by Lia Riley
Word is he doesn’t date, or even hook up, since Pippa died, but I know the truth. I know about Talia, the wharf, everything. Tanner Green’s not a god. He’s just a regular guy, albeit more screwed up than most.
He’s not better than me.
His gaze drops, only for a nanosecond, but long enough to travel to my cutoffs and back. A muscle tics in his jaw, and he clears his throat, wrapping a big hand around his opposite shoulder. Two points of color rise in his cheeks, and just above the frayed neck of his T-shirt, his pulse beats, maybe even harder than mine.
I toss my head, about to crack a deflecting joke, anything to diffuse the tension, when he opens his mouth, shuts it, then leans in.
“When did you start hanging out with this crew?” he mutters.
I fold my arms. “I could ask you the same thing. You here to take out your issues on some lucky drunk girl? Guess fame has its advantages.”
“Knock it off,” he says with a scowl.
Oooh, looks like I’ve struck a raw nerve ripe for the plucking. “Don’t tell me you’re uncomfortable being the big hometown hero.”
He balls his fists so hard his knuckles turn white. There’s a long, raw-looking scrape running up the side of his forearm and a scab on his elbow. That’s typical for him though, due to the hard-core way he throws himself around on the board. When he won the Super Crown, I watched, like everyone else, holding my breath and barely able to look at the flat-screen.
“Don’t ever call me that.” He doesn’t yell. Instead he gets quieter, more intense. His ribs rise and fall almost as if he’s starting to panic.
“Good, at least we’re on the same page, then.” I’m being a mega bitch and I don’t care. Everyone gave him a hall pass when Pippa died after that freak car crash—especially Talia. Yeah, he showed his true colors where T was concerned. All class and charm.
Someone needs to call him out, and the only person up for the job is me.
We stand here, staring each other down, our ragged breaths audible over the doof-doof bass cranking from the living room. He’s a big guy and the bathroom is small, made smaller still by the giant elephant wedged in here between us. “By the way, that was some seriously pervy behavior in John Boy’s room,” I say, tossing my hair over one shoulder.
“I can’t believe you’re messing around with that clown.” There’s an edge buried in his tone even as his face remains stoic, unfathomable.
That’s what Tanner does best. Locks himself away. If I want to provoke a reaction—and right now I really want a reaction—I’m going to have to hammer him harder. “He’s easy to talk to.”
After all, I wasn’t the only one who got turned on by our encounter. Tanner didn’t exactly run away screaming.
“Yeah.” He snorts. “John Boy’s a genius. That stoner’s last three brain cells are deep.”
“He’s…” Crap, I got nothing. “Nice.”
“Some criteria.” He glances over his shoulder before half closing the door. The sight of his hands gripping the wood makes me remember the fists he clenched less than five minutes ago, during the best—and most stupid—orgasm of my entire life. “Why didn’t you say something after I almost walked in looking for the bathroom? You kept going. Took off your shirt. That was fucked-up, even for you.”
“For me? Really?” My voice echoes off the tile. “Let’s do this. Let’s talk about messed up.”
He cocks his chin in the direction of the party noise. “Want to keep it down?”
“Why? Because your rep is all you care about? This whole town has drunk some crazy-ass Kool-Aid.” I am officially ranting. He flinches when I jab a finger into his pectoral muscle, the thick slab covering whatever he’s got for a heart. “Everyone thinks you are such a good guy, but don’t forget, I know the real you.”
“Finished?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been yelling, not standing here taking everything I dish out.
“I’m not ashamed of having a little fun on the side,” I say, forcing my lips into a bright smile. “I like who I am. That’s a major difference between me and you.”
“Screwing dumbasses in race-car beds is your idea of fun?”
My head flies back as if he’s slapped me. “What’s your brilliant suggestion? Become an emotional zombie like you?”
His eyes harden, the gray turning to steel. “You never change.”
“Yeah, well, ditto. You’re still a prick.” I should let it go, be the bigger person, but my smart-ass mouth has taken over, fueled by a fresh outpouring of anger.
His jaw flexes in this angry, sexy way. For one crazy second it’s like he’s going to pull me to him, and for another crazier second the idea electrifies me, like I’ve stepped on a downed power line.
Then he’s backing away, hands up, palms turned out. “Fine, whatever. I can’t handle this.”
“Handle what?”
“You.” His neck muscles stiffen.
“That’s not exactly front-page news.” I bury my trembling hands deep in my shorts pockets, pushing past him. “You could never handle me, Green.”
But here’s the shitty thing about unfinished business. It’s still there even if you leave first or get in the last word.
* * *
My grandma, whom everyone—including me—calls Mimsy, sits crossed-legged on a yoga mat in her living room, practicing Kundalini breaths. The ukulele propped against the futon is left over from her commune days at a Hawaiian hippie encampment during the early seventies. On the wall hangs a black-and-white photograph of herself as a stunning naked young woman, long legs disappearing in the surf, hands splayed over a pregnant belly, two thick braids dangling to her hips. My mom, Delilah, is the one in utero. She has Mimsy’s hazel eyes. I inherited her red hair and big mouth. These days Mimsy’s signature style is a burnished silver bun. When she lets it down Rapunzel-style, she can still sit on the ends.
I want to be Mimsy when I grow up.
Here’s a lady who saw the Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, the Doors, and the Grateful Dead live at the Fillmore and spent the so-called Summer of Love as a flower child in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury.
It’s not worth imagining what my life would be without her. Mimsy taught me macramé, fermentation, tie-dying, and organic gardening. After Delilah went off the rails, my grandmother took me in, gave me a stable home.
She exhales a final Dragon Breath. “Ah! I could take on the world!” She wears turquoise bifocals, but her gaze is soul-cutting. “Hungry, Sunshine? You look peaky. What is it? A man?” Mimsy’s been around the block.
“If I said it was a low-blood-sugar moment, would you cook?” I’m joking, sort of. I also wouldn’t mind if she whipped up a batch of her famous banana muffins—comfort food sounds good right about now. I’m still shaken after my encounter with Tanner. My hands didn’t stop trembling the whole bike ride home.
She chuckles, not hearing the hidden desperation in my question. “Not tonight, girlie. I’m in the creative zone. Got to finish my song before we leave tomorrow.”
Mimsy’s part of the Raging Grannies, a loose confederation of older women who dress like sweet little old ladies, sidle in close to their target, and unleash hell in the form of satirical songs. She’s road-tripping to the state capitol in Sacramento, taking on politicians during a week of environmental protests.
“Quick, what rhymes with fracking?”
“Quacking?” I shrug.
She gives her patented not-amused look.
“Snacking?” I pop open the fridge and select my most recent concoction—fermented kale. I grew the kale myself. Mimsy’s finally allowed me to graduate to my own raised beds. One of the other causes dear to her heart is urban homesteading, and she’s transferred her love of gardening to me. We have Brussels sprouts, artichokes, and fava beans instead of a front lawn.
Through the open kitchen window comes the clatter-clatter of wheels down the snake run. Over the fence is Derby, one of the nation’s first skate parks. Someone shoots like a cannon from the b
owl. It sounds like they’re going to jump the fence and crash into my studio, a renovated toolshed in the backyard.
Only one person rips that hard, especially after dark.
Tanner.
He’s a monkey on my back tonight, reminding me of so many things that I want to forget, and not just the way he hurt Talia. When he looks at me, does he see Delilah, my mother? I grind my molars and twirl to Mimsy with a jack-off hand gesture. “No, wait, I’ve got it! Whacking?” Not cool for a normal grandma. Lucky for me, Mimsy orbits so far from mainstream, she’s like Pluto, back when it used to be a planet.
“Oh! I’ve got it.” She clears her throat, picks up the ukulele, and warbles, “If politicians okay fracking, then it’s time to do some sacking.”
I grin at her adorable expectant face. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Mimsy says, nodding with satisfaction before glancing at the jar in my hand. “That your newest batch?”
“Yep.” I shove in a fork and wolf a bite, wrinkling my nose. The kale has the right amount of sourness, but the flavor’s a little boring. “Could use extra chili. I like more kick.”
Despite everything Mimsy and I have been through, her smile lines are well entrenched. “Attagirl.”
I shove the jar back in the fridge and grab a carrot instead. Mimsy raised me vegan, and I grew up noshing on a steady diet of quinoa, collard greens, and hemp-milk smoothies—carob on special occasions. This diet might have been social death anywhere else, but here on the California coast, I was only slightly weird. Local kids gobble baked tofu like chicken nuggets.
“I went to the post office today,” she says. “Mailed the boys your gift. Nice choice.” I’ve never met my twin brothers, but that doesn’t mean I neglect their birthdays. I send something every year. This time it’s the complete Little House on the Prairie series, my gentle reminder that a back-to-the-earth subsistence lifestyle doesn’t have to include hate-talking the president or paranoia about someone coming for your guns. Delilah and her husband, Hoss, are preppers. They live off the grid in a remote Nevada desert, preparing for TEOTWAWKI, their oh-so-cute acronym for The End of the World as We Know It.
“Thanks. Figured they could use a little Laura Ingalls Wilder influence.”
“Who can’t? I love those books. That Pa, he’s delicious, isn’t he?”
“Sorry, I’m Team Almanzo.”
She gives a resigned shake of the head, knowing she’ll never convince me. “I sent them two Penny skateboards. Last time we spoke, Delilah said they were interested in learning.”
I try to tune out listening to Tanner landing trick after trick outside, but it’s not working great. “How can anyone skate in the desert?”
Mimsy shrugs, the smile slipping from her face. “Who knows what their home is like?”
“True.” We haven’t seen my mom in years, since the twins were born. Hoss—even thinking that bastard’s name sends my stomach into a sickening free fall—has never allowed us to visit them in Nevada, and a string of warrants keeps him from setting foot in California. I have a photo of freckle-faced babies framed on my nightstand, and I wish them sweet dreams every night before bed.
Strange the way you can miss people you don’t even know.
I can hear Tanner’s wheels going ’round, like the cogs in my freaked-out brain. I can’t deal with him on top of everything else in my life. Why, oh why, did one of my least favorite people in the world turn me on? I reach into the pint of strawberries on the counter, cramming two in my mouth. “I’m beat—got to crash,” I say while still chewing.
Mimsy strums a C then a B minor, brows knit in concentration. “Sweet dreams, Sunshine.”
More like sweet nightmares if Green doesn’t go home.
Chapter Three
Tanner
Most people can’t stand to be alone. Solitude scares them. Like, if they’re not seen, they don’t exist. I’m the opposite. Not sure if I’ve become nocturnal, an insomniac, a hermit, or all three, but night skating is the only time I ride since the championship. In the dark, I travel the concrete by feel and memory, hoping to lose myself, lose the memory of what happened with Sunny tonight.
Derby Park’s been my second home since I was six years old. Mom could barely afford the rent for our piece-of-shit trailer, let alone cover a sitter’s wage. During weekends or school breaks, she’d send me here with a PB and J and two juice boxes before heading to clean motel rooms on Ocean Street. All day I’d practice the basics until they came as easy as breathing. The idea of running away never entered my mind. Mom dealt with enough crap. She didn’t need her only kid being a punk.
She had been sixteen when my dad rolled into town for big winter waves and split by spring, leaving one hell of a good-bye gift. When Mom was my age—twenty-two—I was already in kindergarten. I had a second family at the park though. Some were cool, urged me to rip hard, and had a ready fist bump and kind word when I nailed a move. Others were dicks, cutting me off or hollering for me to get out of the way. I owe the sideliners a bigger debt. Every time a dude tore me down, I got hungrier to go bigger, ride harder. At one point, social services paid Mom a visit because of all my trips to the ER.
I landed an amateur spot on a local team by high school and turned pro right after graduation. I hung with dudes who pushed themselves, understood that for every make, there are hours, days, even months of failure. I took hits and smiled. Sometimes, yeah, I’d get frustrated, but I’d adjust, go again. Hit me. Hit me. Hit me. I learned to fall like a cat. Get up.
Always get up.
No matter what else was going on in my life, that simple motto got me by.
Word started going around that I was gifted, special—a golden boy. I had the golden girl, the career, and lost it all. I let down my girlfriend, Pippa, before she died in a senseless car accident, and now she’s ashes in the Pacific Ocean. And after all the shit that went down a few weeks ago, the night before the championship, my ambition—the last thing that kept me anchored—has crumbled to coal dust.
These days I don’t feel anything. At least, I hadn’t until tonight.
A lamp flicks on over the fence, filtered through a colorful Indian print doubling as a curtain, and I’m drawn to the brightness like a stupid bug. That’s Sunny’s studio. My throat thickens. This girl is a hurricane, thrives in the center of chaos. She’s nothing like her mother, and yet seems hell-bent on heading down the same self-destructive path.
The thought curdles my stomach.
Sunny and I spent one crazy summer together when we were thirteen and our moms had a fleeting, fucked-up fling. I know her roots, and they are as twisted as mine. Part of me wants to put things right, but the pieces between us are so broken, I’m not sure how to start. And what if I make everything worse? An ache spreads through my chest, an irrational longing to go back in time, to be a kid, before that night at Delilah and Sunny’s—a time when everything felt simpler.
Her light hits my body and bounces to the concrete, casting a long shadow. Liszt’s “Totentanz” blasts into my earphones, an orchestra on fire. Classical music gets me in the zone, channels creativity. Beethoven, Bach, Rachmaninoff are good, but Liszt thunders through me in an intense, aggressive wave. I’m not sure if it’s the composition or my proximity to that hot-as-hell smart-ass, but I bail on an easy trick, wincing when my ankle rolls. Nothing serious, but it sucks my breath for a second before I drop back in.
Falling is normal. It’s what we do here, how we recognize our tribe. We fail and try again until the act’s instinctive. People on the outside don’t understand, adrenaline’s not what makes skating addictive—it’s the getting back up.
But sometimes, if you fall hard enough, you don’t get a do-over. Once upon a time, I used to be able to reach into the unknown, but that courage is gone. I’ve lost my way, my nature, myself. I never used to be afraid, but now every morning I wake up with the same dull fear swimming through my stomach. The quickfire adrenaline is gone from my vei
ns, replaced by sludge. All I keep wondering is what’s the next thing that’s going to go wrong? Everyone thinks my life is great, that I survived the loss of my girlfriend and triumphed in the face of adversity.
Everyone is wrong. Everyone except Sunny.
She at least knows I’m no golden boy and that I’ve done messed-up stuff that I can never take back. Some hurts cut too deep to be forgiven.
I tug out my earphones, sensing movement in my peripheral vision. Is it her? Sunny? For a split second my heart forgets its job. Did she come out to make peace or ream me some more?
I exhale slowly and turn my head. Nah, not her, just two kids staring from the sidewalk. My heart gives a strange double beat as if it can’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed.
That makes two of us.
“That him, really?” the short one asks his friend.
“Check it, he’s goofy-footed, and did you see how he pumps his arm? That’s Tanner Green for sure, dude.”
I’ve done this arm-pumping thing since I started riding. Guys use to razz me for it all the time. Now it’s a signature, or calling card, or whatever. I should stop and shoot the shit, but I’m not a role model, nobody worth admiring. I tear past them into the gathering fog.
In order to achieve greatness, you have to push through the pain. I thought I had the guts—wrong—the push through hurts too damn much.
Chapter Four
Sunny
I can’t sleep, which is odd, because narcolepsy is my usual MO. Normally, all I need is a horizontal surface and it’s all aboard the night-night train. Tonight, however, Tanner’s face appears every time I close my eyes, the way his gaze locked on my body like he was an explorer, lost in tundra during white-out conditions, and suddenly, ahead, a cabin appeared with a candle burning in the window.
I’d be liar to say it didn’t feel good. Because while tossing and turning alone in bed, it’s okay to admit awful truths. I grab a pillow, slam it to my face, and muffle a loud groan.
