by Dean, Ali
“You sound different.”
She sniffs, and I frown at the sound of it. “That’s what your sister said too.”
“Have you been crying? Jordan, are you okay?”
There’s another sniffle, and now my heart is breaking again, but it’s not for me this time.
Jordan
He deserves honesty, as much as I’m capable of giving. Am I okay? “I don’t know. Not really. I think I will be soon though.” I’m not making any sense, but the clarity I thought I had the day we broke up? It’s gone. Everything is blurry and foggy and I feel so lost.
“I feel bad calling you after what I did, but my friends said I should, and then Naomi and Summer said I should, so then I figured it was okay. I tried to cry out all my tears before I called you but I guess I wasn’t done.” They start to flow again, coming harder as I talk.
“You don’t have to cry out all your tears before calling me, Jordan. You can call me anytime. You know that, right?”
Just hearing his voice, this reassurance from him, it soothes me like nothing else has.
“I went to the neurologist yesterday. She made it seem like everything I’m experiencing is because of the concussion. But she doesn’t know everything else that’s been going on. And now I’m confused. I don’t know what’s what. I don’t know if I can trust my own head.”
I don’t even sound like myself. I’m usually decisive, upbeat, ready for the next adventure. But I’ve barely left my house since I got home, and the weirdest part is that I don’t even want to. If I’d gotten the all clear to skateboard from the doctor yesterday, would I be out there right now? It scares me that I don’t know the answer to that question.
Beck, however, sounds solid and sure when he responds. “I know this isn’t all about us, and I don’t want to turn it around to be about me. But you need to know I’m here for you, no matter what, okay? You can call anytime, don’t worry if it’s the right thing to do or not.”
I hear what he’s saying, but even as I tell him, “Okay,” I don’t know that I agree. I ended things. I can’t just keep leaning on him, treating him like my closest friend, even if that’s what I want to do. That’s not fair to him.
“So you said stuff is going on that your new doctor thinks is from the concussion. What kind of stuff?”
“Just sleeping a ton. Kind of mopey and down. Not wanting to go out and do anything with my parents or Phoebe and Wyatt.” Cue the guilt for calling him. All these things are break-up things, aren’t they? Sure I’m the one who did the breaking up, but that doesn’t mean I’m not torn up about it.
Beck’s voice is tentative when he offers, “I can still get on a plane and be there with you. I can still cancel Shred Live.”
Another round of tears threatens, but somehow, I manage to push them down. “Beck, I can’t let you do that. I just can’t.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, but I can practically feel his frustration coming through. “It’s not a sacrifice for me, Jordan. It’s what I want to do,” he finally says.
For an instant, I see him how he was that last morning–sitting up in his bed, bare shoulders and chest showing and a little smile on his face. But then I imagine him in a giant house with nineteen other people, a world away without me. Images of him competing at the X Games play through my head, and I know this man is only at the beginning. As soon as filming is done, he’s meant to travel the world, going full tilt back into competition mode after his hiatus. I’ll only hold him back. I know that now more than ever. If I’m going to take care of myself, I can’t be trying to keep up with Beckett Steele. And no matter what his soft voice is saying to me right now, how many promises he’s made, I’ll never feel good about holding him back.
“I just wanted to check in with you. Let you know I’m still recovering.” I try to brush it all off, his offer to be here with me. “What have you been up to?”
Beck hesitates a moment before responding, and I know he wants to swing the door I cracked until it’s wide open. I should’ve locked it tight, but I know I’ll never be able to do that. It makes me wonder if things will ever be done with Beck. Even as I’m the one shutting the door, it’s hard to imagine they will be.
Beck tells me that he’s at his mom’s, and Moses is over too with Griff. But conversation feels forced now. Beck doesn’t let it go on.
“Look, I’m going to wait for you to figure this all out, Jordan. I’ll do Shred Live if that’s what you want, but I’m not going anywhere when it comes to us. Maybe it’s not what you want to hear, but for me, this isn’t over. It’s a break while the social media stuff blows over, while Shred Live is filming, and while you recover from the concussion. But I’m not saying goodbye to us. I can’t.”
His words shouldn’t heal something inside me even as they gut me. I don’t know that I want him to believe what he’s saying, even if it gives me the kind of hope I desperately need right now.
“I should go, Beck,” I whisper, my throat too thick with emotion to talk.
“I miss you, Jordan. I love you.”
“I know. Me too,” I manage to get out before ending the call. My head collapses on my pillow, and I’m back to staring at the ceiling, the same one I’ve become way too familiar with this past week.
Chapter Six
Jordan
“Rise and shine!” Phoebe’s voice jolts me. She bounces on the bed as Wyatt pulls the shades up. It’s dark outside and I’m disoriented.
“What time is it?”
“Time for you to get your ass out of bed and out of this house,” Phoebe declares, pulling the covers off of me.
“Hey!” I try to tug them out of her hands but she’s too determined.
“It’s five. We’re going to the ice-skating rink,” Wyatt announces, hands on hips.
“Five at night?” I know my question is giving away just how screwed up I am, but there’s no hiding from these two.
“Yes. It’s Christmas Eve. We’ve spent the last hour hanging out with your parents,” Phoebe informs me as she throws a pair of jeans at me. “They’re worried about you. We promised them we wouldn’t let you skip out on our Christmas Eve plans.”
It’s not as if we spoke about them beforehand, but I guess after a decade of going to the rink on this day every year, it’s tradition. “They’re okay with me ice skating?”
“No, we’ll be watching with you while our parents all ice skate together. If you hurry we can catch the performances.”
There’s no point in arguing, so I put on the clothes Phoebe sends my way--jeans, boots, and a sweater.
“It’s about fifteen degrees out, by the way.” Wyatt turns from looking out the window while I changed. “You’ll need your big puffy jacket and a hat.”
“I didn’t bring any of that stuff to California with me so it’s still in the closet by the garage.”
Fifteen degrees? Have I grown so soft already that I’m shivering just thinking about standing outside in those temperatures?
I wander into the living room and notice the Christmas tree for the first time. Pausing, I glance around and realize the entire house is decorated. Have these been up since I got home? It’s then I notice the amazing smells coming from the kitchen, and my feet move in that direction.
Mom’s got an apron on and the sight of her opening the stove immediately has me thinking about Beck in an apron. He liked to wear one even just for making breakfast and dinner at his apartment. It was one of his hottest looks. And now I’m thinking about him in the past tense, like he’s dead or something. Man, my head is so messed up.
“Oh, hi sweetie! It’s good to see you out of pajamas.” She comes over to kiss me on the cheek, taking off her oven mitts.
“Are we hosting dinner this year?” It rotates between our family, Phoebe’s and Wyatt’s each year. But when it’s our year, I know alllll about it, with Mom stressing more than usual about getting all the groceries. She usually has me running out to the store at the last minute or helping her in the kitchen.
&nb
sp; “Duh!” Phoebe is suddenly beside me. “Why do you think we got here an hour ago?”
“Um, to hang out with me?” I guess.
“No, to get a first round of dinner before we head out to the town center.”
I think back to three years ago and then six years ago, remembering Mom hooked us up with some samplings before we went out to the rink. With the festivities between 5:30 and 7:30, we don’t usually sit down to dinner until 8:30 or so. They have an earlier celebration in the daylight for kids, but we’ve always liked the evening one because of the Christmas lights and candles.
“I thought you said you came over early to help in the kitchen,” Dad teases as he comes around the corner. “Got your jacket for you, Jo Jo.” He holds it out for me and I smile, putting my arms through the sleeves.
“Help in the kitchen, right,” Wyatt is saying. “By taste testing.”
“Uh-huh,” Mom says with a grin. “Well, everything’s ready. We’ll warm it up when we get back. You guys want to pile in the back of the station wagon or are you taking Wyatt’s car?”
“We’ll take mine. That way if we start freezing our ass-, I mean butts, off while you all skate around, we can head back here early.”
“As long as you don’t eat all the potato casserole.”
“Who, me?” Wyatt feigns innocence, but we all know he was the one who scarfed down half the pan Mom brought over to his house for Thanksgiving last year.
I follow everyone out through the garage, waving to my parents as I get in the backseat of Wyatt’s car. I’m only half present though, half in a trance. All of this is making me think about Thanksgiving with Beck’s family, and it’s bittersweet. If I’d let him, he could be here right now, meeting my family and getting a glimpse of this part of my life.
It sort of feels like I’m straddling two worlds, but it’s not my Connecticut life versus California. It’s reality versus the darkness of my bedroom. I’ve been so lost in my head, hiding under the covers, I’ve barely noticed it’s the best time of the year. Mom and Dad, Phoebe and Wyatt, they’ve been waiting for me to come home, for this time with me. And hiding in my room isn’t being home.
But it’s painful too because everything makes me think of Beck. It wouldn’t even be that much better if we were still together, would it? We can’t go back to him being a student, not competing. That was a temporary thing. Deep down, I wonder if I always knew it was temporary.
“Jordan?” Wyatt calls. “You listening?”
“No, what’d you say? Sorry.” It’s time to start living in the moment, at least for tonight. Even if it hurts.
“We’re going to swing by The Swirl for hot chocolates. You okay walking from there so we don’t have to find parking closer to the rink?”
“Oh yeah, sure. It’s only like two blocks.”
“Yes, but given you’ve only walked from your room to the bathroom over the past week, I wanted to make sure you could handle it,” Phoebe says, turning to look at me with a mixture of concern and amusement.
“I got it, Phoebs. As long as they give me extra whipped cream, I can handle it.”
Once we get to the rink, it hits me that I’ll be seeing half the town tonight. Classmates I’ve gone to school with since kindergarten who haven’t seen me in months. It shouldn’t come as any surprise either that nearly all of them follow me on social media, or heard something about what happened. Most of them ask about the crash, and how I’m doing. Only one girl straight up asks me if I’m with Beckett Steele, and I can answer honestly at least. But it seems like everyone is looking at me differently, wondering about me and everything they’ve heard or seen on social media. I’m far from celebrity-status, but to my small town where not a whole lot happens, the small bit of notoriety I’ve apparently managed to gain makes me interesting.
It doesn’t bother me as much as it might have once upon a time, but I don’t think it’s because I’ve gotten any tougher. I think it’s only easier because I know it’s going to be over soon. Except, knowing it will all be over soon doesn’t make me feel good either. Instead of anxiety over the unwanted attention, I’m feeling subdued. It’s a new feeling for me. I thought I wanted to go back to how things had been before Beckett Steele, Brazen, and professional skateboarding came into my life. But I don’t know if that’s possible anymore. It feels like I’m giving up.
I keep a smile for my friends and parents. Maybe there’s something to this “fake it till you make it” thing. I decide to give it my best shot for the rest of the vacation. I start watching TV with Mom and Dad in the evenings, but after ten minutes, my head always starts to hurt. My parents have been worried, and I don’t want to freak them out. I try to get up to make popcorn or close my eyes without them noticing, but I’m not fooling anyone. When Mom brings me to my doctor’s appointment a week later, she calls me out. “You need to tell her you can’t watch TV for very long.”
“You noticed that? Yeah, it just gives me a headache.” It’s more like a head-splitting pain that pulses behind my eyeballs, but Mom doesn’t need to know that.
“Let’s go to the library after this. We can get you some books to read instead.”
“Sure.” I’m feeling guilty for being such a downer during my time with my parents, so I’ll do whatever Mom wants me to.
Mom’s pulled up in front of the offices to drop me off, but I decide to ask her if she wants to come in with me. “I know you’re worried it’s something more serious. Last time the doctor made it pretty clear all this stuff is normal after a major concussion. You can ask her questions about it if you want.” Maybe it will put her mind at ease. Hopefully it won’t have the opposite effect.
“You don’t mind?”
“No, that way I won’t have to repeat everything to you later when you ask me a million questions,” I joke. It’s partly true though.
Mom sits quietly while I tell the doctor what’s changed since last week: I’m not sleeping quite as much, but still more than usual. With more activity though, I’m getting worse headaches.
It’s not until the doctor starts asking about my anxiety that I question whether I should have brought Mom in. She knows I used to get panic attacks, and I told her I had a couple “mild” ones at school with all the adjustments. I didn’t tell her I think that’s why I crashed, and fortunately that doesn’t come up.
“No anxiety. Actually, I’m not feeling much at all except sort of sad. I let myself have a little pity party last week, cried a lot, and thought that’d be it, but I’m sort of stuck in that mode.”
“What about when you spend time with your friends and family, does that help?”
“Yeah, a little, but I’m not really myself. I’m just kind of a downer all the time. I think it’s because I can’t skateboard and I don’t know when I’ll be able to again.”
“That could be part of it, but we can’t change that. Not yet, anyway. Sometimes moods are affected by concussions. I really encourage you to keep getting out, spending time with people.”
“But what about the headaches?”
“It sounds like those are exacerbated more from screens than general interaction. Keep the physical activity to a minimum, but don’t stay in bed all day. That’s not going to help your mood.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
The doctor turns to face my mom for a moment before looking back at me. “You’re supposed to fly back to California next week to start classes?”
“In ten days, yeah. Maybe the sun will help my mood.” See, that’s optimism, right? Inside, I’m just thinking how depressing it will be to be on campus without Beck around. And if I can’t skateboard? No one’s going to want to be around me I’ll be so miserable. Yeah, not a lot to look forward to here.
“I’m concerned about you taking on a full course load. You’re still recovering, and with what I’m hearing, I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes two to three months for a full recovery.”
“So you think I should take classes part time?” How would that work? I�
��d get bored. I’d end up taking a job the rest of the time, and that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?
“Classes and schoolwork require a high level of focus. Based on some of the symptoms you’re experiencing–headaches, the feeling you described as ‘fogginess’ –I wouldn’t recommend returning to classes.”
“You don’t think she should take any classes?” Mom asks.
“We have a test she can take on the computer. We can schedule it this week if you’d like. It tests things like memory and focus abilities.”
“I think my memory is okay,” I mumble, too overwhelmed to think of anything else to say.
“This is short-term memory. You may not have noticed any changes because you’re on vacation right now. Perhaps it isn’t an issue at all. This test will help us determine that.” She turns to Mom. “Typically, with the kind of symptoms Jordan’s experiencing, I don’t recommend returning to work or school if at all possible.”
That fogginess I’d experienced only a handful of times since the crash is in full bloom now. Mom and the doctor are talking, but I’m not following the conversation anymore. It’s kind of similar to right before a panic attack comes on, I realize. Except my heart isn’t racing, and my breathing remains slow and steady. Everything is muddled, but I’m not fighting it or freaking out. It just kind of takes over, giving me a reprieve so I don’t have to process any of it.
When we get back in the car, Mom doesn’t start the engine right away. “How are you feeling about all this?” She turns to look at me, and I try to dig for the right answer. The only honest one is that I don’t know how I’m feeling.
“I guess sort of numb? Not numb really. Just, resigned. Like I can’t do anything about it anyway, so why bother figuring out how I feel. You know?” She probably doesn’t know, but I add that at the end to make my answer sound less… depressing.
“It’s okay to be sad you might not be able to go back when you planned, Jordan. That’s normal. You’ve made some great friends, and I know that despite things not working out with your first boyfriend, you were really happy there. Either way, you’ll get to go back. It just might take some time at home first. And you know Dad and I will be thrilled to have you for longer.”
