, but this feels wonderful and fuzzy, one of his hands on my lower back.
When we pull back this time, I put one hand on his chest where the scar is.
“Good luck,” I say, and I mean both go win this thing and please don’t get hurt.
He grins.
“You coming by the hotel suite of the three-time World Rodeo Champion tonight?” he asks.
“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” I say. “And yes, obviously.”
He kisses me one last time, and I leave. I buy another cup of coffee in the lobby and drink it in a taxi. Then I shower in my own hotel room, get dressed, go downstairs, and get two more cups of coffee.
Even though I work like crazy, I can only think one thing: Jackson is coming to New York.
It’s not for another month. He’s not moving there. I have no idea when I’ll see him after that. But it’s something, it’s a little glimmer to hang my hopes on.
I feel like I spend the day surreptitiously watching Jackson interact with fans. Now that he’s close to being a really, really big deal there’s more of them than ever. He’s smiling and polite and gracious to them, even when one lady kisses him on the cheek.
When the stands start filling up before the afternoon rodeo, there’s even more signs. Most of them are the same WE LOVE YOU JACKSON or GET NUMBER THREE, though there’s one that says KISS ME CODY, carried by a pair of forty-something women in tight jeans.
I watch them from the media area and try to burn holes in the sign by glaring. It doesn’t work. They sit in the front, so I get to look at the sign the whole time.
I don’t even need a sign, I think grumpily. After all, it’s thanks to Mr. Cody that I’ve gotten about seven hours of sleep in two nights, so really, this is his fault.
Not that I’ve got any intention of sleeping more tonight. The thought pools fire inside me, and I pretend to check some settings on my camera, even as I squirm. Tomorrow I have to leave, but I’m trying not to think about that.
The bull riding starts. I take pictures of it. The hours seem to drag on, even though it takes exactly the same amount of time every night.
Most cowboys get thrown before eight seconds, because that’s how this is: hard and dangerous. The reporters in the media area with me are talking, and it’s listening to them that I realize: Jackson isn’t just really good, he’s phenomenally good.
No one just wins rodeo after rodeo like he does. If he stays on Crash today, he’ll have qualified in all three rides at the Finals, and that’s almost as unprecedented as being champion three years running.
Oh, I think. Somehow, I didn’t quite realize all that. My stomach feels like someone’s trying to wring all the liquid out of it, twisting inside me, because I want him to win.
I really, really want him to win, because I know he wants this. I think of the night in the bucking chute when I shot him standing there, looking at the moonlit arena, when he told me he wondered if he should have settled down in Wyoming instead.
I’m glad you didn’t, I think.
He’s three rides away, then two. Then we’re watching the guy before him ride, and he makes it to seven seconds only to get thrown. Honestly, it’s a miracle I remember to take any pictures of him, because I’m just nervous about Jackson.
I think about what he said last night: You’re a distraction, Lula-Mae.
I worry that I’m a distraction.
The previous cowboy climbs back over the gate. Crash Junction is already in the chute, and he’s already unhappy about it.
“Next up, Jackson Cody of Sawtooth, Wyoming!” the announcer booms. Since it’s the last night, he goes on about Jackson for a minute, but he’s nearly drowned out by the crowd screaming and shouting and stomping.
Hell, I want to scream and shout and stomp too. I wish I had a giant sign that said GO JACKSON but instead I aim my camera and hold my breath.
He stands over Crash Junction and looks at the bull for a long time, like he’s tracking the animal’s movements, figuring out the patterns he’ll use in the arena. I bite the skin on my lip and taste blood, but I don’t stop.
Jackson jumps on. Crash lurches, but the chute keeps him contained. Jackson wraps the rope around his hand, and I take a couple shots of him, because he’s smiling and confident and sexy, and I’ll decide later whether I pass them on to Sports Weekly.
He looks up. He tips his hat to the crowd.
He looks at me and smiles, touching the brim of his hat again, and I smile back. In that moment, it doesn’t occur to me to care if anyone sees.
Then the gate opens and Crash leaps out.
Please, God, I think, even though I haven’t been to church since I was sixteen.
Please please please. Please. Please.
Two seconds are gone. Crash dives and whirls, leaping and shaking and changing direction on a dime, but Jackson’s still on. Three seconds. Four.
He goes a little off balance, I think, and a gasp goes through the crowd as Crash leaps off the ground and twists, all four feet in the air. Five seconds, and he leaps and drops again.
Six seconds. Jackson’s hat falls off but he doesn’t. Someone in the media box says, “He just spurred ‘im!” and I have no idea what that means, but I think it’s impressive.
The crowd is screaming at top volume. Everyone’s on their feet.
Seven seconds. I can’t breathe and my heart’s stopped beating. The only thing I can do is aim my camera and keep shooting, but that’s just muscle memory, purely mechanical. Even the other reporters in here are shouting, at the arena, at each other, pointing.
When the clock hits eight seconds, it’s pandemonium. The announcer is hollering at the top of his lungs and the crowd is shouting and everyone is standing and just completely losing their shit.
I somehow get a shot of Jackson under the clock as it says 8.03, and I start laughing out of sheer joy.
He did it. He fucking did it.
Then he flies off Crash Junction.
At first I think he jumped, but no. Even in the air he’s at a weird angle, off-kilter. I don’t know how but I know something’s wrong.
Jackson lands heavily on one side. His head snaps back, and the crowd suddenly hushes. I feel like an anvil’s just landed on my chest.
No, I think. Please no.
Get up. Get up get up get up.
Crash turns and looks back at Jackson. Jackson’s still on the ground, trying to roll over, but it’s not going well. Even from where I’m standing, clear across the arena, it’s obvious he broke something bad.
Then Crash starts galloping toward Jackson.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I feel like it’s happening in slow motion. The rodeo clowns in the ring are both sprinting toward Crash Junction, shouting and waving their arms, but they can’t do anything. The media box is dead silent as Crash runs toward Jackson. I’ve got both hands over my mouth and I can hear myself saying no no no no no no over and over, but it doesn’t help.
The bull runs straight over Jackson, and at the last second I cover my face. I can’t watch. I think I might throw up and I feel like all the air’s been sucked out of this arena. No one says a word, not even the announcer, not even the crowd.
It feels like a year that it’s quiet. I’m pressing my hands against my eyes so hard lights are dancing in front of my eyeballs, but I can’t look, I can’t.
People start murmuring again.
“He moved,” someone in the box says, and I force myself to look up. I’ve st
ill got both hands in front of my mouth, as I watch people sprint toward Jackson. Seconds later, there’s two people in uniforms with a stretcher. Jackson’s foot moves.
There’s no blood, but I know there doesn’t need to be blood for something to be bad.
He’s alive, I think.
It was just last night that Jackson told me he didn’t have many scars from riding, because he mostly broke bones. Last night, when he said he wanted to go to the Statue of Liberty when he visited me.
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. I feel like I’m watching something on TV, like everything in front of me is flat and two-dimensional and I’m totally removed, seeing it from somewhere else.
I watch the paramedics work, and they work fast, maybe too fast. Maybe too urgently, but I’m just standing here. I want to jump the barrier and run to him, help him somehow, but what the fuck am I going to do?
They carry him out of the arena, and I finally look around.
Everyone in the media box is staring at me. Finally Bruce reaches out one hand and touches me on the shoulder.
“Mae, are you all right?” he says.
I move my hands away from my mouth, and suddenly I realize my hands are wet. I’m crying. My whole face is wet, but I just stare at my hands like I don’t understand what tears are.
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, and my voice sounds weirdly calm, even though my whole body is shaking.
The announcer says the next cowboy’s name. There’s another bull in the chute, and even though there’s a hush over everything we’re all carrying on.
I look around. Now everyone is pretending like they weren’t just staring at me. Not that I give a shit.
“Where are they gonna take him?” I ask Bruce.
“Probably the university hospital, but I’m not sure,” he says.
“I have to go,” I say. I start backing away from my camera and bump into someone else. There’s a hand on my shoulder to steady me, and now that I can breathe again I’m breathing too much, too fast, and getting lightheaded.
Everyone’s staring at me again.
“Is this set up?” Bruce asks, pointing at the camera.
I nod.
“Just hit the button,” I say. He nods once, then steps in front of it and looks through the viewfinder.
I look around at all the wide eyes, and then I turn and stumble out of the media box, and then I’m running. I shove through crowds of people and some of them shout at me, but I keep going.
At the entrance to the backstage area there’s a big guy in a plaid shirt. He holds up one hand.
“Whoa,” he says.
I try to duck around him but there’s someone behind him, and I run full-tilt into that guy and have to stop.
“No media,” he says.
“I’m not media,” I gasp.
“You got a media pass,” he says, looking at the lanyard around my neck.
I tear it off and throw it on the ground.
“There,” I say. “I’m not here as fucking media, I swear.”
I can hear my voice rising.
“You can’t come back here,” he says.
I try to dodge around him, but he blocks me.
“I ain’t kidding, sweetheart,” he says.
“I need to see him!” I shout. “Just fucking let me through!”
“You need to leave,” he says. “You got three seconds before I escort you out.”
“No,” I say. “Look, I swear, I just need to—”
I try to duck past him again but he catches me by the upper arm.
“You vultures can’t just come back here because you’re pretty girls who can cry,” he says. “Now get out.”
Just then, I see a familiar face.
“RAYLAN!” I shout.
Everyone in earshot looks over at me. The security guy lets my arm go, but he’s still blocking me.
“Raylan, please!” I shout, trying to look over this guy’s shoulder.
Raylan’s pale, his face drawn, but he jogs over.
“Just let me in, please, I know Jackson, and I just need to get in,” I’m babbling as Raylan comes up.
“She’s all right, Dale,” he says.
The guy crosses his arms.
“Come on, Mae,” Raylan says.
I duck around Dale, and he doesn’t stop me this time. Raylan’s walking fast, and I just follow him.
“Thanks,” I say.
Raylan just nods, walking faster. In a moment the ambulance comes into view. The lights are already on and they’re loading a stretcher into it. Next to it is a knot of cowboys, faces serious, arms crossed.
I sprint to them, my eyes on the ambulance.
“Where are they taking him?” I shout.
One of the paramedics looks at me, her face somber and serious.
“University hospital,” she says, then shuts the ambulance door. The sirens start blaring and the ambulance drives off.
I’ve never felt more helpless in my life. All I can do is stand there and watch until it turns a corner and drives out of sight, and then I look around at the men standing around. They’re half looking at me and half looking at the ground.
“What happened?” I ask. I’m crying and breathing hard, and it comes out as a ragged whisper.
“Broken ribs, punctured lung, shattered leg at least,” someone says. I think his name is Clay. “Could be a lot more.”
“Is he...” I say, and let my voice trail off. I almost say okay, but it’s the dumbest thing I could say right now. I just want someone to tell me that he’s alive, that he’s going to be okay. That this wasn’t the last time I’m going to see Jackson.
Clay and Raylan shake their heads.
“How bad is this?” I whisper.
They look at each other.
“It’s bad, Mae,” Raylan finally says. “I don’t know how bad, but it’s bad.”
I nod, swallowing hard. I’m doing my best not to have a total breakdown in front of these guys, but it’s not really working.
All I can think of is us, in bed, my head on his chest. Him telling me he’d be fine.
Me being such a bitch this morning when all he did was bring me coffee.
“You want a ride to the hospital?” Raylan asks.
“Thanks,” I say.
We don’t talk on the drive, just stare out the windshield of Raylan’s pickup truck. At the hospital, all the woman at the desk will tell us is that Jackson was admitted to the ER. She doesn’t even know if he’s stable.
Raylan and I sit there for an hour. Some other cowboys trickle in, and I just stare at the wall. I can’t even concentrate well enough to read the tabloids scattered around the waiting area.
I think about Jackson showing up at my door with a bottle of Boone’s Farm. I think about postcards, pictures of Flossie the goat, about how he told his parents I was his girlfriend.
I think about him saying I don’t want to leave here.
I’m still sitting there, feeling catatonic, when Bruce walks in and over to us.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Raylan and I shake our heads.
“They don’t know or they won’t tell us,” I say. I’ve finally stopped crying, but I think it’s because my body’s out of water for tears.
“I see,” Bruce says. “Give me a minute.”
He walks off. Raylan and I look at each other, and Raylan shrugs.
Fifteen minutes later, Bruce is back.
“Jackson’s heading into surgery,” he says, keeping his voice low. “He’s got broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a lot of internal bleeding. It’s gonna be a while.”
“How long is a while?” I whisper.
Bruce shakes his head.
“Couple hours at least,” he says. “Maybe longer.”
This is good, right? I think. That he’s okay enough to have surgery?
I have no fucking idea.
“Is he gonna...” I start. I swallow, then clear my throat. “I mean, will he—?�
��
I can’t.
“It’s looking better than it was,” Bruce says.
“Did anyone call his parents?”
“They’re heading down.”
I look out the hospital window. It’s dark outside, and I can see the glow of the strip far away. Raylan stands.
“How’d you find this out?” I suddenly ask Bruce.
“I’ve been a reporter since I was your age,” he says. “I wouldn’t be very good at it if I couldn’t get information.”
“I’m gonna head back to the hotel,” Raylan says. “I may as well be useless in comfort.”
I stand and give him a slightly awkward hug.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“I’m sorry about that picture,” he says.
We detach and I cross my arms in front of myself.
“Thanks,” I say.
Raylan leaves, and Bruce is still standing there.
“You too,” he says.
“I’m not leaving,” I say.
“I know you need to eat,” he says. “You’re no good to anyone here. You may as well have a meal, Mae. Jackson’s gonna be under for a while.”
I know he’s right. I don’t want to leave the hospital where Jackson is, but it’s not like I can do anything while he’s in surgery.
It’s not like I can do anything, period.
“Okay,” I say.
“You like sushi?” Bruce asks.
I nod.
26
Mae
There’s a fancy sushi restaurant next to the Wynn, and they seat Bruce and I at a table way off in the corner. I sip a tiny cup of green tea, and every time I put it back on the table, Bruce refills it from a ceramic teapot.
He orders. I’m barely listening.
I’m thinking of Jackson saying, you’re my monster. Of him saying I wish everyone knew I was yours.
Finally, Bruce drinks his own tea and looks at me.
“Mae, I think you should tell me what’s going on with you and Jackson Cody,” he finally says.
I sigh and shove my fingers through my hair.
“We’re dating,” I say.
He looks like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“Dating,” he says. Bruce has been reporting on rodeo for a long time, so he knows as well as anyone that Jackson Cody doesn’t date.