Playing Hurt

Clint

final play





I’ve got this buzz—my arms feel loose, my legs like mush. Drunk on Chelsea. Even after we leave the waterfall, after I drop her off, drive back home. After I spend hours in my own bed, staring up at the ceiling of my room, the buzz doesn’t die. I relive it, what happened at the waterfall. But every time I do relive it, my buzz only gets stronger.

Wow. Stupid, but that’s what I just keep thinking—wow.

The next morning, Mom announces she’s scheduled an appointment with our family doctor to have my shoulder looked at. Make sure I’m not overdoing it.

For God’s sake. On Chelsea’s last day of vacation.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks in the waiting room as I jiggle my leg and snort and rub my face.

I shake my head. Not like I’m going to admit I’ve got a thing going with a vacationer. One whose dad trusted me to be professional.

By the time the appointment’s finally over, and Mom drives back home, and I grab the keys to the truck and I get back to the resort, it’s practically dinner time.

I check the dining room of the lodge first, grateful to find the entire Keyes family crowded around a table, an emptied plate in front of each of them.

“We could totally move here,” Brandon is saying. “There’s got to be a high school for me to go to, and you guys could bring White Sugar up here—I bet you could supply the lodge with all their desserts. Mom said herself that Chef Charlie’s not a baker. You’d rack it up. And Chelsea’s going to be gone anyway.”

It’s silly, but I start to get excited by the idea. Chelsea coming home to Minnesota during her semester breaks, the two of us having Christmas together …

But her dad laughs. “Think you’re just trying to hold on to your good thing at Pike’s,” he says.

Brandon shrugs, coolly.

“’Course, you realize you wouldn’t have much of an audience in the winter,” Earl says, passing by their table. “Snows so much here it reaches the eaves of this very lodge. Nobody’d be able to get outta their houses to come hear you.”

I catch Chelsea’s eye, raise my hand in greeting.

She gives me this smile—the kind of soft grin that can only come from a woman who’s seen you from the inside out.

Brandon and her parents follow her gaze, stare right at me.

“You’re leaving?” Brandon asks, as Chelsea’s chair squeals across the tile. “She’s leaving, but I can’t play one more gig,” he says loudly.

“We have to get up at the crack of dawn to get back home, bud,” his dad tells him. “The way the Dwellers play, you guys would still be onstage when we need to pull out of town. Okay? It’s best this way, trust me.”

Brandon glares at Chelsea. “I don’t get to play one more gig, but she gets to do God-knows-what with—”

“Can it,” Chelsea interrupts. “I think you’ll live.”

Brandon’s face hardens, and her parents eye me. And here I am without a fishing pole, or a digital camera, or a Mae West. But right now, Chelsea and I only have a few more hours left. And I can’t waste time caring how it looks when we race out of the lodge, jump in the cab of my truck, and take off without a single alibi.

“It’s like some cruel joke, the way time flies,” Chelsea says as we walk down a creek toward the edge of the lake. Her hand’s warm in mine, but her words are cold in my chest.

“Come on,” I say, using a couple of rocks as stepping stones to cross the creek and leading her into a field covered with wildflowers. They’re gorgeous—almost as pretty as Chelsea is tonight, her yellow hair streaming across her tan shoulders.

“You know,” I add, pointing at the closest orchid, “the moment these flowers finally reach full bloom is the same moment they start to die.”

“Cheery,” Chelsea says. “Thanks.”

“You started it,” I tease. “With all that talk about time flying.”

I reach out and snap a stem.

“Hey,” Chelsea moans. “That’s not a lady slipper, is it? What happened to all that do-not-pick-under-penalty-of-law stuff?”

I show her the head of the dried-up daisy I’ve pulled off.

“Just when you meet someone special and start to get close, wham. Vacation’s over. The moment you find something beautiful,” she goes on, staring at my dead flower, “time’s up. Got to move on.”

“But the thing is,” I say, twirling the black bud, “just because a flower isn’t going to be around very long doesn’t make it any less special when it does bloom—I mean, you plant flowers knowing they’re not going to be around forever, right?”

She squeezes my hand. “Are we going to talk in flower analogies all night?”

“I think I’m being very poetic and touching. Only took me two years to figure this out. And you,” I add. “Two years, and you.”

“And a waterfall,” she whispers.

She wraps her arms around my waist, stoops a little to tuck her chin into my neck. “You make me feel strong,” she murmurs.

“Well, you know, that’s how I planned the whole thing. I meant to launch myself off that ATV. I had that dislocated shoulder in here all along.” I tap the side of my head.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “Sure. Seriously, though. Strength doesn’t just have to do with the physical stuff, with how many miles you can run. How much weight you can bench press. I get that, too. Took me a year, almost. A year—and you.”

She lifts her head and juts her chin out, her lip wiggling a little. “So, I told you,” she says, clearing her throat. “I told you I didn’t need any promises. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Good,” I say, pushing a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “It’ll feel good to make a promise to you.”

“Promise me,” she says, looking me square in the eye, “that from now on, there won’t be any more living timidly. Not like you did these last two years. No more hiding away from anything that scares you. From here on out, you’ll—get out there and devour life.”

“Only if you will, too,” I tell her.

“Of course.”

“To never living timidly,” I say.

“Sounds like you’re making a toast,” she giggles.

But instead of the two of us clinking glasses, I bring my mouth to hers—sweet and strong.

Our kiss lingers, neither one of us wanting to let go. When we do finally come up for air, Chelsea’s eyes wander past my shoulder, across the landscape. Almost like she’s trying to memorize what it looks like.

“They’re looking for mates, you know,” she says with a grin, pointing into the grass. “The lightning bugs? They blink to kind of hit on each other.”

With my arms around her waist, I lower my face toward hers again. Just before I close my eyes, I notice that the fireflies are settling deep into the grass, turning their lights out for the night.

Love found.





Chelsea

handling skills





The ring of a cell phone wakes me from the nap I’m taking in the back seat of the Explorer. I rub my eyes, still trying to hang on to the dream I was having of walking down Main Street, weaving between the booths at Willie Walleye Day, staring down at our hands—mine and Clint’s—and delighting in the way our fingers look like saplings that have grown entwined around one another. Trees you couldn’t pull apart if you tried.

I don’t want to leave Minnesota, I dreamed of breathing into Clint’s neck.

Then don’t, I dreamed he answered, just before leaning in to kiss me. Don’t.

I’m still imagining what paradise that would be when Brandon reaches down to grab my phone from the front pocket of my green handbag.

“Hey!” he says. “Yeah, it was so cool. Met a couple of guy who played, too—yeah—no, I took Annie with us. So we formed our own band—the Bottom Dwellers. And we had a steady gig at this kind of bar and grill, Pike’s Perch—No, I’m serious. Yeah—”

“Wait,” I mumble as I unfold my legs. My entire body feels stiff and cramped after an entire day on the road. “Who called you on my cell?” I ask.

“Nobody,” Brandon answers with a shrug. “It’s Gabe for you.”

Noises of disgust rattle in my throat as I hit Brandon on the back of the head. “Give me my phone,” I snap.

Offended, Brandon holds the cell just out of my reach. “No.”

“Brandon! It’s my phone!” Our struggle actually rocks the SUV on its axles.

Mom turns around in the front passenger seat, a tired scowl etched into her face. “Listen, you two. What do you think you are, three years old? I know we’ve been in the car a long time, but we’ll be home in an hour and a half. If you don’t start behaving like grown-ups, you can walk the rest of the way.”

“Fine,” Brandon says. “Ask me nice.”

“Give me my phone, you nasty, smelly bottom dweller.”

“That’s more like it.”

I snatch the cell and take a deep breath. I haven’t actually spoken to Gabe since the day I bought all those postcards—the day he asked if something was up. I’m not exactly sure how this conversation will go, and to add insult to injury, it’s going to play itself out with Brandon and my parents listening in. “Hey,” I say quietly.

“Hey, Chelse. Sorry—couldn’t wait for you to call me. I knew today was the big day. Your homecoming.”

Before vacation, this probably would’ve melted my heart. Today, it hurts for a hundred different reasons. Mostly, talking to Gabe makes Clint already seem like a whole world, an entire lifetime away. And only this morning I’d watched him waving sadly from the dock as we shut the door of cabin number four for the last time. Tears start to bubble. What am I going to say?

“Good to hear your voice again,” I offer weakly.

“Thanks for the postcards,” Gabe says. “I loved seeing your handwriting waiting for me when I got home from work. Mostly, though, I was just happy you were thinking of me every day.”

I force myself to swallow a bitter sob as I remember automatically dropping a new, pre-written postcard in the lodge mail slot every morning. “Mom said we’ll be home in about an hour and a half,” I blab, for lack of anything else to say.

“Really? Tell you what—I’ll be getting off work soon, so why don’t I just meet you?”

“Well, I … don’t know for sure … I mean, it could take longer.”

“That’s okay,” Gabe says. He suddenly seems so needy to me—clutchy, almost. But then again, why would it bother me that he wants to see me? This is the longest we’ve ever been apart. If Gabe had left for vacation, wouldn’t I be anxious to see him?

“See you soon,” he says, just before clicking his cell off.

My heart fills with lead.

Two hours later, as the evening haze glistens on Fair Grove’s horizon, we pull into our driveway. Gabe’s sitting on the front porch—though I’d hoped the extra thirty minutes it took us to get here would have discouraged him, would have sent him back to his own house. He waves and hurries across the lawn to the car door.

What are you going to do, Chelsea? I ask myself. He’ll know. He’s got to know …

But Gabe just throws his arms around me like I’ve never gone away on vacation at all. Like we’re just picking up where we’d left off on graduation night, the two of us standing in a field staring at my star while the rest of the senior class woo-hoos at us from the street.

“Man, you got strong,” he says. “I forgot what it was like when we met and you were so full of muscle.”

“I guess I did beef up a little,” I babble. “Probably look different than the last time you saw me.”

He shrugs. “No—I mean, yeah, a little. And you’re really tan. But it’s still you. You could shave your head and wear a burlap sack and I’d still think you’re beautiful.”

Okay, daggers are flying straight into my heart and tearing out enormous chunks.

“Hey, Gabe,” Brandon says, jumping from the car. For the first time in my entire life, I feel grateful the little nitwit’s around. “I’ve got some pictures of my band. I’ll show you when I unearth my camera.”

“He’s really serious,” Gabe says, wagging his thumb at Brandon. “I mean, I always heard him and his friends playing when I came over, and they seemed pretty good and all, but—a real band? You guys were gone only three weeks.”

I nod. “He’s on fire now. He’ll probably get another band together around here before summer’s over. Good thing I’ll be in a dorm room in a matter of weeks,” I add with a roll of my eyes.

“Gabe, hon, we haven’t eaten yet,” Mom calls. “You want to stay for a late dinner? I could go to the store—”

What I wouldn’t give right now for a Mother Vaporizer …

“No way, Mrs. Keyes,” Gabe says. I’ve just started to breathe a sigh of relief when he adds, “You guys’ve been on the road all day. I thought Chelsea and I could drive to Hill Toppers’, bring back a couple of deep dishes. How’s that sound?”

By this point my heart is so torn apart, I’m not quite sure how it could still be beating. “That’s really sweet,” I say truthfully. How could I forget how sweet Gabe Ross really is? What the hell have I done?

“Come on, Chelse,” Gabe urges.

“I’ll throw your bags in your room for you,” Dad offers.

Gabe smiles as we head toward his ’Stang. “Get a bomb diffused over your vacation, too?” he asks, nodding back toward Dad.

“Yeah,” I say, watching Dad carry my bag inside. “Maybe so.”

I reach for the handle on the passenger side door of Gabe’s car. But I stop, my eyes trailing across the immaculate automobile. I remember Clint’s old GMC, all scuffed and banged. Rust spots. Torn seats. Roll-down windows instead of AC. The two vehicles suddenly seem as different as a wildflower in a field and a rose in a vase.

I climb in, aching for the sweet smell of something wild.

Gabe drives around the corner, veers the car straight toward the curb and shifts into park. “Come here and say hello to me like you couldn’t with your parents watching,” he whispers.

I lean in to kiss Gabe, shocked by the taste of his lips. I’ve grown so used to Clint, who tasted like sweat and heat and passion and sun and sex, that the taste of Gabe surprises me. He tastes like sweetness and comfort and safety and even, somehow—innocence.

I give in to Gabe’s kiss, letting it linger as long as possible. I refuse to pull away—until the thought crosses my mind that maybe I kiss differently now, after Clint.

“I missed you so much, Chelse,” Gabe says, running his fingers down my cheek.

He doesn’t suspect a thing—which relieves me and also makes me feel absolutely sick.