Playing Hurt

Clint

time-out





I’m too pissed after that phone call to realize just how quickly I stomp through my afternoon orchid hunt. But when we circle back around the trail, winding up back at the lodge, I turn to find my entire group huffing and puffing like I’m their track coach. Like I’ve just sent them through the most grueling practice session of all time. Some of them have actual sweat stains on their T-shirts.

“Ah—there’s ice—iced tea in the dining room,” I mumble. Even embarrassment doesn’t make me any less angry. But I’m not mad at Chelsea—I’m furious with me. Of all the people to have a thing for, I chastise myself. Chelsea. Due to leave Minnesota in less than a week. What’d you expect?

I go jogging after the hike. Show up at Pike’s before Brandon or Greg or Todd. Throw myself into pitching in for a sick member of the wait staff. Work. I’ve known it all along—work is what will make everything better. If I’m working, I’m too busy to overthink everything.

After the dinner rush, it hits me that I need to figure out what I’m going to do with Chelsea for the rest of the time we’ve got together. I don’t want to let on how much she’s rattled me. I don’t want her to know how much I really do care. And I don’t want to ruin my chances for another boot camp client, either.

I’m pacing outside the restaurant when I see them at the side of the building. A pair of handlebars—two ATVs parked side by side. And I know exactly what I’m going to do with Chelsea. Tomorrow, at least.

“You showed,” she says the next day, as she hurries across the porch of her cabin.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask her, stepping out of the truck. “Your parents paid me to work with you the entire time you’re here, right?”

“But I don’t—I don’t want that,” she tells me. “Not—just that.”

Looking at her, I hear, all over again, the I love you she’d whispered to her boyfriend. “Come on,” I say. “A mushroom hunt.”

I can tell, from the shock on her face, that my refusal to talk about what happened yesterday stings. But I don’t care. It feels good to hurt her back. The same way it felt good to throw her off-guard with the basketball out there behind Pike’s that first night. Realizing this, I instantly feel like a creep.

We pile into the truck and take off. I snap the radio on so she doesn’t feel compelled to talk. All the way to Pike’s.

The first shift is preparing for the lunch rush, pulling chairs off tables and filling salt shakers as we step inside. Chelsea follows me through the restaurant and out onto the patio. The weather is as uncomfortable as everything else this morning; the heat swells, feeling heavy and muggy. A couple of waiters are leaning against the brick wall, smoke curling from the ends of their cigarettes.

“Not exactly strenuous,” Chelsea says shyly, pointing at the two ATVs I’ve moved to the edge of the patio.

I give the two waiters the same look Pop flashes when he wants them to get their butts in gear. They drop their cigarettes and disappear back inside.

“Haven’t chalked me up as a lost cause, have you?” Chelsea continues.

I instantly start imagining her on the back of my own ATV, her arms wrapped around my waist, the sweet smell of her skin in my nose. And parking beneath the thickest patch of tree limbs, where our bodies would be hidden beneath the shade …

Stop it, Clint, I tell myself. This is exactly why I put both ATVs out here—because if we’re on our own vehicles, I won’t have to smell her, won’t want her as badly as I do right now just standing next to her. Everything inside me spins when I think of the two of us in the shower in her cabin … or the two of us tumbling onto her bed.

I just need some time, I think, even though the devil on my shoulder reminds me there isn’t much time, that the days have dwindled down to practically nothing, and here we are, nearly at the end of Chelsea’s vacation. Every second you spend trying to sort things out is one less second you have to touch her, the devil reminds me.

I clear my throat, take a step toward the four-wheelers. You already sorted things out, remember? She doesn’t love you. Not like she loves the other guy. You’re setting yourself up for the hurt you want to avoid.

“Well, have you?” Chelsea presses. “Chalked me up? Because what you said yesterday—about me being frightened—you don’t think I’m getting worse, do you? You don’t think I wouldn’t even hike?”

“Oh, there will be plenty of hiking,” I promise, keeping my distance, making my tone go cool with professionalism. “Once we get out to where the mushrooms grow, anyway. There’s a spot north of Pike’s that’s always been pretty lucky. It’s just that it would take us about a week and a half to walk there, is all.” There. Good. I’m treating her exactly like what I’ve told her she is: a client. No mixed messages. No changing my mind.

When she takes another step closer to me, though, my entire body kicks into high gear. I feel my heart beat faster, my lungs burn, my legs get loose and wobble. Sure. Client. Feels exactly like a client to me.

“They really that good?” she asks. “The mushrooms?”

Kenzie flashes through my mind—I remember the way she smiled at me over a plate of morels. Chelsea’s got the same look on her face.

But Chelsea’s far harder to refuse. I want to grab her, kiss her, bury my face in her hair.

You’re just being a guy, I try to tell myself.

But it’s not just about skin. If skin was all that was important, I could have gone after anyone without a second thought. I’d have taken up with Kenzie that first night in the lodge.

Chelsea’s offering far more than skin. But what? I ask myself. What is she offering that’s so incredibly special? You were doing fine without her. You’d better be, anyway. She’s going to be gone. You can’t rely on her. You can’t give in to her. She’s just going to disappear.

I clear my throat, finally get around to answering her question. “Mom sure sells morel appetizers like crazy,” I say with a strained smile.

I show her how to start her ATV—turn the key, hold the brake, press the start button. Show her how to use the hand-twist throttle, and warn, “Careful how you accelerate. These are hunting quads, not racers, but if you accelerate too fast, you can still flip up, turn over on your back.”

I glance her way, half-expecting her to tell me to forget it if it’s so incredibly dangerous.

But Chelsea only nods as she clinches the strap of her helmet under her chin.

“What’re you waiting for?” she says, starting the ATV like I showed her.

I figure this is all a bunch of bravado to cover up what happened at the lodge yesterday. So instead of paying much attention to her, I just tug a helmet on and hit my own start button.

I take off, slowly at first—I inch forward so that I can keep track of the engine that putters behind me. She’s following along fine, having no problem getting the hang of it—of the ATVs Pop and I used to use for hunting mushrooms in the summer, that Todd and Greg and I took turns riding long before we ever had learner’s permits.

Once I know Chelsea’s doing okay, I increase my speed, letting my ATV bounce over the terrain. My nose fills with the musty, mossy smell of the nearby swamp; our tires fly across the soft ground, toss the occasional wet splash of mud through the air.

I lead her between trees, weaving, while Pike’s grows to a fleck behind us, then disappears completely.

The rumble of the ATV behind me grows louder, starts zinging toward my left shoulder like an arrow. I glance behind me to find Chelsea’s head down, her shoulders spread wide, as she crouches over the handlebars. She twists her wrist, egging the throttle like I showed her, forcing the vehicle on faster.

At first I refuse to answer, to take her on. But she knows exactly how to get to me—she closes in on me; automatically, my own wrist twists, my body clenches.

Chelsea gains. Her engine grows louder, closer.

When the front tire of her ATV inches ahead of me, I hunch my own body over my handlebars. Faster.

But Chelsea refuses to just surrender the lead. She urges her ATV forward again, and we dance——I press, she presses. Before I can even think about what’s actually happening, we’re racing. My tires bounce over roots and old fallen limbs. Our engines roar back and forth at each other, tossing angry threats.

I push, I press. And Chelsea answers. She gets close enough that from the corner of my eye, I can see her hair flying out behind her helmet.

I press again, edging ahead of her. She falls behind. I’m ahead of her. I’m winning—I actually start to celebrate inside. I’m winning, I think. But then the grumble of her engine disappears completely, and I know I’m too far ahead.

I glance over my shoulder, but I don’t see her. Just lots of green—branches, grass.

Where is she?

Panic spills through my chest. Chelsea’s gone. Instantly, a clock starts ticking in my mind. All I can think is, I can’t do another two days. Forty-eight hours of searching, of wondering. Chelsea’s gone, out of sight, and instantly, I think she’s as gone as Rosie.

That’s dumb, Clint. I know it is—but I’m terrified.

“Chelsea?” I shout. Why doesn’t she just answer?

I face forward, just in time to see a fallen tree stretched out in front of me. I stomp the brake, turn my wheels sharply.

It’s not enough.

The ATV strikes the tree. I lose my grip and my body flies over the handlebars.