Tumultous

 

    “What are you doing?”  I ask.  I’m sitting across from him, a mess of intricate tools behind him as he works on a bike frame.

     “Adding brake fluid.  This bike uses hydraulic brakes, so I’m emptying the reservoir of old fluid and adding new fluid.  After, I have to bleed the system to remove any air bubbles,” he replies, his eyes focused on the levels in the syringes attached to the frame.  “This stuff is rank.  Talk about toxic shit.”

     I look around the shop, empty of people except the two of us.  Bike skeletons hang from the walls, their bones littering the shop.  The cinderblock floor and walls keep the winter cold inside, although the bikes remind me of summer.  Some of these models won’t be unveiled until then.  It’s almost like being in a secret world—no one on the outside knows you’re here or what’s going on inside.

     “Sorry I‘ve been neglecting you, love,” he says, kissing me quickly as he walks by.  “It’s been crazy.”

     “It’s OK.  You’re at work,” I tell him.   I don’t tell him he’s finally letting me catch a glimpse of his world.  He’d be horrified if I mentioned it.

     He returns to the frame, a new tool in his hand to fix the chain.  He carefully twists and untwists various screws, placing them neatly on the bench behind him.  Every one of his movements is precise, measured to be both efficient and thorough.  Each movement gives off a sense of care, of love for this machine.

    I don’t tell him I envy that bike.  That I envy the time he spends with each one, perfecting it until it can be perfected no longer.  Or that I envy that machine for the commitment he has to it, which he can’t give to me.  Can’t, or won’t.  Just like how he can love it, but not me.

 

     I can still remember meeting him the day he sat next me.  We didn’t talk much, and I really wasn’t sure how I felt about him.  He was vague in speech, barely showed any emotion, and appeared rough in nature.  But I shocked myself the day he asked me to get a drink with him over the weekend and I accepted.  Drinks at a bar turned into beer at his house after he learned I was underage, but he still wanted my number and still wanted to hang out.  I didn’t have anything to lose, and maybe something to gain.

    I can still remember getting ready that night, nervously trying to look cute, but trying to make it look like I didn’t try.  My inner girl, who is usually hidden, was coming out.  I really shouldn’t have been nervous—we talked for hours, played beer pong with his roommates, and ate more food than necessary.  I left that night knowing he was something different and I wanted to see him again.

     I can still remember hanging out with him the following night.  We watched a movie and sat on opposite ends of the couch, trying to make the other one move first.  We talked long after the credits were over, and we took the long way back to campus to talk more.  That was the day I realized he had a voice I could listen to all day, listening to the different timbers with each word he said.

     I can still remember the next day when we got lunch.  The day I was mesmerized by his turbulent, ocean eyes.  That night, I got a text saying he needed to see me that night before he lost all sanity.  I didn’t see him until the following night when we did homework, our pages scattered across his bed.  That was the night he finally kissed me.  That was the night our roller coaster relationship began.

 

     I stare at him, disbelief making me speechless.  His words are like ice, numbing my veins before freezing the rest of my body.  How is it that I’m here again?

     I shake my head, clearing it of the image.  Tall pines are around me, a soft white blanket at my feet, reminding me where I am.  I turn to my friends, give them a thumbs up, and slide slowly down the small hill.

    The snow plays with the bottoms of my skis.  The grooves of the intermittent corduroy tickle my feet, flirting with my skis, begging to be played with.

     I’m instantly back to the last night I was with him.  The smell of weed, maybe hash, and beer fills the air.  A single can of beer sits in the middle of a card circle.  Rackus laughter can be heard, a double “shit!” as well, meaning someone gets to drink twice, followed by the hiss of new cans being opened to pay up.  I can feel the heat from his fingers on my leg, his warm breath, traced with hops and cinnamon, lacing my nose as he whispers secrets in my left ear.

     A scraping sound to my left startles me.  I see my best friend take off in front of me, his rooster tails providing camouflage against the snow.  I try to escape the memory and focus my thoughts on each turn.  Pole plant, tip the skis, complete the turn, repeat.  With each tap of my pole against the snow, I feel better.  It’s almost like punching something, minus the stinging pain and bruises.

     I reach the bottom of the run and turn to look for my friends.  That’s when I hear it.  L-O-V-E.  He used to say that.

     “I need your help, love,” he says into the phone.  His voice is heavy.  I immediately grab the keys and put my shoes on.  “Shit’s going down here and I can’t deal with it anymore.”

     I reach for my coat while tightening my scarf against my neck.  I tell him I’ll be at his place in fifteen minutes, if not sooner.

     I walk through the front door.  Silence greets me as I shut the door behind me.

     “Thank God you’re here!”  He says, not getting up to greet me due to a blonde girl passed out next to him.  The wall of puke blasts my nostrils and my stomach roils in protest.

     “You needed me.  I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I say, carefully walking over to him.

     He kisses me, long and meaningful.  “That’s what I love about you. You’re always there.”  He says before kissing me again.

     A coughing sound from my friend brings me out of the past.  The last traces of his lips linger on mine.  I fight back the tears that threaten to fall.  I’m not going to let him win yet again.  Not after he won yesterday, telling me he was leaving.  That it was all too much.  He didn’t want a relationship and yet he felt like he was in one.  It was essentially my fault— I cared too much and was too reliable.  Too girlfriend-y for “a fuck up” like him.  He needed to get out now before he got in too deep and hurt me.  He needed to escape.

     I get off the chairlift, still thinking about the day before.

     “This is a mistake.  What if this becomes something?  Wouldn’t you regret it?”

     He looks at me.  I can’t tell if his eyes are showing pain or pity.  Maybe both.

     “I guess we’ll never know,” is all he says.

     I stare at him, disbelief making me speechless.  His words are like ice, numbing my veins before freezing the rest of my body.

     “You’re running from something.  Me, your past, I don’t know.  But you’re afraid, so you’re taking the easy route of not dealing with it and running,” I say.  I can barely look at him.  I’m afraid I’ll start to cry if I do.

     I turn my head sharply as a bird overhead calls out to another.  My friends are long gone, just a pinpoint representing them.  I flatten my skis and take off after them.

     Aren’t you running too? I think to myself. 

 

     We were both broken when we met and tried to fix ourselves using the other.  We tried to ignore the past, but the past always came back.  By ignoring our problems, we created more, and that was a mistake.

     We ended up getting back together.  We needed each other, and it was obvious.  His life was spiraling downwards because he needed someone who would hold him accountable.  I was angry, bitter even, and took it out on everyone because he broke my heart, just like every guy before him.  This time was going to be different, though.  We promised we were going to make it better.  In the beginning, it honestly was.  We saw each other more, we were more open than before, and we began to really trust each other.   We would talk about the summer, about the future, about us like we were going to stay together for years.  I began to fall in love with him, and I believe he was beginning to love me.  But life got in the way, and we were suddenly back to square one.

 

     I stare blankly out the window, the landscape filling my eyes with blurred lines.  The entire car is shaking, the bass cranked as high as it can go.  I’ll probably be deaf to the outside world, but not the voices in my head. 

     I look at my phone, the yellow and green background glowing back at me.  No little envelope illuminates the screen.  Yet again.

 

     Where is he.  Is he safe.  Why won’t he tell me what’s going on.  What “did I do” this time.  Why…

 

     The car suddenly gets quiet, the seat no longer humming.

      “You anxious to get away from me already?” Mike asks, his eyes teasing.

     I look over at him, shaking my head slightly.  “I’m more curious as to why you’re driving so slow.  Snow’s a meltin’,” I say back, trying to imitate his Oklahoma accent, but failing.

     He looks down at the speedometer, calculating his answer briefly. 

     “Considering we’re going a solid 75, I’d say we’ll be there in… five minutes,” he replies.  “Speaking of which, you going to keep up this time?”

     “Aren’t you too old to be giving me shit?” I ask, a smile spreading across my face despite my previous melancholy thoughts.

     Mike laughs in turn, looking back to the road as he turns the stereo back up as we turn into the parking lot.

The trunk opens and I pull my boots out of their respective pockets of my bag.  Click, click, click.  My boots bend as I flex down into them before snapping them to my feet.  Click, click, click.

     I reach for my helmet, put it on, then secure my goggles down before pulling them over my eyes.  I zip my jacket, place a glove on each hand, and grab my poles and skis before walking to the lift. 

 

     Why doesn’t he make time for me anymore?  What’s so important?  What if…

 

     I drop my skis, the ones Mike has recently dubbed Harry and Lloyd, much against my protests.  I place them side- by- side before stepping down into the bindings.  I check to make sure they’re actually clinging to my boots.  Brady and Mike are already ahead of me, the plaids of their jackets getting smaller.  I know Mike’ll be waiting at the bottom, ready to rip into me for being a grandma again while Brady might try defending his “Canadian” brethren from the Okie onslaught about to happen.

 

     This time was supposed to be different.  Why is he so secretive.  Why do I still care.

 

     I push myself after the boys, letting the snow take me down the slope, faster and faster until I can’t think straight except for one thought before it blows away in the wind, leaving my mind empty.

 

Why am I still with him?  I deserve better.

 

-Lainey Severson