Bodacious

by C. M. Lally

“When are the police coming to get that heap o’ junk?”

  “That’s who I was waiting for as I walked around it. They said between 4:00 and 5:00 pm.”

  “It’s ten ‘til five now. Maybe we should take a look inside and secure it for transport?” I wink at him, and a mischievous smile widens on his face. I lead the way to Wes’s trailer. The thought of rummaging through it for anything turns my stomach, but I’ll look for anything for the PBR.

  “Try to look in the ‘not-so-obvious’ places first,” Bill advises. He goes straight for the upper kitchen cabinets and pulls them open, while I head to the bedroom.

  I rifle through some old boxes in the closet but don’t find anything of interest, just worn pictures of him in his “glory” days. His bed isn’t open underneath, so I lift up the mattress and box springs. “Well, fuck me. Hey, Bill. You’re going to want to see this.”

  Something crashes in the kitchen, and Bill mumbles “Fuck it” as he scampers into the bedroom. “Good Lord, Braxton.”

  Wads of money are rolled into tight circles and strapped with rubber bands. Shoe boxes without lids are lined up end-to-end and are overflowing with pill bottles. Each one is labeled meticulously with the drug name and dosage.

  There are even some boot boxes, but those have lids. I lean forward and remove a cover, only to shut my eyes in horror. Pictures of naked and half-naked women are tossed inside. One of the women used to be one of our roadies, but her husband left her and ran her off the tour. He joined another circuit, I believe, probably because of this.

  “Was he blackmailing people and selling drugs on my tour?”

  “That’s exactly what it looks like.” I put the lid back on the box. I assume the other boot boxes contain the same items, so I don’t look.

  “Good grief, Braxton. Get some trash bags. Let’s see if we can get this shit out of here before the police show up. I don’t want this scandal broadcast about the PBR.”

  I run and do as he says, finding the bags in the usual spot, under the sink. We both start jamming as much stuff inside them as we can fit. Altogether, we collect five bags, and they’re bursting at the seams with all of those box corners inside them.

  “Let’s take these over to my trailer, and we’ll go through them in Indiana,” Bill suggests. We toss them out the front door, and I carry them two and three at a time to Bill’s.

  In the meantime, he cleans up the mess that he made from the ‘crash’ I heard earlier. He continues picking up more trash inside and fills another two garbage bags. He’s carrying them out the door, huffing and puffing his breath when the police show up with a tow truck behind them. I’m so glad I got the last remaining bags out of there.

  “Stop right there, Sir,” one of the officers say as I come out of Bill’s. He’s drawn his gun and has it pointed at Bill, using his door as a shield.

  Bill drops the garbage bags where he stands and raises his hands.

  “What are you doing?” the other officer asks, slowing opening his door to get out, not seeing a weapon in Bill’s hands. “State your name, Sir.”

  “My name is Bill. I’m the tour manager. I was cleaning up some of the trash before you took it away, so it didn’t stink,” Bill informs them. He looks so innocent with his hands raised high above his head. He’s just an old man trying to help, is how he makes it sound. I lower my head to hide my smile as I walk toward them.

  The one officer closest to Bill picks up the trash and unties it to look inside. “He is telling the truth. It’s just garbage.” He ties it closed again but takes it back inside.

  “You can put your hands down, Sir. Sorry for scaring you.” He comes from around his open door, holstering his weapon. “We were told to have all of its contents brought to the impound lot for review and proper disposal. I thought you were getting rid of evidence.”

  “No, just trash. It’s pretty messy in there. Wes wasn’t the cleanest guy.”

  “And who are you?” the other officer asks, as he comes back outside from taking the trash in.

  “I’m Braxton Ryder, a bull rider on the circuit. I was coming to see if Bill needed any help before I hit the road.” I turn and point to my truck and camper that are hitched and ready to go. “He looked tired and out of breath struggling with those bags.”

  “Okay. We can take it from here. Thank you, Gentlemen.” Bills hands them the keys to the trailer and truck, while the one motions for the tow truck driver to back up.

  We casually walk over to Colossus. “I guess I’ll meet you in Indiana before the end of the night.”

  “I just need a half-hour and I’m ready to go,” Bill slaps my back. “Hey, thanks for not calling me an old man back there.”

  “Yeah, we make a pretty good thieving team.” We both laugh at the irony of that thought. “Speaking of team, have you heard from Noa? She disappeared today, and now I hear she’s gone.”

  “Yeah. She called me on her way to the airport. She wanted to terminate her contract and said her attorney would be in contact. I don’t blame her. She was pretty tore up about losing Wes.”

  Anger forms in my throat and all I can do is choke out, “Alright. See you later.” I tip my hat to him and climb up into the cab of the truck.

  It’s incredible how one wrong decision can turn your whole world dark.

  Chapter 23 – Noa

  “HAVE YOU SENT THE TEXT yet?” Myla rolls her eyes at me and tosses her braided hair behind her back. She’s been sitting on my footstool pulling at her fishtail for an hour now. “I mean, personally I think you should call, but since you're still wishy-washy about the whole thing...”

  “I'm not wishy-washy. I’m still making up my mind.”

  “It’s been eight weeks. The official autopsy and toxicology report came in two weeks ago.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’ve turned down four job offerings. That man is still hanging onto a thread of hope that you might be coming back.”

  “And how do you know this? Have you been texting him?”

  She stands and enters my kitchen where I can’t see her. The cabinet door bangs and water runs, then silence. I walk around the corner, and she’s downing pills.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking some Advil because your stubbornness is making my head throb. ”

  “Myla, I know you love me. And I know you like Braxton, but we can’t be together.”

  “Then tell him that, not me. Ask him to ship your things back, and gain some closure,” she sighs heavily before coming over to hug me. Her hands reach up and stroke my hair. “Let him move on.”

  We stand in the quiet of my hallway, hugging and swaying in some weird dance that we’ve always done when consoling each other. “I can’t,” I whisper, releasing the floodgates to the tears that have been welling up since she first hugged me. “Just the thought of it physically makes me nauseous.”

  “I know, sweetheart. I’ve had a few break-ups that have made me feel that way. It’s normal.”

  “This can’t be normal. I’ve never felt it before in the multitude of breakups that I’ve been through.” I sniffle into her shirt sleeve and use her braid to dry my tears.

  “Oh, honey. Those weren’t breakups. Those were ditchings. You’ve always run before you fell too deep.” She opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of Buckeye ice cream, and grabs two spoons from the drawer, handing me one. I peel back the lid, and we both dig in. “You know, I did you a disservice when I kept saving you from those bad dates.”

  “How is that?” I narrow my eyes at her as I scrape frozen peanut butter off my spoon with my teeth, trying to think what she means by disservice.

  “I mean, you probably needed to finish the date. You know, been forced not to run. Maybe that would have taught you how to end a relationship properly. The end is usually where the lesson is.”

  “How many lessons are there to learn? I’m a quick study. Maybe I need to start dating again and get these lessons over with.”

  Myla flings s
ome of her ice cream onto my cheek and taps me on the nose with the back of her spoon. “You did not just say that. There’s a lifetime of them. You can’t fast track love lessons.”

  I stand there frozen, with ice cream dripping down my nose and cheek. She wets a paper towel and starts wiping the mess she made off my face.

  “I take back my words. My saving you from bad dates didn’t ruin you; medical school ruined you. Study, study, study because it was harrrddd,” she whines. “I remember all the nights of crying and flip charts of muscle groups.”

  “Hey, those were very helpful, thank you very much.”

  “Don’t you think it would have been more helpful to have a real man and muscles to go over those groups with?” She nudges me with her elbow, beaming that glorious smile of hers.

  “Well, maybe.” We lean back against the counter laughing, as Myla collects our spoons and I toss the empty container in the trash.

  “No more eating our feelings. Let’s go for a walk in the neighborhood.”

  “I have an even better idea. Let’s call Braxton together and hash this out.”

  “Negative. I’m not ready. Asking for my stuff back is permanent. THE end, meaning it’s over, and the credits roll. I’m not ready for that.”

  “So, you’re saying there’s more to the story than love, hot sex, an accidental death, and a runaway doctor?” Myla wiggles her eyebrows at me making me laugh.

  “Yeah, the hot sex part is completely missing.”

  “You have to go back for that. It’s the best part of the love story. Come on, let’s check the schedule. Where are they?” She jumps up and goes to my laptop on the dining room table, searching PBR. “The gods are smiling on you today, Sunshine. They’ll be in Salinas this weekend. That’s up by Monterey. We’ll make a long weekend of it.”

  “I don’t know that I’ll be ready in four days to say goodbye.” My stomach churns at the thought of seeing him this weekend.

  “If you’re not ready to say goodbye, then don’t. Say hello. Be friends; there’s nothing wrong with that. Hell, be friends with benefits, or even better be friends that become soul mates. Even you have to admit you can’t top that one so don’t even try.”

  “Oh, Myla. How did I live six weeks without you?”

  “I keep asking myself that. I’m glad you ran away, but I’m even happier that you ran back home.”

  “Braxton is a great man. An honest man- one that has his morals intact. He’s goal oriented and genuinely cares about others. He says he wants me.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “What if he’s the first good guy I’ve ever met, but he’s not the one for me?” Myla hugs me from the side and lays her head on my shoulder. “What if there aren’t any others to find out there? I don’t want to fall fast for the wrong guy. I’ve done that a hundred times, and don’t like repeating it.”

  “Like you said, but we’ve all done it too many times. At least now you know what a good guy looks and feels like. You decide if he’s worth the risk and move forward. If it’s not scaring the holy bejeezus out of you, then it’s not right.”

  “Maybe that’s what that sick feeling is.”

  “It could be. Another good man may not come along. But then again, the next guy could be a good guy, but not THE guy. Trust me, the last thing you want to do is settle for an okay love, when you could have the ONE love of your life had you not been stubborn.”

  “Okay. Let’s get this road trip booked. And, Myla, thanks for not twisting my arm too hard over this.” She high-fives my hand that’s hanging in the air and squeezes me tight.

  “You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for.”

  I’M FINALLY PACKED and ready for Monterey. It only took me two days to decide what to wear to see Braxton again. I drag my two bags of luggage out to the carport and set my travel bag on top. Myla is due to arrive soon, but she’s usually late for everything. In the meantime, I turn on my garden hose and start watering the flowers my dad planted in my absence.

  I’m halfway through watering the yard when a FedEx truck pulls up and starts to unload several large boxes in my drive. The driver walks toward me with a clipboard in hand.

  “Hi, I have a delivery for you.”

  “For me? Noa Knight?”

  She turns her board sideways to read the name and hands me her pen for signature. “Yes, that’s what it says right here.” Her finger points to my name. It’s typed.

  I look down at the boxes, and they’re plain without any markings. There are just the bar-coded shipping labels. I turn a few of the boxes around and don’t see a name or any clue as to who sent them.

  “Who are they from? Does it say?” She squints at me trying to block the sun from her eyes and pops a bubble with her chewing gum. “Hmmm. It doesn’t say. It’s a surprise. Have a nice day.” She shrugs her shoulders at me and waves goodbye.

  They aren’t heavy, so I carry them into the kitchen one-by-one. Nothing moves or shakes inside them to give me a hint.

  I grab a knife and cut through the thick packing tape that’s strapped across the top. When I open the top flaps, I see my favorite t-shirt and shorts. When I dig a little deeper, I come across my laptop, buried deep inside the clothes. I rip open the other boxes, and it’s all here. Everything from Braxton’s trailer, down to the final grocery list I had on a sticky note stuck to the refrigerator.

  ‘He’s done. It’s over, and here’s the proof of him moving on.” I fall to the floor hugging my favorite shirt, and holding the sticky note that reads ‘pretzels and hummus.’

  Chapter 24 – Braxton

  EIGHT WEEKS. IT’S BEEN a long two months without any word from Noa. Hannah talked me into waiting a few weeks to give her time to come to her senses. In my mind, she means Noa coming to her senses about leaving me, but I know she mostly means to give her time to re-think not giving up her job here.

  After four weeks passed, I asked Hannah to pack her things up. She took her time, giving me a chance to change my mind about the request, but I didn’t.

  When six weeks passed, I gave up and finally cried. The shower washed away my tears, but I missed seeing her shampoo and smelling her soap. I can’t tell you how many times I almost ripped open the bathroom box to smell them.

  At seven weeks, Hannah felt sorry for me and took them to the shipping office. I must have looked tortured because all the women brought me food.

  Lately, my workouts are my mental salvation. Breathing and running the way she showed me for efficiency. Doing yoga and stretching as she suggested. The only thing I’m not doing is eating.

  Everyone is waiting with baited breath for her return. I wish she’d call or write or text— communicate in some form with someone; it doesn’t have to be with me, but she stays silent.

  My phone dings with a text. I rush to look at the notification hoping it’s her. My hopes plummet, and my stomach twists when I see it’s not. It’s the delivery notification of her things. All six boxes. Well, that’s it. It’s over. The most silent parting of two people I’ve ever been a part of. Why does this hurt so much worse than the screaming, cursing and bitter words of my past breakups?

  I need to get away from here. Lose myself in what I know best.

  The show opens in Salinas tonight. I’m not competing, so I drive into Monterey to run on the beach.

  I used to love the beach. It was my favorite place to relax and watch the sun go down, especially in California. Today, it’s just another place that I go to get in some cardio.

  As I run along the beach, Noa runs through my mind. It’s extra painful knowing she’s just a few hundred miles away, and I can’t go to her.

  I give up running halfway through my workout when I see a redhead sunbathing on a towel. I almost approached her with Noa’s name on the tip of my tongue, but then she sat up and removed her sunglasses. Brown eyes smiled back at me, and my heart broke all over again. I bend down to pick up a seashell and walk away.

  Every time I look out at the ocean,
I keep seeing the view from her parent’s house that night in the truck. Tears well up in my eyes and I have to stop walking and stop thinking. So I sit down and commiserate with my sadness in the sand until my skin burns.

  Afterward, I walked around town and found a small Italian Bistro for dinner. Noa was right, no one in California eats carbs— the place was empty, but the food was delicious. So good, I’m taking a couple of pieces of cheesecake and tiramisu back to the Harkins’ as a thank you for feeding me these past few weeks.

  As I drive back to our camp in Salinas, the sun is setting over the ocean. I can see it sporadically through the tree clearing every few miles. The sunlight is filtering long, thin beams of light through gray rain clouds, perfectly reflecting my mood. The gray sky keeps reminding me of Noa’s eyes.

  I’ve got to get out of this state. There are seventy-two more hours until I pass over the state line. I think the memories will do me in before my time is up.

  I circle through Salinas before heading back, looking for a distraction— anything that will waste my time from going back to a lonely night without conversation or a smile.

  I’ve only been here once before, but I love the open-air complex. It’s a nice stadium, and you can see the beautiful Gabilan mountain range from the stands. The people here are extra friendly, but not enough to make me stay.

  The show must be over. Traffic is picking up as I get closer to Main Street. I look around, and people watch as we all take our turns stopping at one of the few stop signs in town. I catch myself waiting for each redhead I see to turn so I can see their face.

  I’ve got to get out of this state before I go nuts.

  I finally make the turn into the camp lot and park next to my trailer. The lights are still on over at the Harkins’, so I knock on their door. Virgil invites me in, but not before seeing the cheesecake bribe I hold out in front of me.

  “Oh, man. You must have it bad to be bringing late night treats like this over. Hazel, look what Braxton brought for us.”