“Commit,” Fletcher shouts.
I roll my eyes and flip him off, then plug my nose. Without another thought, I leap forward off the rock and plummet to the frigid water below. The chill penetrates my bones, but the more I move, the quicker my body adjusts to the temperature. “Goddamn, why is it so cold? The water should be warm like the ocean.”
“Well, it’s a combination of what time of day it is, if there is a breeze coming in and out, how shallow the water is, and…”
Too many details for a rhetorical question. I push my palms forward, forcing a wave into Fletcher’s face so he will stop talking. A sprinkle, splash, is all I was aiming for. I really wasn’t trying to submerge him with water, but he gets a mouthful and starts to cough. Gasping, I swim away from him, yelling over my shoulder, “Sorry!”
Being playful isn’t a trait Fletcher wears well. At the beginning of our relationship, we were always spunky…clownish, back when there was less pressure to uphold a certain persona. But everyone expects a more proper, stiff demeanor when running for office. The public wants someone who is serious because then they will take issues seriously and get things done. That was when Fletcher started to worry more about pleasing the voters rather than pleasing me. The fun drained from his veins, replaced with a sterile bite to his personality. He became sharp and short-tempered.
It’s hard to swim when my ankle is yanked on, pulling me back through the water. I come up for air, choking on water.
Fletcher smirks. “Sorry.”
Pushing off the rock wall, I pounce, attaching myself to Fletcher and dunking his head below the surface with my hands on his head. His arm snakes around my waist as he bobs up and treads us above water, spinning us in a circle as we both laugh.
My laugh fades and we’re left staring at each other. Like, really looking into each other’s eyes. For a sliver of breath, I see him. Deep into his heart, I feel him come back to me. Fletcher’s head dips forward and his forehead rests against the bill of my hat. All of this, being wrapped in Fletcher’s arms, it’s too comfortable. I don’t want it to be easy. I don’t want to fall back into a routine with him. Because right now, alone, he can be himself, the guy I once fell in love with. With no cameras in his face, no people expecting him to serve them the stars on a silver platter, Fletcher is who I know he is. Right now, the walls are crumbling and the slightest light of the man I once knew, the playful teddy bear, is here.
But it won’t last long. I know the moment we get home, and the second real life snaps us back into reality, the same asshole who cheated and forced himself on me will come back with a vengeance. After all, old habits die hard. And I’m still mad. Forgiveness can come easier than forgetting. And a trip to Fiji will never be able to mend how he’s treated me the last half of our relationship.
I pull away from him. “You said something about kayaking, yeah? We should get going.” Before he can respond, I’m using the rocks to climb my way out of the pool and start the hike back up the mountain.
Fifteen
Oliver
The only way I can get through tonight’s show is shit-faced wasted. If I can’t get high, drinking is the next best thing. I’m no exception to the rule, the one about addicts who trade one addiction for another. Piper has been my drug of choice my whole life. When I sobered from her cold-turkey, I switched to what would stop me from obsessing over what I couldn’t have. What I wasn’t worthy of. What I walked away from. When heroin almost killed me, I got clean to free myself from my own demons. I rid the acid burning my soul to ash. I’d been doing great. Finally on track with my shit together. But then I saw her at the coffee shop. Just had to slap down the change for her coffee. Just had to chase after her to talk to her one more time. Hug her. Touch her. It was then I fell off the wagon. One look at her and the damn wagon ran my ass right over.
The first step to recovery…to admit you have a problem.
I have a serious problem. My name is Oliver Leif, and I am a Piperholic.
No matter how hard I try, she will not vacate my brain. No amount of alcohol can erase our past. I try, by golly I do. I drink so much my throat burns. I drink until my internal organs are drowning. Until I pass out. She’s not worth it, I know. No girl is worth the addiction. But she is. Piper is worth every ounce of self-inflicted pain I can possibly torment myself with. And I’ve lost her…again.
I told myself, if I ever had the opportunity to talk to her one more time, I would beg for forgiveness. Plead, sob, and insist she understand I never meant to hurt her. If it took a lifetime, I’d spend every day of the rest of my life making it up to her. I swore if I ever saw Piper again, I would never let her go. And yet, she’s gone. She walked out on me like I walked out on her. Now I get it. I’m painfully aware of the heartache I caused her the night I left.
The booze isn’t helping. I keep thinking; if I can drink another beer, an extra shot, one more swig, it will alleviate the stress on my heart. It will stop the ache in my chest. I take a long draft from the bottle. My heart is bound to explode under the constriction of depression and my new friend Tito. I tip the vodka bottle against my lips and take a large gulp, hissing and grimacing against the fire it leads down the back of my tongue into my chest. But Tito is being a real bitch tonight. He’s not helping a brother out. I want Tito to make it all go away, erase every remaining memory I have of Piper, but all he’s good for is spinning the room until I lose the contents of my stomach on the floor. Bummer, so close to the trashcan.
There went a partially digested carne asada burrito and half a liter of Tito’s.
I rinse my bile tasting mouth out with the bastard. “Fuck off, Tito, you prick. You’re supposed to make it better. What good are ya if you can’t drown my sorrows?” I slur to the bottle of vodka, hugging the glass to my forehead as my heavy head collapses on top of my elbow. Well, Tito has at least made it to where I hardly feel the smash of the tip of my nose against the table, so that’s a plus.
“On in ten,” an obnoxious voice shouts from the front of the bus.
I’d lift my hand to signal a wave, to let the idiot yelling know I heard him, but my limbs are satisfactorily gummy in my skin.
My shoulder tingles upon pressure, a smack to my back. I’m sure it would have hurt if I wasn’t numb. “Dude, what the fuck? We’re on in ten. Let’s go.”
Glass is dragged along the surface of the table, and I attempt to grab the bottle before it whizzes by my head, but my arms…fuck my arms. They’re ponderous. Tito, my bruh, someone save him. He’s being abused, taken of his clear and tasty brain cleanser.
I mumble a concoction of swear words while being dragged by my arm, stumbling to get my feet steady beneath me. “What the fuck, man.” My putty arms don’t hold enough vigor to escape Nash’s rather tight grip on my bicep. “I can walk by myself.”
Nash’s fingers dig into my flesh. “Doesn’t look like it to me, asshat. You better pull yourself together before Carmichael sees you, otherwise he’s likely to cancel the whole fucking show.”
My words string together in a bundle of spit and drool spills from the corner of my mouth when I say, “That’d be fine by me.”
Apparently, I’m not numb enough to not feel the sting of Nash’s paw across my cheek. My reaction is slow, and it drags, but I throw my own punch that Nash easily dodges by tilting his head back. I stagger clumsily, but Nash catches my fall by grabbing a fistful of my collar. I’m weeded back on my feet, Nash’s face inches from mine. “You will not fuck this up for everyone else. You might lead this group, but we won’t follow your lead down the damn poisoned rabbit hole. You have people who depend on this gig to support their families. You have fans who spent hundreds of dollars and have traveled hundreds of miles to watch you put on one hell of a show. So you’re going to pull it together, clear your head, and hold your limp noodle of a body on two solid feet for the next two hours if it fucking kills you.”
“You don’t understand.” My voice cracks.
Nash steps back and rubs his f
orehead with stiff fingers. “I do. But drinking yourself into a stupor over a girl.” His head falls back and he expels a heavy sigh before looking back at me. “You can’t lose your way again, Oliver. You can’t. I won’t let you.” The creases around Nash’s eyes frown.
In the most sobering voice I can muster, I say, “I’m good, brother. I promise.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can’t say I blame him. I don’t trust myself right now either. I really shouldn’t be left to my own devices, not when I’m in such a bad place within my own head.
Nash searches my face and frowns. “What’s so special about this girl anyway? What is it about her that has you hung up with a hangman’s noose?”
“She’s the one.” I shrug as if it’s as simple as that. I stuff my fists into my pockets then look at Nash. He’s blurry, but I try to focus on his eyes. “You know, she’s it. The one I want to marry. The one I want to carry my children. The one I want to grow old with.”
“Dude, I get that you two have history, but if this is how you’re gonna be when shit doesn’t go your way, you need to stay away from her. She’s fucking toxic, man.”
My lips motorboat, making spit fly from my mouth. “You just don’t get it.” I wave Nash’s nonsense away.
“Oh I get it. It’s you who needs to have some sense beaten into you. The last time something like this happened, you turned to drugs, and now you’re tossing back alcohol like it’s water. No one else will tell you, but I will. Girl’s no good for you.”
“She’s my everything.” I whine. “The way you look at Luna is the way I look at Piper.”
“Don’t bring Luna into this, Oliver. It’s so not the same thing.”
“It could be. If you are at all as invested in her as I am in Piper, you could very well end up in the same mindset as me. I lost everything, Nash.” I wipe my damp cheeks with my fingers. “And it was my fault. I left Piper because I was scared I couldn’t give her everything I promised. I left my brother with my mother, who was a bloody pulp on the floor, because I was sick of the way she let my father control her and abuse us all. I ran away because I’m a coward. I had someone I could turn to, confide in, and I didn’t. I was a chickenshit, and instead of coming back to get the one person I loved, and who loved me, I turned to drugs to try and erase the chaos I created.”
“You didn’t leave this time, Oliver. She did,” Nash reminds me.
I give him an epic eye roll. “It doesn’t matter, asshole.” My teeth grind together. “Just forget it,” I mumble and turn away from him, grumbling over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”
I’m annoyingly on a fast-track to being sober, thanks to this conversation, but I’m holding on to every last bit of drunkenness I can. I wish Tito hadn’t been taken from me, but, then again, all he’s left me with is a sour stomach and a raging headache. The closer to the arena we get, the louder the screams become. It’s like nails on the longest damn chalkboard of my life.
Fuck it. I got this. Yep. I can get through a two hour set. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Sixteen
Piper
Kayaking through the Navua River is like going back millions of years. A time warp of native folklore. We are not of this century as we glide down the narrow black lava rock boulders with vines dangling above our heads. The history of the river is almost tangible, right at the grasp of my fingertips. I can smell it—fragrant ferns, green palms, and gigantic banyan trees. Touch it, the mist on my skin. Feel it, the weight of pride in my bones.
Green water ripples around us as our guide rows us down the canyon. This is Tui’s river, his home from birth. The respect and honor he has for his land is evident in his posture. Tall and in charge. Proud. He’s never quiet, either singing or teaching us about his culture and the way the river flows. His stories lure me in and I listen to him intently, finding him as intriguing as the scenery. At every turn is a new and spectacular sight. From the canals to the emerald waters. The spritzing waterfalls to the shimmer of light peeking through the canopy. This river is alive, and haunting. Rich in colors, deep in life. The River of Eden.
We come around a bend and are greeted by locals fishing and playing in the water. They wave and shout, “Bula!”
I happily wave back, looking up at Tui for translation.
“They say hello.”
My hand continues to wave as I holler, “Bula,” back.
The kayak slows to a stop. “You enjoy swimming?” Tui asks.
Fletcher and I nod.
“Good spot. You swim, I follow you in kayak.”
I look at Fletcher, my lips creeping up into a grin, then fling my legs over the edge of the boat, holding onto the side. Fletcher calls out my name, but I’m already in the water. “Yolo, Fletcher. Live a little,” I tease, using his words against him.
“Isn’t the current too strong?” Fletcher asks Tui.
“It’s safe. Strong but not strong enough. Let the water drift you downstream. You get back in boat before rapids.”
“Rapids?” The concern in Fletcher’s voice is thick.
I let go of the raft and cup my hands around my mouth. “You’ll cliff dive off a steep rock but not swim in the river? C’mon, ya big ol’ baby, get in the water!” My voice fades the further I get from the kayak.
Fletcher glares my way and snarls, then jumps in. The current drags him towards me, and I kick my legs to swim in his direction and reach out my hand. He catches it before he can pass me. We stay connected, bobbing along the canal on our backs. Lava rock towers over us and the cacophony of noise echoes in my ears. Rushing water from one of the fifty waterfalls is at every turn. The powerful gush of water shoots out of the rainforest and crashes into the river below. I rest my free hand on the neck of my life jacket and cross my feet at the ankles, finding solace in the lull of the flow.
I never want to leave. The connection I have with this island is rooted. It could take an army to pry me away. Well, not an army, just Tui. He rows ahead of us and turns the kayak sideways, wedging the raft between the walls of the canal. He tells us to climb back in the vessel then, with a jerk of the oar, pushes us facing forward and heading back downstream. The water gets rough and dips in fast rapids. Over-splash sails the lip of the kayak and pelts us in our faces. No longer a smooth ride, we are bounced and turbulent. The rush takes over, adrenaline pulsing fervently through my veins. Squeals escape me, laughter follows.
Every pocket has a climate of its own. One minute it is as if we are under misters. Then a downpour of rain, drenching us straight to the skin. The next is hot and humid. Each mile of the river is a wondrous surprise.
I glance over my shoulder, making sure Fletcher is still on the raft. He shows me a brave smile, but his white knuckles gripping the rope tells me he’s about to shit his pants. “Didn’t you know what you were signing us up for?” I shout over the raging waters.
“I must have missed the part about the death defying rapids in the brochure!”
My laugh bursts out of me. “This is the best tour ever!” The kayak makes a sudden drop, and I scream as gravity lifts my bottom off the seat.
Just when the rapids seem to get closer together and more intense, they disappear completely and we are back to a smooth ride down the river. A village appears out of nowhere with roaming animals, children kicking soccer balls, and clothes hanging from the trees. The closer to the bank we get, the more excited I become. “Do we get to go there?” I ask Tui, pointing to the huts and houses made of corrugated metal.
Tui confirms. “We sleep here. Finish river tomorrow.”
I clap my hands. “Camping!” I’m giddy like a book nerd who found the first edition of War and Peace. Fletcher’s face is wooden. “You missed the part about camping, too?”
“No, this I knew,” Fletcher confesses. His distaste for camping is evident in the way his lips tighten and his back stiffens.
Leaping from the boat, I help pull it onto the shore. “This is fantastic.” I love camping. I enjoy the outdoors. A tomboy at heart,
adventures such as this are what I live for. Cliff diving, not so much, but camping…hell yes! A soft spot forms at the center of my heart because I know that Fletcher is not a fan, never has been. He would be perfectly appeased with a casual drift through the rainforest. White-water rafting and camping in tents isn’t quite his forte.
Tui leads us through the village and we are greeted by the chief who invites us to sit with him and his people in their communal huts. Fletcher and I accept and share kava from a shorn half-shell of a coconut made by the elders. Ignorant to the culture, and curious to know why I’m only seeing the elder women branded with ink, I ask the chief, “Why are only women tattooed? I thought islander men wore tattoos as symbols for social class, or be marked when they reached a certain age.”
I cuddle up and lean in to listen to the chief explain to me each island is different in their customs. There was once a time when only the Fijian women had tattoos and the tattoos were performed by other women. Girls were given Vei qia when they reached puberty, branded to show she was ready for marriage. And depending on what part of the region the girl was from, they were tattooed around their loins or around their loins and mouths.
Good lord. I grimace at the thought of having my mouth and genitals tattooed.
The chief shrugs his frail shoulders. “Here, in village, the history remains. But out there…” He points towards the river. “Today is colonized, and young people don’t hold on to the value of their history. Men and women alike wear the markings of Micronesia.”
I see sadness wash over the chief by the way his weathered eyes droop and the corners of his wrinkled mouth deepens into a frown. The idea of old life fading from the new, not sacredly preserved, is heartbreaking. To bring him back, I start asking question after question, and he humors me with sincere, informative answers.
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