How to Keep Rolling After a Fall (7 page)

“No, just smile. It's a scientific fact that smiling releases endorphins. Making yourself smile first can actually get rid of negative feelings before they go away on their own.”

“Are you making that up?”

He shakes his head matter-of-factly. “Nope. It's the honest-to-God truth. I've read a lot of articles about biofeedback, and it's true—smiling can put you back in a good mood. It's not necessarily the other way around.”

“What's biofeedback?”

“It's when you train your brain to respond to sensations in your body in a certain way. The medical term for ‘mind over matter,' I guess.”

“You're really smart,” I say. I feel out of my comfort zone, what with Pax and his job philosophy and scientific-journal knowledge.

“Trust me, I'm not. I just have more reading time than I used to.” Then he says, “Hey, you want to do the rides after dinner? That's always good for a smile, too.” There is sauce smudged at the corner of his lip, and he looks like a little boy, asking to go to Buccaneers' Landing. Maybe not so intimidating after all.

“I mean, it's only right,” he says once we're at Adventure Pier and he's navigating through the loud, flashing amusements. “This is the last weekend the park is open. It's officially fall.”

I'm following his lead and not pointing out the obvious. Besides wanting to take advantage of the park still being open, it's really not right that we're here. It's impossible to ignore all the pictures of wheelchairs with big red
X
s across them next to every ride, right next to symbols of pregnant women with big red
X
s and symbols of people with back pain and big red
X
s.

So we play the water-gun race game and shoot basketballs against the timer, which he's really good at, and throw darts at balloons.

He wins me a cheesy framed Justin Bieber poster that he makes me swear I'll hang over my bed. It's faded from months in the sun—I guess no one wants Justin anymore. “I know you'd rather have a picture of me from my water polo days, but you'll have to settle,” he quips.

It feels like he's flirting again, and I wonder if Pax really meant what he said, about just wanting to be friends. I wonder how I feel about that idea. And even though I know maybe I shouldn't, I can't help but picture it, what Pax must've looked like in the pool, in nothing but one of those low-rise Speedos the Olympic swimmers wear. My cheeks heat up, and I turn my face to hide my blush.

When we've run out of game tokens, Pax asks me, “So what's your favorite ride?”

I answer immediately. “The pirate ship.”

He rolls over to the ticket kiosk and returns a minute later, tearing off four tickets and handing them to me. “Do it up.”

“No.” I shake my head. I bite my lip and get sort of twitchy. “It just doesn't seem right,” I finally say.

“Nicole.” Pax braces his arms on his chair and looks at me sternly. “If we're gonna hang out, there are going to be some things you can do that I can't. It is what it is. My world's limited in some ways, yeah, but there's no sense in trying to equalize it by giving up things you like.” He pushes the tickets toward me again. “Ride the ride.”

“Fine.” I give him my poster to hold and accept the tickets. “But you have to hold Justin for me.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yeah, that's probably going to take the cake for the biggest indignity I've suffered. Catheter changed by strangers? Pssh. Nothin' on this.”

O-kay. So maybe he's not flirting with me after all, bladder control not being the sexiest of topics.

I head toward the giant ship because going along with the idea is better than thinking about Pax's lingering medical issues and needs. It's also better than acknowledging that maybe I prefer the moments when it feels like he's flirting.

And ten seconds into the ride, I'm glad he forced the issue. I haven't done the rides all summer because of my imprisonment, and there is an intrinsic delight in being hoisted high into the air and having my stomach go crashing to the ground at the exact second when I hang in the balance before the boat swings in the opposite direction. I try to bite back my squeals, and sometimes fail. I love every minute of it.

The smile is nearly splitting Pax's face when I return. “It was fun watching you.” He nods toward the giant Ferris wheel with the gondolas. “Want to do that one? Use the rest of the tickets?”

“That's okay. Let's just do another game or something.”

“Nah, come on. The Ferris wheel. I can ride, too.”

At first I'm surprised, but after we ascend the ramp, I realize this ride does work for Pax. The doors are wide, and he can wheel right onto our little car from the ramp. Once his wheelchair is braked, he's as secure as I am.

Our ascent to the top is slow, and it is several minutes before we're overlooking all of Ocean Isle: the now-deserted beaches, the length of boardwalk, and the lights of the other beach towns—Atlantic City and Margate and Stone Harbor—in the distance. The ocean is as quiet and calm as the town, an entirely different scene than it was months earlier. Ocean Isle during the off-season sometimes has the feel of a ghost town.

“It's kinda funny,” I comment. “Every year it's the same thing. During the summer, when the town is overrun with tourists, and it's impossible to get a parking spot near the beach, and the line for Decker's Doughnuts is a mile long, I think I can't wait for Labor Day. Then everyone leaves, and I hate how empty and lifeless the town feels. Staying here when no one else does. Always makes me feel like I missed the boat or something.”

“Has your family always lived here?”

“Yep. My great-grandfather, he was one of the original owners of Bingo's,” I tell him, referring to the chain of five-and-dime stores that eventually sprang up throughout the beach towns.

“Get out of here. You really are an Ocean Isle girl, then. The old-money kind. Member of a founding family and what not.”

“It gets worse.” I smile at him. “I was Little Miss Tan Line. In 2004 and 2005.”

Pax's head falls back, and he laughs mightily. “Stop it. Stoooop it.”

“No joke.”

“Was it rigged? Because your great-grandfather was a local big shot?”

“No! I happen to get really impressive tan lines.”

Pax swallows hard and turns to stare toward the water, but I think I notice a touch of color in his cheeks.

I shake my head quickly and frown. “Nothin' to see anymore, though. I didn't get to go to the beach all summer.”

Our car passes by the loading dock. The ride operator is playing with his phone and appears to be allowing us an extended ride. We swoop skyward again.

“How 'bout you? Did you always live around here?”

“Yeah, over in Breakwater.” He flashes my favorite smirk again. “On the po' side of the bridge.”

He's referencing the first town across the causeway, composed of strip malls and narrow streets of mostly cottage-style homes. It's true there's a body of water between our towns, but kids from Ocean Isle and Breakwater still mix occasionally.

“The towns are more alike than different,” I say. “We both get really fun summers and really boring winters.”

“I'm pretty sure that's why we got into so much trouble.” He chuckles, spreading his arms along the top of our car. “My friends—actually all the kids at school—were pretty big partyers. Good thing we had sports to keep us out of trouble at least part of the time.”

“Guys party.” I roll my eyes. “Girls create drama when they're bored. Girls can stir it up even when there isn't an excuse for any in the first place.”

Maybe if we lived in a normal sort of town, none of it would have ever happened.

“You planning to get out of here someday?” Pax asks me.

My stomach drops, and it has nothing to do with our being hoisted high up in the air again. “I used to think so.” Now I don't like thinking about it at all. “You?” I ask instead.

“I got my GED when I was in recovery. At the time, I had no idea whether returning to school was going to be a possibility, and it just seemed like the easiest thing to do.” He shrugs. “Guess I'll think about college at some point again. I just need some time to recalibrate. Think about what I'd really want to do there if it's not going to be water polo.” Pax stares into the distance, out at the dark, flat Atlantic Ocean. He blows a breath through his lips. “Man, I miss the water sometimes.” He looks at me, almost apologetic, and tries to muster a smile. “Sometimes I just need to admit it out loud.”

Sometimes I really miss standing in front of the crowd in my cheerleading uniform on Friday nights.

Sometimes I really miss the stage and the applause.

Sometimes I really miss all of it.

I don't say it out loud, though. Instead, I think about reaching for his hand, which is only inches from mine now. So he doesn't feel bad about having an “I miss it” moment. So he knows he's not alone in having them.

But our car has reached the loading dock and is slowing to a stop. Reluctantly, I pull my hand back and gather my purse and poster as Pax wheels out of the car.

It's dark when we leave Buccaneers' Landing, and when I glance up at the clock with the animated fairy-tale characters on the park's outside wall, I realize I need to head back if I don't want to blow my new curfew. Which I don't. I want to believe that nights like tonight will be an ongoing possibility. The breeze is light and the air is cool and refreshing, and I want to feel this way again.

Just before we cross from the wide, brightly lit portion of the boardwalk that houses the shops, restaurants, and arcades over to the narrower, rickety portion that leads all the way up to Thirty-Fourth Street, Pax gestures toward the last shop in the row. “Some frozen custard for the road? My treat.”

I glance to the right and my heart lurches. Kohr Bros. “No, thanks,” I say hurriedly, and keep walking, not wanting a painful memory to kill my good mood.

“Come onnn,” he cajoles. “Don't tell me you don't want some. It's low-cal
and
low-fat. You girls dig that, right?”

“It's not that.” I exhale sharply, tugging my windblown hair back into place.

The teasing smile slides off his face, and his eyes narrow in concern. “Nicole?”

But even though I try to keep the memories from flooding my mind, they come in a sudden onslaught.

T-ball games and secret before-dinner shared cones of orange cream and vanilla swirl. Late-night bike races to the end of the boardwalk and spontaneous stops at Kohr's for peanut butter and chocolate, with chocolate jimmies. His laughter as he swiped at my upper lip with a napkin, eyes shining as he cautioned me, “You're gonna give us away. Get us in trouble with your mother.”

Then I'm forced to think of the very recent memory of his turning his back on me and walking from the kitchen, walking away from me. Emma has always been my mom's darling, but I was daddy's little girl. My throat closes, and my knuckles tighten around my stupid oversized poster. Nothing seems funny anymore.

“Nicole?” he asks again.

I drop onto a nearby bench and shake my head. “My dad's never going to forgive me,” I say as a means of explanation. “Kohr's was … sort of our thing.”

Pax comes to a stop beside me, and I look at him.

“My mom's still so mad at me, and that sucks. But my dad … it's even worse.” My voice is nothing more than a strained whisper. “It's like I broke his heart. I mean, what I did to Taylor … it feels awful, but sometimes it feels like … what I did to my dad … was even worse.”

My head falls forward and I struggle mightily because I don't want Pax to think I'm this basket case who ends up in tears all the time. Even if maybe I am.

When I think I can manage it, I lift my head and try to force my quivering mouth into something that resembles a smile. I choke out a laugh. “Maybe I should try that whole biofeedback thing you were talking about. Maybe if I can make myself smile … I'll stop feeling so bad about things with him.”

But to my surprise, Pax doesn't join me in the joke. “Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.” His face is more serious than I'm used to seeing it as he beckons me toward him. “C'mere,” he murmurs. He pulls my head to his shoulder and wraps his arms around me. Tightly. So tightly that I feel like he's the one thing holding me together and so it's safe to collapse. I bury my face against his firm chest, feel his biceps tightening around my back.

It feels so good to have him holding me again, and it's hard to pull myself out of his embrace. Except I've already sat there too long, and I'm in danger of getting home late and ruining all this. I sit up and brush at my eyes. “God. Sorry I'm a mess. I really have to go,” I tell him sadly. “I'm going to be late.”

“Let me drive you. It's too dark for you to be walking home by yourself.”

I nod in agreement and walk beside him the rest of the way to his car. I'm past the point of worrying about awkwardness. There's no need for it, anyway. In quick, practiced moves, Pax slides from his chair onto the seat, braces his hands behind his calves, hefts his lower body into the car, and then collapses his chair and hoists it into the backseat. I stare down at his limp legs. When I first met Pax, it kind of seemed like his self-assurance and big personality didn't match up with the reality of his situation. Now it just seems like the uselessness of his lower body doesn't match up with the reality of
him
. From the waist up, he is strong and capable in every sense of the word.

We are both quiet on the ride home, except for my directions on where to turn, but Pax speaks up at once when we pull up in front of my house. He lets out a low whistle. “Yeah. You're rich.”