Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  “Well, I think you should know that Sean hates to play board games. He has no patience.”

  And he steals the covers.

  “You are thorough. I guess that’s why you’re so good at what you do. You’re truly an expert in love. Thanks, Bree. I really mean that. Just a few weeks ago I came down with a fit of the ‘poor-me’s’, pretty down for not having someone in my life, worrying that I might never find a man to share my days and nights. And then, out of the blue, you send two charming princes my way and promote my new gallery. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better turn of events.” She laughs. “What a dilemma I’m in now, huh? Having to spend time with two gorgeous men. Listen to me, rattling on like a little girl. I’m just anxious to find the love that you have with Nick.” She gasps. “Hey, I just had a great idea. Maybe someday we can double-date. I’d love to meet your boyfriend.”

  twenty

  “Isn’t it illegal to be up this early?”

  Nixon and I are stopped behind a long line of brake lights, waiting our turn to enter the dirt parking lot of an expansive rock quarry.

  “Are you always cranky in the mornings?”

  “Just the ones where I get up before five a.m. and am forced to crawl around on a muddy playground.”

  “I think you’ll find Tough Mudder is more challenging than recess.”

  “Yes, well, don’t forget, you’re sitting beside the hopscotch champion, second and third grade.”

  He laughs and waves on two oncoming cars, allowing them to cut in.

  Sean never does that. He ignores signals and pleas from other drivers, saying, “It’s not my fault they picked the slow lane.”

  Nixon pulls into a parking spot, cuts the engine, and pops open the glove box. He scrolls through his phone’s messages before hiding it underneath his car manual. “Want to put anything in here?”

  “You’re not bringing your phone?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sure you’ll survive?” I tuck mine beside his.

  “I’m not the one we should be worried about.”

  What does that mean?

  “C’mon, let’s go.”

  Shielding the sun with my hand, I step from the car, trying to gain a sense of the craggy dirt course. Several water trucks spray the steep roads carved into the surrounding mountains. Among the mud-bogged terrain lie several sets of barbed-wire-topped trenches to crawl under, five-foot-wide pits to leap over, hay bales stacked ten high to climb over, and floating barrels to swim under. Orange flags flank the windy sharp trail until they are tiny specks and I can’t tell if I really see them or not. “How far did you say this course is?”

  “Twelve miles.”

  Daunting, but doable. I’ve run half marathons before. There are a few more hills than I’m used to, but it’s okay. I’m pumped for the challenge. Plus, all this exercise will justify the cheeseburger, beer, and French fries dipped in ranch dressing that I’m totally eating after the race.

  But my confidence dips as we join the swarm of contenders with their scored stomachs, bulging biceps, and larger-than-my-head chiseled thighs.

  “Geez. Haven’t any of these people ever heard of Easy Cheese and a La-Z-Boy recliner?”

  Nixon laughs, handing me my registration packet and paper bib with four safety pins.

  We pass underneath the entrance, marked with a fifteen-foot black blow-up arch that screams in bold letters I OVERCOME ALL FEARS.

  That’s somewhat ominous.

  We stash Nixon’s keys and our packets in the provided lockers. I’m fastening the last safety pin to my long-sleeved top when a young woman dressed in an orange Mudder sweatshirt and ball cap asks me my number. I refer to my bib. “26042.”

  Before I can say, ‘Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ she whips out a king-size Sharpie and scribbles on my forehead.

  “Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s your number in case your bib falls off,” she says.

  13149 is inked on Nixon’s arm.

  “Next.”

  “You look ridiculous,” he says.

  I snarl at him.

  Nixon and I enter the horseshoe-shaped waiting area encircled with tents, including a first-aid station, a beer garden with “Eye of the Tiger” blaring from the speakers, and a dozen or so T-shirt and souvenir vendors. At the open end is the starting line, designated by another fifteen-foot blow-up arch.

  Once again, I OVERCOME ALL FEARS is splashed across the top.

  Boy, they really send that message home. But how hard can the course be?

  I follow Nixon toward a tent labeled MUDDER AID. He grabs a roll of duct tape.

  “So I take it we loop around the mountains, tackle a few obstacles, and end over there?” I point toward the finish line, marked with a third blow-up arch. Must’ve been a sale.

  “Yep.” He props my shoe onto his knee.

  “Hey, look monkey bars.” I nod toward a framed structure, one hundred yards out. “And you said this wouldn’t be like grade school.”

  “Those monkey bars are slimed with grease and spaced about a foot and a half apart. They’re built at an incline the first two thirds and if you fall, you splash into a muddy pond below.” Nixon tears off a strip of duct tape with his teeth.

  Well, that doesn’t sound like the recess I remember.

  “Whatever you do, when you get to the Arctic Enema, don’t overthink it. Jump right in. Plow right out. You’ll get disoriented if you linger too long in the water.”

  “What’s the Arctic Enema?”

  “Let’s call it an ice bath.”

  “Big deal. Athletes use ice baths all the time.”

  “Yeah, but athletes’ baths aren’t canopied with barbed wire and filled with a dump truck’s worth of ice.” Nixon wraps the duct tape around my shoe.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The mud is thick, some of it waist high. It’ll suck your shoe clean off.”

  “I know what you’re doing.” I prop my other shoe on his knee.

  “You should, because I just told you.”

  “You’re trying to scare me. You’re still mad at me for this whole interview thing and you’re hoping to rattle me. What are you going to say next, huh? That we run through fire or get electrocuted?”

  He lifts his eyebrows and bites off another strip of tape.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “See those wood beams over there, with the dangling yellow wires, what, maybe a few hundred or more?”

  “The spaghetti-looking things?”

  “Yep. Those wires are live. And they sure as hell don’t tickle.” He sets my foot on the ground. “They’ll rattle you more than I ever could.”

  “Electrocution. You never mentioned that.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No. You said heights and water and cramped spaces. I would remember if you mentioned electrocution!” Suddenly I overcome all fears makes perfect sense.

  “They give you a beer at the end.”

  “How can I drink a beer if I’m dead?”

  “Are you scared?” he asks.

  “Yes. Any sane person would be scared.”

  “Relax, it’ll be fine.”

  It will not be fine. Andrew once left a shocking pen on my desk as a joke. I clicked it and got such a jolt, I bit my tongue. Not funny. Oh, God.

  Andrew’s right about karma. Good things happen to good people. And shitty things happen to shitty people. One tiny white lie about Nixon being my boyfriend and now I’m going to be electrocuted.

  Sweat forms at the nape of my neck. “I can’t do this. You win. You don’t have to pose as my boyfriend anymore.”

  “You’re out?”

  “I am.”

  “What are you going to tell Randi and Candace?”

  “I’ll
figure something out.”

  “No time like the present. They’re right behind you.”

  I spin around and see Candace dressed in trousers and a loose-fitting button-down cream blouse.

  Randi prances behind her in skintight jeans, a long black tunic, and knee-high boots.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I found you,” Candace says. “This place is a zoo. There must be ten thousand people here.”

  “And Mary mother of Joseph, ninety percent of the men are hard-bodied and half naked. Thank the sweet Lord above.” Randi slides off her sunglasses, scoping out a guy dressed in nothing but Superman underwear. His bib is pinned across his ass.

  “Ladies.” Nixon dips his head.

  “Hi, sugar.” Randi traces the numbers on Nixon’s bicep with the arm of her sunglasses.

  He steps closer to me.

  “Golly, I’m nervous,” Candace says, “I don’t know why, I’m not even running. But can you feel the energy here? Now, what am I saying? You two do this sort of thing all the time, surely you aren’t nervous.”

  Terrified. Did you hear? I will get shocked.

  A chilly breeze drifts through the air, sending goose bumps along my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering with both nerves and regret from wearing just a thin shirt, sports bra, and black capris, and for agreeing to this whole thing in the first place. Why am I doing this again? For Jo, for the book, for the house.

  “Excuse me, are you Bree Caxton?” A young woman in a black T-shirt and pink short-shorts asks. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail and her race number is inked on her cheek.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “God, I can’t believe I’m talking to you. I loved that article in the National Tribune and I’m following your blog.” She claps her fingertips. “I can’t wait to buy your book.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “It’s totally cool you’re here. This makes me like you even more. Good luck on the course.”

  “How nice,” I say, with a smile.

  “People love love,” Candace says. “You said so yourself. And people love you. I wonder where Scotty is?” She checks her watch.

  “Time to go,” Nixon says.

  “Already? Can’t we wait another hour or two or forever?”

  “Good luck. We’ll find you at the finish line,” Randi says.

  I’ll be the one on the stretcher.

  “C’mon.” Nixon grabs my hand, churning a tickle in my stomach with his strong grip.

  We join the wave of spandex and tennis shoes funneling into the starting corral. We’re behind six or seven men, all wearing bumblebee-yellow T-shirts with Mud, Sweat, and Beers printed on the back. Another group’s shirts say, Does this shirt make my butt look fast?

  A tall man with a similar orange Mudder sweatshirt as the Sharpie girl hops onto a center platform and draws our attention. He clicks on his microphone and says, “Are we ready to get started?”

  The group responds with cheers and claps.

  The announcer says, “All right, y’all. This course is muddy. This course is tough. This course will hurt you.”

  Hurt me?

  “Can I get a hoorah?” he shouts.

  “Hoorah!” The crowd cheers.

  “This course is not about competition.”

  “Hoorah.”

  “This course is not about your finish time.”

  “Hoorah.”

  The crowd bounces in unison. Slight at first, but then it grows into a sea of bobbing heads.

  My scar tingles. Mom and Dad would’ve loved this. I picture Mom stretching her hamstrings, prepping to run, and Dad snapping photos of her and the course.

  Candace is right, there’s a dynamism floating among the contenders. You can feel the vigor, the excitement.

  I find myself joining the dance.

  “This course is twelve miles of utter hell designed by British special forces.”

  I stop bouncing. Utter hell? Special forces?

  “Hoorah.”

  “Tough Mudder is not a race but a challenge. And we run this race in honor of our military.”

  “Hoorah.”

  “We dig deep for the sacrifices they’ve made for you and me and our country.”

  “Hoorah.”

  “When you’re facedown in the mud, certain you can’t scale another wall or run another mile, I want you to think about what our military men and women are fighting for. They find the will, so you find the will. They find the grit, so you find the grit. They find the strength, so you find the strength.”

  “Hoorah.”

  Okay, now I’m excited.

  “All right, y’all, take a look at the person on your left, on your right, and pat them on the back.”

  Nixon pats my back. “Ready, Breester?”

  You know, I am. My body is twitching with energy. I’m pumped. This will be fun. An adventure, to say the least. Plus, this might be good for book sales. Lots of people become famous after they’re dead.

  I can do this. For Jo, for the book, for the house. I will do this. For Jo, for the book, for the house. With a smack across Nixon’s back, I say, “Don’t cry when I beat you across the finish line.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Ten-nine-eight-seven . . .” The announcer counts down.

  The flare gun fires and we’re off, running up the first hill.

  Though I’m certain Nixon’s pace is faster than mine, he strides close. Side by side we run up and down miles of hills, belly-crawl through rocky, muddy trenches, scale . . . and tremble . . . over crazy-tall A-framed ladders, trudge . . . and tremble . . . through the freezing-ass-cold ice bath, inch hand-over-hand along wiggly suspended ropes, and plod through ponds and ponds of waist-high mud.

  “You good?” Nixon asks.

  “I’m good.”

  Two hours later, after we’ve trekked, climbed, and swum, I’m tired and grateful for each passing mile and completed hurdle, knowing the end is near. All along the course, I’m inspired by the difficulty and the camaraderie, people pushing themselves, cheering one another on. But my nerves snarl into a knot when the electrified spaghetti noodles dangle in front of me.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can,” Nixon says, pointing through the cables to the end. “It’s the last obstacle.”

  The finish line arch reads I OVERCAME ALL FEARS.

  Another runner bellows like Tarzan and charges into the wires. Ten feet in, he drops to the ground, clutches his thigh, and groans.

  “I’m gonna throw up.”

  “No, you’re not,” says Nixon. “That guy’s a wuss. Besides, not all wires are live.”

  “They aren’t? How can you tell?”

  “You can’t, but look, they’re spaced twelve inches apart. Snake your way through.” Nixon waves me into certain death.

  “If I die, I’m going to be super pissed at you.”

  “Go on.” He laughs.

  I wrap my ponytail into a tight bun, stuff the hem of my top into my capris—which is not my best look—suck in my stomach, tuck my tailbone, and squeeze my shoulder blades.

  Last obstacle. Beer at the end. For Jo, for the book, for the house.

  I slink between a couple of wires. No shock. Relief surges through my body. I slip through a couple more. Nothing.

  I glance back at Nixon. “Hey, you’re right. This isn’t so bad.”

  “Told you.”

  A breeze kicks up.

  The wires sway.

  My elbow is zapped.

  “Aagh!” I jerk away from one cable only to throw myself into another. A sharp pain zings deep inside my thigh. “Ouch!” Another strikes my belly. Help! Help! I’m being attacked!

  The smart thing is to remain calm, take a moment and settle, then tipto
e my way toward my celebratory beer and laugh, Ha-ha, that was close. But as a cable sparks my ass, I panic and bounce from one hot wire to another, flailing through the obstacle like a fish trapped in a net.

  I’m going to die. Die!

  Nixon dashes toward me. He grabs my hand and presses it against his back. “Stay behind me.”

  I clutch his shoulder with my other hand.

  Nixon shields me with his body. We plow through the wires, passing other runners dropped to the mud in agony. But, like a friggin’ bad-ass, Nixon doesn’t stop, even though, every few feet, his body flinches and his neck muscles bulge.

  I’m no longer getting tagged, but there’s a spark firing up my arm from Nixon clasping my hand. My gaze is on the finish line, but my focus is on his fingers, laced within mine . . . wondering why it feels so right.

  We reach the other side and cross through the final arch.

  Victory.

  We’re handed orange headbands with TOUGH MUDDER embroidered in black.

  Nixon snatches mine and slides it onto my forehead. “You did it.” He grabs two beers and we cheer.

  “I did it.” Not gonna lie, I feel damn good about myself. Sure, my Nike seventy-dollar Dri-Fit shirt is snagged from the barbed wire, chunks of ice from the Arctic Enema are still frozen between my boobs, my knee caps and elbows are bloody and bruised, I nearly died from electrocution, and I’ll be sore as shit tomorrow, but right now, I feel great.

  “Over here,” Candace calls us over. “My goodness, you two are quite a sight.”

  Dried mud cakes my biceps and thighs. My calves and shoulders are scraped and scratched as if someone dragged me through the bushland. Ah . . . who cares. I sip my beer. I’m a freakin’ Tough Mudder.

  “Congratulations,” Randi says.

  “Shoot.” Candace shakes her head while reading a message on her phone.

  “Something wrong?” Randi asks.

  “Scotty just texted me. There’s a broken-down semitruck slowing traffic on I-5. He’s not going to make it and he’s got the camera.”

  I’d forgotten all about the picture.

  “Use your phone and e-mail me a photo, otherwise we’ll never make deadline.” Candace reads Scotty’s message aloud. “Well, I’ve no other choice.” She points at us. “Stay right where you are, with the Tough Mudder sign in the background.” She snaps the picture before I have the chance to block Nixon’s face with my beer.