Stoked (3 page)

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A
fter I press send, I head for the kitchen to throw out food that will rot. I grab a beer and open it, toss lettuce and tomatoes in the trash, empty all the containers. Once I forgot this step and left for six weeks, and trust me, you don’t make that mistake twice. There are three eggs and a little milk in there, which I’ll eat for breakfast.  I already called the landlord, who promised to come by and check things now and then. I open another beer, looking around. It’s not like there’s a lot to worry about here.

Except the paintings. What if somebody broke in and defaced them all? What if I lost all the work that’s sitting here, work that took me forever to get? I don’t want to take that chance, but who would come in and take care of it for me, move it and make sure it’s in a safe place?

I should have thought of this before. Fuck.

There is really only one person I’d trust. She won’t like the work I’ve done of Jess, but I can trust her not to wreck it. Her number is still on my favorites list and I punch it in. “What do you want, Tyler?” Lena asks in a tired voice.

It makes me feel bad because I know I deserve it. We were good for awhile, having fun, having sex, playing around, and then I could tell she was getting too far into it, falling in love, and I broke it off in a pretty rough way. “Sorry to bother you, but I went to court today and believe it or not, the judge ordered me to make a bid for the Olympic snowboarding team.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Only you.”

“Only in Colorado, you mean. The point is, I have to start training, and I’m leaving in the morning. I don’t have a lot in the house, but I do have a lot of paintings. I don’t want anything to happen to them.”

“And you want me to—?”

“Make arrangements for them to be moved to storage. I’ll pay you.”

“Tyler, damn it.” In my imagination, I can see her, hair tied beneath a scarf as she throws clay on the wheel. It was sexy, the way she got all covered in mud.

“I know, it’s a big favor. I’m sorry. I don’t have anybody else to ask.”

“What about your little blonde baby?”

“She went to New Zealand.”

“Is that where you’re off to, then? To train?

“No. She doesn’t know anything about it. I’m going to Chile. Will you do it, Lena? Please?”

She sighs, heavily. “Last favor ever, do you hear me?”

Relief floods through me. “Yes, I do. I promise. No more. ever.”

We trade information and I hang up the phone, making notes on more shit I’ve got to do before bed when I hear my iPad ding.

Email.

She’s written:

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T
o:  [email protected]

From:  [email protected]

Subject: re: a thousand lifetimes

Tyler! That letter made me cry (in a good way) and freaked me out at the same time. I can’t stand to imagine us parted for a thousand lifetimes, looking for each other and being lonely. I don’t even like us being apart now. I am so happy to be here I can’t even tell you, but I’d love it even more if you were here, too.

What do you mean I shouldn’t think of you too much? How can I help it? You seem to think that I’m only accidentally with you somehow, but it’s not random. I
chose
you. Let’s Skype really really soon, okay? I need to look into your eyes and know that you’re not already losing interest and it’s only been two days.

WHAT DID THEY SAY IN COURT?

I’ll have a phone set up tomorrow, but it kinda sounds like we still won’t be able to text.

Are you there? Can we Skype? 

Love, way way way more than
you
know,

Jess

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M
y heart aches over it. Over wanting her, wanting to keep her for myself, tucked under my arm forever and ever. But capturing a bird before it’s ever flown doesn’t mean it’s yours. She has to live, and then she can choose me.

Or not.

I sit down in the studio and call up Skype. It rings, tinny and far away and then there she is, propped up against what looks like an iron headboard, her hair loose on her shoulders. My chest goes hollow, like somebody punched me and I want to touch her face through the glass.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m so glad to see you!

“You look beautiful.” I pull the screen to my mouth and kiss her far away lips.

She kisses me back, that wide, wide mouth pursed into a pucker that makes my dick jump like a bad dog. “You must have been painting. You have blue on your neck.”

I swipe at it. “Ah, so I do. Sexy, right?”

“Everything about you is sexy.” She’s gazing at me with that clear, steady expression that makes me feel
seen
. And she sees something isn’t right. Her eyebrows quirk. “Is everything okay?”

I sniff, pick up my beer. “Yeah, no worries. Tell me about your day. What did you do? Did you find out anymore about the commercial?”

“Yes!” She widens her eyes and sits up straight. “I got it! It pays a lot, Tyler. Six thousand dollars. New Zealand, but it’s still a lot.”

“Jess, that’s great!”

“We’ll start filming in Nelson in a couple of days, then go to Queenstown.”

“I spent a lot of time in Queenstown when I was training—you’ll love it. Lotta big sexy Aussies.”

“Hmm. That sounds okay,” she says, and cocks one eyebrow. “Maybe some hot snowboarder.”

“Or that.” It makes me want to go get my new gear and show it to her, the new Burton, the checkered green coat. Instead, I know I have to prove to her that I’m better than she’s seen so far. Worthy of being chosen once she learns to fly. “Show me your room, so I can picture you there.”

“It’s beautiful.” She switches the camera view to the back and pans the room, the windows, the walls. “It’s been raining pretty much since I got here,” she adds. “Those are the vineyards.” All I can see is murky green through murky gray.  “But we might get down to Kaikoura tomorrow, which you may not know is where I was born.”

I grin. “My little Kiwi baby.”

“It’s pretty cool, Tyler. I really like it here. My dad has a Mini! It’s so cute!”

“It’s great. Turn the camera back to you, Jess. I miss those eyes.”

She touches the button and her face swings back into view. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I raise a hand and touch her image.  “I’m touching your face, and your nose. I wish I could touch them for real.”

In imitation, she raises her hand I see her sleeve.  “Me, too. Your email was so ama—“

The screen goes blank. Lost the connection. I count to ten, holding the iPad in my lap, then try again. It rings endlessly, but nobody picks up.

I try again, four or five times, but nothing happens.  Finally, I open my email and send a note.

I tried several times to get you on Skype, but I can’t get through. I’ll be up for awhile if you want to try later.

To be sure I don’t miss a call, I bring the tablet into my bedroom and toss it on the bed. I pack my old, battered duffel with all the usual things, underwear and thick, wool socks and long-sleeved performance shirts I’ve had for years. In go the coat and pants and gloves, not as baggy as some like, but I know how to fake it. The board and boots are zipped into their case.

I’ve done it all so many times that I’m done in an hour. A backpack holds a pair of jeans, some long sleeved shirts. I’ll pick up more in Santiago if I need to. Mostly, I’ll be on the slopes.

By midnight, Jess still hasn’t called back, and I try one more time to get through to her. Nothing.  It rings and rings and rings without answer.

When I leave in the morning, it’ll still be the middle of the night in New Zealand, and by the time I land in Santiago, it’ll be the middle of the night again. I’ll try again from New York or Panama, my layovers—not the greatest flights, but last minute, it was what I could get. 

Maybe it’s supposed to be like this. Maybe this is Fate giving me a chance to do the right thing and let her learn to fly. 

I open an email. There’s still nothing from her, so there must be a technical glitch on her end.

My Kiwi baby,

I tried about a hundred times to rouse you on Skype again, but it never came back up. Let me know when you get this email so I don’t worry, okay?

About court: good and bad.  Good because the judge gave me a chance to prove myself before he throws me in jail, but it’s not going to be easy. I’ve got some stuff to do, and I don’t really want to talk about it until I figure out if it’s going to work.  I might not be able to get on Skype for a couple of days, but once I get settled, I’ll get back in touch. You can always email me.
Please
email me. Like, every hour on the hour. (Teasing. Not that wack.)

In the meantime, enjoy every second of everything. Have fun getting to know your dad and seeing where you were born and filming a commercial. Make new friends and have adventures. If you’re going to be in Queenstown, maybe try skiing or snowboarding. They give lessons. (Bungee jumping, maybe? :))

Anyway, gotta go. 

Thinking super xxxxx thoughts,

Tyler

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c
hapter FOUR

It’s a nightmare of a travel day, thunderstorms and tornadoes over half the country, which leaves us sitting in Denver for two hours, cutting way too far into my layover time for comfort. The flight is intensely bumpy, and for awhile, it seems like we won’t even be allowed to land in New York.  I’m telling myself it doesn’t matter, nobody knows I’m coming and it won’t matter if I’m late or have to wait for another plane, but who wants to sit around and wait? Now that I’m in motion, every cell in my body is leaning toward that moment when I’m on the slopes.

In New York, I have to run like hell to make the next flight, and slide down the Jetway just as they are getting ready to close the door. The flight attendant, a slim brunette with sloe eyes, says in a Spanish accent, “Welcome, Mr. Smith.” 

In my seat, I pull out my phone to check email, but the same flight attendant says, “Put that away, please. We are leaving the gate.”

I stick in back in my pocket, irritable, and close my eyes. What time is it in New Zealand now? One day forward, four hours back from Colorado. Two hours forward to New York.  So—

I realize I don’t even know what time it is here.

Let it go.
I give myself up to the non-time, lost-time weirdness of flying.

The next leg is bumpy as well, but at least there’s in-flight service, a little crappy supper and some beer and movies on the seat back screen. I doze to an action flick and then another, and finally the air smoothes out and I fall asleep for real.

The layover in Panama City is decent enough. I get some coffee and check email. Still nothing from Jess, which sends a weird warning through my gut. Did something happen? My mind runs through a dozen scenarios—volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunamis. I haven’t seen the news for a solid twenty-four hours. It could be anything. New Zealand could have sunk into the sea for all I would know.

Dude,
the rational part of my brain says.
Get a grip
.

New Zealand probably didn’t sink into the ocean like Atlantis. There could have been a power loss or she might have damaged her iPad or something went wrong with Skype and she doesn’t know how to fix it.

But why no email?

Fuck. I slide my headphones over my hat and turn up the music. Gotta stop obsessing over a woman. She’s one woman. Get real. Get a life. Get some focus.

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B
y the time a shuttle pulls up in front of the hotel, nearly 24 solid hours after I left my house, I could eat a cow and a side plate of elephant, and my eyes are grainy with lack of sleep.  But as I step out of the van, the smell of fresh snow, the bite of winter in the air catch in my throat. Everything in me wakes up, looks up, leans toward the bright cold. It’s late afternoon, too late to get on the slopes. I check into my room—an apartment, actually, bigger than I needed, but all that was available at short notice. The concierge stocked it with the basics. 

The wireless in the apartment is great, and I can finally check the news. There was an earthquake in Wellington, but Jess is on the South Island. As I scan the headlines, however, I realize that I don’t actually know where on the South Island. I don’t know where she is, exactly. Her dad is a vintner, so probably in the Marlborough area, and I do find a photo of a grocery store with the contents of the shelves scattered all over the floor. Maybe it knocked out power.

I type another email.

Hey, Jess. I checked the news and it looks like an earthquake might have knocked out power where you are. Email me when you get this.  Xoxoxox Tyler

Rather than brave the pubs or restaurants, I eat in my room, shower the plane air from my body, and crash. It’d be nice to have a beer, but I’ve got to get into training mode, and although a lot of boarders mix beer and training, I need to be more in touch with my body than that. With any luck, there won’t be any jet lag issues, since it’s only four hours difference. Tomorrow is going to be a long, long day.

There are rituals to everything. In the morning, I wake up while it’s still dark and make strong coffee and a big pan of oatmeal and a protein shake made with Ovaltine, both of which I brought with me. The Ovaltine is a habit left over from when I was ten, but now it’s part of training breakfasts. Fortified with food, I slide into the performance wear, the long underwear and long-sleeved shirt, a second layer on top, then ski pants, wool socks.  The whole time I’m getting dressed, there’s a rustle of nerves and anticipation running up and down my spine. Flashes of old training runs pop in an out of my mind, powder and blue sky, heat under my clothes, air so cold it blisters running over my lips and nose.

And flying. Sky and snow and board hanging in a whirl.

Not today.

My phone rings and I grab it off the table, hoping it’s Jess, realizing only as I say “Yo,” that it can’t be, won’t be.

“Hi, son,” my dad says. I glance at the clock. It’s got to be freaking early where he is. “Headed out?”

“Got my socks on. What’s up?”

“Just thinking about you. Proud of you, that you’re giving it a shot.”