Playing Hurt

Chelsea

turnover





Minnesota is a poem. Minnesota has black hair. Minnesota is a summer kiss under the stars, scald of a sunburn, ache of a heavy sweet lodged in the crevice of a tooth. Minnesota is a morning on a lake, an afternoon under trees, stolen kisses, the smell of a man’s neck, the rough callus of his hand under my lips. Minnesota is a sky full of stars and the edge of a lake and wading farther and farther away from shore.

At least, that’s what it feels like over the next few days. Weird, but around Clint, I don’t think about metal plates and screws. I don’t think about falling. I don’t wish for a pause button that could keep me from ever moving forward, past basketball. I think about tomorrows. I’m excited—God—about cycling. About hiking. For the first time since my accident, I’m starting to wonder how much farther I can ride today than I did the day before. I’m telling Clint to let me row. My pillowy gut is firming, reminding me just how quickly I’d always been able to build muscle. I’m no longer the same squishy pile of dough Scratches kneaded, sitting on my lap just before we left home.

And ever since bowling, Clint seems—freer. He’s not pushing me away. He’s not telling me he can’t. He’s not leaning away from me, against the door of his truck. He doesn’t apologize for brushing my knee when he shifts gears.

But Minnesota is also Brandon, glaring at me as he stands in the doorjamb of the cabin bathroom. Shaking his head while I hum, tying my hair into a ponytail.

“Don’t think I’m stupid, Chelse,” he says. “I know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?” Dad asks as he trudges down the sunlit hallway and glances into the bathroom, eyes hidden beneath a Lake of the Woods cap.

“Hiking,” I sing.

“Hiking,” Brandon mutters. “Yeah, right.”

Dad’s mouth curls into a frown. “Aren’t you and Clint working out?” he asks.

“Aren’t they,” Brandon moans. “That’s not the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad asks, giving his words an angry growl. Suddenly, every cruel and unfair thing he said to me after the Willie Walleye festival—the night I first kissed Clint—comes roaring back.

“Forget it,” I snap at him. I’m about to scream something at him like, Why do you act like I mucked up your life? But Mom starts hollering about Clint being at the door, so Dad just disappears, like he always does, every morning.

We all disappear, each of us hurrying out of the cabin and heading off in our own direction. Brandon’s guitar case whacks against the porch railing as he passes Clint. “Hiking,” he mutters one more time before heading off to the lodge to practice.

But who can care about Brandon or Dad—why let their judgmental crap ruin such a beautiful day? I can’t, not when the Minnesota morning has bloomed like a gorgeous lady slipper. Not when I’m dipping into the shade of a cluster of trees, Clint’s black hair brushing my cheeks and his mouth working its way around my neck. “Let’s go to the waterfall,” he murmurs in my ear. “The one behind your cabin. We’ll be completely alone there. Promise.”

But we’re halfway to the trail when my phone, which I’d pocketed that morning just to prove to Brandon that everything really is fine, goes off. How is it that it suddenly works? And why now?

The text is from Gabe: turn phone 2 read, he’s typed, 8. When I follow his instructions, the “8” becomes “∞.” Eternity.

The message instantly gives me an off-kilter swing in my stomach. And I don’t want to ruin my first view of the waterfall by climbing this hill filled with anything but sheer excitement.

So I grab Clint’s arm and drag him even deeper into the shade. Push him teasingly, tug him down into the tall grass.

We tangle our bodies in the summer wildflowers. When Clint rolls me onto my back, all I can see is the way the sunlight puts a hot, metallic sheen in his black hair. But when I glance past his hair, my eyes land on some familiar small purple blooms dangling just behind him, their yellow tongues hanging out: a vine of bittersweets. The kind that grow by the mill back home.

It’s almost like Gabe’s planted them there on purpose—to remind me that Minnesota is not the last word. That I will still have to go home.

Stupid Gabe. Stupid bittersweets. I close my eyes; all I feel is Clint.