This is One Moment

by Mila Gray

  Take Sanchez. Bailey’s as good as dead.

  Another bullet ricochets off a rock an inch from my foot.

  Lutter’s alive and might survive until help can get here. I can’t free him on my own. Sanchez is bleeding out. But there’s a chance he might live. A small chance, yes, but if I leave him he’ll die for sure.

  Decision made, just like that, sentencing Bailey to death like I’m playing a round of poker for bottle caps. I crouch low and dart back over to Sanchez.

  ‘My leg?’ he mumbles when I reach him. ‘What’s happened to my leg?’

  I ignore him, and I ignore too the other part of my brain that has started to stir, that has begun to question the decision I’ve just made. There’s no time.

  I throw Sanchez’s arm over my shoulder, heft him across my back and stand, wobbling dangerously as my knee buckles and my shoulder explodes. Pain lights me up from the inside.

  I make it ten metres, and then, as I stumble under the weight of Sanchez, the car explodes at our backs, searing the shirt off my back, and the roar fills my ears, hollows out my head, obliterating everything and sending me hurtling into the ditch.

  I lie there, buried beneath Sanchez.

  And then, air scorching in my lungs, I force myself to my knees, to standing, and I start to move, still carrying Sanchez across my back. And the smoke is so dense I’m walking blind.

  The smoke doesn’t clear. I can’t see where I’m going. All I can see are Lutter, Bailey, Jonas, Taylor, Sanders.

  The boot.

  Didi

  He stops talking, and silence as deep as an ocean fills the room. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to rescue him from this. He lies still on his side, facing away from me, and I stare down at him, dazed by what he’s told me, horrified.

  That he’s been living with this, not telling anyone, makes my heart feel too big for my chest. How can he blame himself for not saving them?

  ‘Walker,’ I say, kissing his bare shoulder. ‘Look at me.’

  He makes a snorting sound.

  ‘Just roll over,’ I tell him. ‘Face me.’

  I pull him around so he’s lying on his back. He stares upwards, towards the ceiling.

  ‘Walker,’ I say, stroking his cheek. God I’ve missed touching him, being close to him. ‘If you had been in Lutter’s place, or Bailey’s, and they were in yours, what would you have told them? Would you have wanted them to save you, or would you have told them to save Sanchez?’

  His brow creases.

  ‘You made a decision, a decision no one should ever have to make. And you made the right one.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ he hisses.

  ‘Because you saved Sanchez. You couldn’t have saved Bailey. No one could. And Lutter? He told you to save Sanchez. And he was trapped. You couldn’t have freed him on your own. You know this. Deep down. You did all you could do.’

  Walker’s jaw tightens. He squeezes his eyes shut.

  I stroke his brow. ‘Walker. You have to stop blaming yourself. They didn’t die because of you.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt, pressing my finger to his lips. ‘You saved a life, Walker. Miraculously. You salvaged one piece of good from what could have been a complete tragedy.’

  ‘Lutter had a family. A wife and kids.’

  ‘And so does Sanchez.’

  ‘And Bailey?’ he asks. ‘He’ll never have those things.’

  ‘Because someone on a road in Afghanistan shot him.’

  Walker’s hands make fists in the sheets. I unclench one of them and force my fingers between his. ‘Walker, the best thing you can do is honour them, is live your life for them. If it was the other way around, you would never want them to blame themselves for your death, would you?’

  ‘You sound like a therapist,’ Walker mutters.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I sound like someone who loves you.’

  He winces.

  ‘And wants you to forgive yourself, even though you’ve got nothing to forgive yourself for. You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  He shakes his head. My heart bounds around my chest.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true. And because if you don’t forgive yourself, then you’re never going to be able to move on.’

  ‘No. I mean why do you say that you love me?’ He turns his head in my direction, still frowning.

  ‘Because I do,’ I stammer. ‘I love you, Noel Walker – everything about you, even when you scowl at me like you’re doing right now. I love you even though you’re grumpy and try to shut me out all the time. I love you even though you do your damnedest to push me away. I love all the parts of you – the broken parts that you try to hide most of all.’

  ‘Why?’ he whispers, his throat hoarse.

  I stroke my fingertips down his arm. ‘Because you act tough but you’re not. On the inside you’re as soft as a marshmallow,’ I tell him, quoting José. ‘And you act like a cynic, but you’re not. You’re a closet romantic. Don’t deny it.’

  His nostrils flare. I lay my hand against his cheek.

  ‘And you might be blind, but you see me.’

  He turns his head sharply towards me. I run my fingertips over his eyelids. ‘You see me better than anyone. I’ve never felt so comfortable, so at home, with anyone in my life before.’

  He still hasn’t said anything, and my brain starts to tell me that maybe I should shut up, that this probably isn’t the right time for a declaration of love, but I can’t make myself stop talking.

  ‘And you say we don’t have a future, Walker, but that’s a lie. We do have a future. The future’s what you make it.’

  I cannot believe I just ended that declaration of love with a quote from a platitude poster. I wince.

  ‘Did you just say that I see you?’ Walker asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  ‘Um, yeah,’ I mumble.

  ‘Are you quoting lines at me from Avatar?’

  ‘Um, maybe.’

  He bursts out laughing, and the sound is so startling, so wonderful, that I burst out laughing too. And then his hands are in my hair and he’s pulling me down towards him and his lips find mine and it feels like everything might be stitching back together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Walker says, pulling away.

  ‘Why? What for?’ I ask, the stitches coming undone. Is he about to shut down again?

  ‘For pushing you away, for not opening up sooner.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I murmur. ‘Just don’t do it again.’

  ‘I won’t.’ He drops a kiss on my lips. ‘And Didi?’ he says.

  My eyes flash open.

  ‘I do see you.’

  Heat washes up and down my body in waves. His hands stoke the heat further as he strokes up my bare legs. I pull him closer, my hands running over his chest. We’ve not yet been fully skin to skin, and Walker reads my mind. He pulls me to sitting and then lifts off my T-shirt, tossing it to the floor before wrapping me in his arms and pulling me back down onto the bed. We lie facing each other, my skin burning and prickling with goosebumps like I’ve got a fever as Walker starts to trace every single inch of me, lightly, using just his fingertips, like a blind man reading Braille.

  I do the same to him, drinking him in, every line, every contour, from the flat of his hip bone to the scored ridges of stomach muscles to the tight knots in his shoulders. My fingers outline the raised scar there and then I kiss it, wishing I could kiss it away, erase it, just like I wish I could erase all the scars on the inside too. He draws in a breath, holds it, and then when he finally lets it go he rolls me over onto my back and pins me there, looking down at me. His eyes are clouded, dark, and he looks like he’s being held behind a fence, awaiting a starting whistle.

  I grip his hips and pull him down so all his weight is on me.

  ‘Didi – ’ he starts to say and tries to lift off me.

  I cling to him, refusing to let him go. ‘I want you,’ I tell him.

&nbs
p; ‘I want you too,’ he says, ‘but . . .’

  I remember his stupid rule about not wanting to make love until he got his sight back. ‘You just told me you see me,’ I whisper.

  He hovers above me, carrying his weight on his arms, and I watch the internal battle wage behind his eyes. I help it along by arching my hips and pressing myself against him.

  It works. He groans and sweeps me into his arms, and in one swift movement rolls me so I’m lying on my side, one thigh flung over his hip.

  He kisses me, hungrily, his tongue searching my mouth, until the room is spinning and I can feel flames licking their way up my legs. When his hand brushes my stomach, I jump because I’m so on edge. His fingers slide into my underwear and I arch again, my hips rising off the bed on reflex. With his free hand he keeps me pinned in place, and my breathing comes so hard and so fast my lips start to tingle.

  He bites gently on my bottom one and pushes into me with his fingers, his thumb circling on the outside. I let out a gasp. How does he know exactly how to touch me? I reach for him and feel the shudder pass through his body. It’s good to know he isn’t as in control as he pretends. I press harder and he lets out a groan, and then, in the next moment it becomes frantic, desperate. Our hands get tangled as we pull each other’s underwear off and then his fingers are exploring again, and his tongue, and he has me. He owns me. I’ve never wanted anyone or anything as much as I do Walker, right now, in this moment.

  Within seconds I’m on the edge, but he stops, expertly reading my body, pulling me back gently. Frustrated, I wriggle from his grip and push him backwards onto the bed so he’s lying flat. When he tries to protest, I put my finger to his lips. He gives up and relaxes into the bed, and then I take my turn exploring him, tasting him. His fingers bite into my thighs as I inch lower down his body, his stomach muscles tensing hard.

  I kiss all the way down his body, taunting him the way he taunted me, until finally, with a growl, he throws me off him, rolls me over and pins me back down on the bed, nudging my legs open with his knee. I’m so aching for him that when he pauses, his chest against mine, his lips hovering just above mine, I hear myself whimper.

  ‘What?’ I ask. Please don’t stop.

  ‘Do you have . . . ?’ he asks.

  Oh God. I forgot about that. My body sags into the bed, frustration almost making me cry. Fallen at the last fence. I turn my head and see something on the nightstand and grin.

  ‘I think Sanchez thought ahead, though,’ I tell him.

  ‘What?’

  I reach for a condom. Walker takes it from me and rips open the packet. When he’s done, he hovers over me, looking down. His fingers caress my face, my lips. And then he’s inside me, pushing into me gently, slowly, so slowly.

  He kisses my neck, my face, my lips as he pulls out and then pushes into me again, still gently, but faster. I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him in further, my fingernails digging into his back.

  Spurred on, Walker drives into me harder, though his touch stays gentle, his hands caressing me.

  I can’t speak, can’t keep track of my thoughts, except for one – that this is how it’s meant to be. This is what all those movies and books are hinting at. But even they don’t come close. It was just sex before, but this is more, this is way more than just sex.

  I can feel myself coming apart, and Walker can feel it too because he shifts his weight so he’s pressing into me in a way that makes me cry out, stars bursting on the back of my eyelids. His fingers slide through mine, squeeze.

  When I come, Walker does too, his body shuddering against mine. He collapses down on top of me and I hold him, both of us shaking, breathing so hard we can’t catch our breath.

  We’re filmed in sweat, and the sheets are tangled at our feet. I don’t want him to pull out. I just want to lie like this, holding him, being held by him.

  Walker rolls off me and pulls me against his chest, holding me like he’s never going to let me go. I close my eyes. I feel like I’m floating. I can’t stop smiling, and then it becomes a laugh that ripples through me.

  ‘What are you laughing about?’ he asks.

  ‘I made it into the eleven per cent,’ I say, thinking of the statistic in my mom’s book.

  Walker

  ‘Dude, come on, you can tell me. I promise I won’t say a word.’

  I try to keep my face stony, but I can feel the cracks starting to appear.

  ‘I saw Didi come out of your room this morning,’ Sanchez says, nudging me in the ribs.

  If I could get away from him I would, but we’re tied together. The race is about to start – we’re lined up on the beach in a crowd of jostling people. Sanchez tells me there are about two hundred and fifty of us.

  ‘So, you going to tell me all you did was talk and watch TV?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything.’

  ‘You’re walking funny,’ he says.

  I laugh.

  ‘Ahhh! You did get some. I knew it,’ he shouts, pulling me into a headlock. ‘That’s my man. Finally. Jesus, took you two long enough.’

  I ignore him and try to listen out for the starter whistle. When we hear it, Sanchez and I are supposed to dive in off the jetty we’re on, and then we have to swim twice around a buoy, two thousand metres in open ocean, before we make our way to the beach. Once there, we strip out of our wetsuits, climb onto our tandem bike and pedal forty clicks to the second point, where we ditch the bike and have to run twelve clicks more. I’m pumped up, primed, blood roaring in my ears, but that’s nothing to do with the race – it’s all to do with Didi.

  Even thinking about her now makes me grin. She’s waiting on the beach for us with Valentina, and knowing she’s there, that she’s not going anywhere and will be waiting at the very end to see me home, is all the incentive I need to win this thing. I hate to admit it, but Doc Monroe was right. Talking it through, reliving it with Didi, did help. I saw it through her eyes, saw that what I thought was a choice, wasn’t. I did the only thing I could do. For the first time in months I woke up without feeling the boulder-weight of guilt resting on my shoulders. I felt light. Free.

  ‘You know the Brazilian soccer coach won’t let the team have sex for a week before the race,’ Sanchez says, ‘so I hope I haven’t destroyed our chances of winning today by leaving those condoms by the bed.’

  ‘You haven’t,’ I answer, crouching low, ready to make the dive. The waves slap the side of the wooden pontoon. I’ve had Sanchez describe everything as best he can: the height of the waves, the distance and direction of the buoy, the strength of the tide, and we’ve practised enough in the pool that we’re fluid when we swim. Sanchez says if we don’t do well in the triathlon, he’s going to enter us in a synchronized swimming contest. So far we’ve only practised in a pool with no current and no waves and without fifty other guys – the size of our heat – pushing and shoving around us, chopping up the water. Then there’s the cold. My blood might still be pumping furiously around my body, but the second I hit that water I know I’m going to feel it like a machine-gun round to the chest.

  ‘Ready?’ Sanchez asks, and I feel him crouch into a dive pose beside me.

  I nod.

  The whistle blows.

  We dive.

  Hitting the surface is like hitting a steel wall at full speed. The cold slams into me, bites savagely through the rubber of the wetsuit, and when I break the surface I gasp for air, my lungs shrinking. And then I feel the tug on the rope attaching me to Sanchez and I kick hard and start to move my arms. Within seconds I’m powering through the waves, building a steady rhythm, letting Sanchez take the lead, trying to block out the cold and just keep moving. Someone kicks me, an arm connects with my head, but I dig harder, snatch breaths from between icy waves, until we’re finally clear of the crowd and I can tell we’re getting ahead.

  But then, without warning, after about two hundred metres, the rope between Sanchez and me slackens. I veer to the left, thinking I’
m about to plough into him, but before I can take a second stroke I’m dragged under. I kick, smack my heel into something hard, break the surface, grab a mouthful of air, but then I’m sucked under again. Head bursting, water rocketing up my nose, I fight my way back to the surface, but something keeps pulling me down.

  My brain scrambles to make sense. What’s happening? Sanchez. Sanchez is pulling me down. I kick hard, harder, burst through the surface waves one more time, snatch down a lungful of air and then dive, grabbing for the rope, hauling it through my hands until my fingers snag on the belt attached to Sanchez’s waist. He’s face down, sinking fast, pulling me down with him like a lead weight.

  I try to grab him, but my hands are numb and he slips from my grasp. I lunge for him again, grab the collar of his wetsuit and then kick up, kick out, let out all the air from my lungs to propel me upwards towards the light.

  I burst through the waves, coughing, spluttering, gasping, drawing in oxygen, kicking as hard as I can to try to stay afloat as my arms hold on to Sanchez, whose head is lolling back against my shoulder. His eyes are open. Waves slam into us, over us, into Sanchez’s open mouth.

  My eyes are open. I register that I can see – that the world is a spinning kaleidoscope of colour – as I simultaneously register that Sanchez isn’t breathing. I roll instinctively onto my back, slide my arm beneath his arms, and start swimming towards the shore, tugging him with me.

  Another swimmer – I’m not sure who – grabs hold of Sanchez’s other side and helps me. Panic propels me faster. The shore’s still fifty metres away and I can see it, see the people crowded there, can hear the roar of people yelling over the sound of the waves thrashing. It feels as if we’ll never make it, that it isn’t getting any nearer, but then my heel smacks a rock.

  We hit the shore and I stagger to my knees. The other person, not a guy but a girl in a wetsuit, helps me drag Sanchez into the shallows and I collapse down beside him. I can hear people yelling in my ear, can sense people crowding in, but I shut them out. I’m already covering Sanchez’s mouth with my own, breathing into him, for him, pumping his chest. Breathe, pump for five, breathe, pump for five, breathe.