Slingshot – When a car following the leader in a draft suddenly steers around it, breaking the vacuum, which provides an extra burst of speed allowing the second car to take the lead.

 

“You’re good at the woo. You have it down to a fine art.”

“I better be. I promised the entire nursing staff I’d pose for pictures with them later,” Jameson groaned, regretting the decision. Those nurses were a bunch of cougars.

“Oh, the cougars are harmless.” I couldn’t help myself.

“Don’t even joke about that,” he warned in a hard voice. Two of things we don’t joke about these days are cougars and forks.

“My bad.” I giggled at my weak humor. “You didn’t have to promise them anything.”

“I had to in order to bring in all that equipment,” he told me, kissing my lips again. “But the look on your face was completely worth it.” His voice was hoarse, but I loved the way it cracked when he spoke. It reminded me of that sexy radio voice of his. “I must have signed a thousand autographs so far tonight,” he teased.

“I want one.”

He groaned pushing away. “Not you too.”

“I want an autograph.” I’d never asked for one until now. The idea of having his autograph was exciting to me, and I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of it until now. In high school, he signed my binder, but that was different.

“Why?”

“Because, I do.”

“You should sleep.”

“I loved the concert,” I told him. “Thank you. It was better than the real thing,” I replied, referring to the concert. We’d be talking about this autograph again.

“I’m glad.” Jameson drew me against his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head as he rubbed up and down my arm.

We’d been lying here in my hospital bed all night. It was now around one in the morning, and I could tell Jameson needed sleep soon. By the dark circles, I doubted he’d slept much at all lately.

“You should get some sleep.” I rested my good hand on his rock hard stomach, the muscles flexed as he leaned forward kicking off his shoes.

“I will. I need this right now. I need to feel you beside me,” he chuckled lightly. “I used to be hardcore, now look at me.”

“Wait... did we start talking about porn?”

“You’re adorable,” he said with a chuckle, his head flopped to the side getting comfortable.

“Yeah, well you look exhausted.” I traced his tired eyes.

“No... you look exhausted,” he told me with a weak smile and heavy eyes. “I look handsome.”

“And so modest.”

I could tell he was fading fast so I laid my head back against his chest. After a few moments of listening to his steady breathing, it slowed, and I could tell he had finally fallen asleep.

When I thought about what happened to Jameson and me, it was hard to imagine that we could overcome it. It was difficult to imagine overcoming almost anything we’d been through so far. But we had, and I knew now wouldn’t be any different.

I knew our lives would be forever changed by what Darrin had done. But I was also determined as hell to find my happy right now again and turn it into my fairytale of happily ever after, despite what Darrin had threatened to tear apart. I wanted it. I needed it.

Eventually, I, too, fell asleep but not after admiring Jameson as he slept against me. His features softened from his usual tenseness. It was times like this, lying in his arms, that I wondered if he actually knew how much I loved him, how much I needed him. My happiness depended so much on him that it scared me. He said he was precariously co-dependent on me, but I was just as much of a fool for him. I also knew it would never change for us, and I was okay with that. I was okay with being co-dependent on him.

 

Jameson had to leave in the morning for an appearance on Wind Tunnel, which was a TV show, hosted by Dave Harford, a former NASCAR driver. Alley went with him so that left Emma here with me. Thankfully, Nancy stayed, too, so at least I had some “normal” company.

She didn’t speak much, just knitted. She was knitting a baby blanket for the little spaz, but I had to remind her he was a baby, not Shrek. The damn thing could cover a California king mattress with the way she was knitting.

“Here.” Emma handed me a note with a rose and a decaf mocha. “This is from the asshole.”

Nancy laughed as Emma skipped out with her wedding planner, leaving me alone with her.

 

I was grinning and crying, and then I was sniffling and finally sobbing into Nancy’s shoulder. He confessed his love once more, and I got my autograph.

“I’m worried about him.”

Nancy brushed my hair aside and smiled. “You know, Sway, they are all the same. They carry a blanket of burden on a pillow of pleasure.”

And she was absolutely right. Jameson carried a burden just to have the pleasure racing created for him. Though he was struggling with everything else now, racing was what would get him past this.

I smiled when the show came on, remembering his note this morning.

“Did Jimi ever have rival drivers?”

Nancy snorted. “Oh, yeah, I remember a few. Though none ever took it to the levels Darrin did, he had them. I actually remember one race in particular where he and this racer out of Australia got into at the World Finals in Charlotte in the ‘90s. The two of them took out half the field with their cheap shots at each other. Jimi ended up getting suspended for the first race of the next season. I think that’s when he took a step back and looked at how his attitude could destroy his career if he let it.”

I nodded, listening to her knitting needles knock together. She got frustrated with a knot and pulled on it. “Jimi finally had to get to a point where he just had to ignore them, and that wasn’t easy for him.”

“Jameson will learn. He has always been this way, but eventually he comes around. For a driver, aggression is a hard line to understand. With practice, they learn when and how to turn it on and off.”

Nancy always had a way of helping me understand what I couldn’t see for myself.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for joining us this morning. Today’s guest is the hottest Winston Cup driver in the series today, and I’m sure the ladies think I’m talking about his looks, though there’s that. But I’m talking about this twenty-three-year-old kid from Elma, Washington, who grew up on the dirt tracks of the Pacific Northwest,” Dave said before Jameson came out. “He started his career at four years old racing quarter midgets. The day he graduated from high school his brother, sister, and some friends traveled around the South and Midwest racing sprint cars, midgets, and late models collecting wins like the USAC Triple Crown and Chili Bowl Midget Nationals. That was until he caught the attention of Tate Harris. After that, his rise to fame was quick, and here we are today, the morning after his sixth career win in the Cup Series. Please welcome the driver of the Simplex Shocks and Springs number nine Ford, Jameson Riley!”

I even did a little cheer, as did Nancy and Emma when he stepped out, waving to the live audience, regarding them nervously.

“Thanks for joining us today, Jameson.” Dave shook hands with him.

Jameson smiled, taking a seat next to him on the brown leather couch.

“Thank you for having me,” he said, reaching for the water next to him. I was happy to see that he was finally hydrating himself. I hadn’t seen him eat or drink anything lately.

“First off, congratulations on the win yesterday.”

“Thank you.” He nodded, leaning against the back. His legs were spread slightly, and I found my eyes drawn there.

I’m pathetic!

He was once again dressed like a walking Simplex billboard with a gray t-shirt that had the red and black Simplex logo across the chest. He was wearing his dark indigo jeans that I loved paired with his white and black Puma shoes. He completed this insanely attractive look with a white Simplex baseball hat, his mess of rusty loops sticking out the sides.

“So, Jameson, I see the win yesterday has put you into second position, right behind your teammate, Bobby Cole. Does this cause any tension between you two?”

“No, not at all,” Jameson laughed lightly. “Bobby and I get along great. He’s the best teammate I could ask for. Bobby and I have very different racing styles, but the differences seem to balance out the team and provide us with advantages. Where he’s stronger on road courses and superspeedways, I’m strong on the short tracks and cookie cutters.”

“It definitely seems like that. Now what about Tate Harris in third behind you—any tension there? Come on, kid, give me the dirt!”

Another laugh came from Jameson as he shifted his weight on the couch. “No, we all get along great. I actually had dinner with Tate the other night,” he told him. “He’s a great mentor in the sport, and I learn a lot from him.”

Dave laughed as he knew Jameson wasn’t giving up anything. “So you got engaged, right? ‘Cause I saw that live. My wife actually gave me crap. Something about not being romantic enough for her.” Dave shot Jameson a glare.

We laughed, as did Jameson. “Yeah, I got engaged.”

“Now, tell me about this girl of yours, you two grew up together, right?” Dave always had a way with trying to get personal information out of his guests, but he’d never had Jameson as a guest.

“I met Sway when I was eleven, so yeah, we grew up together.” Jameson nodded. I could tell he was trying to give them the brief version, not the version where we got drunk, slept together, and decided to be fuck buddies that ended up creating a little flailing, adorable spaz. “I think I just realized at some point how important the people who have stuck by me through it all are, and I realized she was the one. So I asked her to marry me.”

“So, no dating... you just said marry me one day?”

Jameson laughed again at Dave’s attempt for details. “Yeah, something like that. I thought, hey, she seems to like me, why not ask her to marry me. So I did.”

“Well, aren’t you so lucky?”

“Or maybe she’s lucky?” He smirked, raising his eyebrows slightly. “I’m quite the catch, you know.”

“So I’ve heard from the female fans here with all those screams.” Dave laughed as Jameson nodded his head arrogantly, provoking the female attendees. Anyone who knew Jameson knew exactly what he was doing in this interview; he was using his humor to get out of answering anything personal. “And you’re going to be a dad in March, right?”

“I think you know more about my life than I do.” He arched an amused eyebrow at Dave. “Did you Google me or something?” Leaning forward again, he took another slow drink of water, which also distracted me.

Was he trying to kill me here?

“Yes, yes.” Dave smiled. “I Googled you.”

The rest of the interview they talked about racing. It ended with Dave pressuring Jameson to invite him to the wedding, which Jameson responded, “If you Googled me, how come you didn’t find out that I already got married the other day?” He flashed a sly smile, as the female crowd in attendance all said, “No” at the same time.

“Where’s your ring then, stud?”

“Well, I guess you got me there.” Jameson laughed.

It was good to see him in high spirits and joking around there, but I couldn’t wait for him to come back. It seemed since the accident, I’d turned into Attachment Barbie.

 

It took three weeks total for me to be discharged from that hospital in Loudon, New Hampshire.

Three. Miserable. Fucking. Weeks.

Three weeks of Emma bouncing around with that goddamn wedding planner, designing my entire wedding because she lost out on her fairytale wedding when she got drunk and married Aiden in Vegas. I hardly thought this was my fault, but I was paying for it regardless. She also insisted on painting my nails, curling my hair every day, and shaving my legs. It was like I was trying out for a beauty contest or something.

When she offered to wax my girly pad, I went apeshit on her and had to say, “Get the fuck away from me. I draw the line there, no touching my girly parts!”

Then there were the three weeks of Spencer sending me ridiculous texts that made me want to bomb my phone. He knew Jameson and I were sexually frustrated and insisted on making matters worse. I’ll spare you the details, but Jameson said he was doing the same thing to him. We both had to change our phone numbers to get him to stop.

There were three weeks of Nancy knitting about a hundred baby blankets for the ten kids she apparently thought I was having.

Then three weeks of Jameson being hotheaded, then sweet, then back to hotheaded, then arrogant, and then incredibly fucking sexy. None of those things ever bothered me as much as the incredibly sexy part did. I even found it sexy when he threw a second chair through a window because the nurses wouldn’t stop walking in on our frequent make out sessions. And, yes, any moment we were alone, we were kissing and touching like crazed hormone-induced teenagers. It was frustrating, but there was also an intense desire burning between the two of us. We knew we couldn’t do much more than make out so it also left something to be desired when we were alone.

To me, I thought there was no better way than to forget what happened by picking up where we left off. Normally, someone who’d been through something like this would need therapy or some shit. Not me. I needed my dirty heathen and ice cream.

There were some upsides to my stay there. Emma and I had sampled every single flavor of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, compliments of Van and his frequent runs to the store.

I tried to tell him this wasn’t part of his job but he insisted on helping out. Personally, I thought it was his attempt to get away from Emma.

Finally though, today was the day, my little flailing, adorable spaz and me were off on our adventure of the road trip.

My weekly ultrasounds showed he was doing great, but I was still on bed rest until thirty-two weeks. Since I was only on week twenty-one, it was going to be a long eleven weeks. Stitches were gone, bruises were healing, but I still had my cast on.

The progression of my pre-term labor stopped, but I was also required to take medication every day that I couldn’t even pronounce let alone remember to take.

Checking out seemed to take hours between filling prescriptions and the entire nursing-staff saying goodbye. Though I became friends with them, I couldn’t say I would miss being there. The food was horrible.

Jameson couldn’t be there the day I left since he was racing in Charlotte. He called, and called again and then made sure the hospital gave me all my medicines and aftercare instructions. I had to laugh at how protective he was being.

Our road trip started in Nashua, New Hampshire. By the time we’d reached Albany, New York, I was ready to pull out my fucking hair.

Emma was sitting in the front seat of the black Ford Expedition Jameson rented, her feet on the dash, talking to Van while she painted her toes. I dosed off frequently from being so exhausted, but I caught pieces of the conversation.

“You know, Van,” Emma said conversationally. “After this road trip our periods are going to sync, home skillet!”

Van stared at her in horror that she mentioned her period to him and called him home skillet. I didn’t blame him. She’d been crossing a lot of lines today.

Shifting to get comfortable, I sent Jameson a text. He’d be getting ready for the race right about now, and I knew I could offer some good luck.

S: Are you missing me?

As I expected, he responded right away.

J: I am, honey. I can’t think of anything but you right now. And reporters are staring at me!

S: Same.

J: You got reporters staring at you?

S: No silly. I miss you.

J: Oh, how are you feeling?

S: I’m on a road trip with Emma, how do you think I’m feeling?

J: Point taken. I’m sorry you had to drive.

I could almost hear his sigh through his text.

S: Me too.

J: What are you wearing?

S: Are you sexting me?

I laughed.

J: I guess I am, now what are you wearing?

S: Something really sexy... a white tank top and sweat pants! Can’t get much hotter than that right there!

J: I agree. That’s pretty fucking hot.

S: What are you wearing?

J: My racing suit.

S: I’m intrigued. Keep talking.

I could get used to this sexting tech support.

J: Really?

S: Very much so. I like a man in uniform.

J: I have to go... take care of something now, thanks for that.

I burst out in a giggle. Van smiled, his gaze caught mine in the review mirror.

S: Need any help?

J: I will when I see you on Wednesday, don’t hurt your other hand... I’m gonna need some assistance.

S: That I can do.

J: That’s my line!

S: Jameson?

J: Yes?

S: Go take care of your problem.

J: Yes, honey.

S: Good luck tonight, win one for me.

J: Always, listen to it on the radio. I love you!

S: Love you, too!

Snapping a photo of myself smiling, I sent it to him with the words: Think of me underneath it.

His response back was a picture of his hand slipping inside his racing suit and the words: Oh, I am!

As promised, we listened to the race on the radio driving through New York. Jameson started on the pole again. The announcers went on and on about how he seemed to be on some sort of mission, which he was. Jameson was out to prove to me, and the world, that he could do it. Despite all odds, despite feeling like lapped traffic, he could win the championship his first season. Honestly, I think he was out to prove to himself that all those sacrifices he felt he was making were worth it.

Jameson ended up getting a flat tire half way through the race, but that didn’t stop him. He made his way back through the field in fifty laps and was back to leading.

Like I said, he was on a mission.

And it paid off because, once again, he won. He won at a track where everyone thought he’d have problems since the horrific accident that occurred there.

Van, Emma, and I all clapped when they announced Jameson had won.

“Look at this kid! He’s got it together,” Walter the announcer commented. “This win tonight put him in the lead for the championship for the first time in his career.”

They went on to talk more about him until they spoke with him in victory lane. We laughed at his humor he used to avoid anything personal, but he did send me a hello. “I have to say hello to my Sway. I miss you, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with my sister, but this win is for you. Emma, if you’re listening, be nice,” he warned, his voice stern but entertaining.

“Whatever,” Emma mumbled, flipped off the radio, and continued to paint her toenails.

By now, she had to have had at least ten coats on them.

 

After the long drive, we were all starving. We intended on finding a restaurant, but they were few and far between.

Emma all but jerked the wheel when she saw the only bar along the highway.

We pulled into bar that was swarming with Harleys. I had nothing against Harleys or their owners, separately. Put them together, though, and I swore something happened with their mindset, and they turned into douchebags. If you ride a Harley, don’t listen to me, I’m sure you’re a nice person, off your bike.

“That’s a biker bar, Emma,” I pointed out. “We are not stopping here.”

“I’m taking Ms. Sway’s side on this one.” Van examined the parking lot. “Let’s find somewhere else.”

“Too bad,” Emma said. “I’m fucking hungry!”

Before Van could catch her, she was out the door in a mad rush for the biker bar. This had bad idea written all over it.

Once Van helped me out of the car, we made our way inside the old, dingy bar. It smelled badly, but that could’ve been my overactive smeller these days. As I looked around, I realized the smell was coming from the carpet … actual fucking carpet in a bar.

There were mysterious stains all over it, and I’m sure—by the looks of the people surrounding us—some were from stabbings that took place here.

We found Emma sitting at the bar with what appeared to be the ringleader of the biker clan, a man with long graying black hair, a plumped belly, tats, and more piercings than I thought any man should ever have. Across the back of his worn leather jacket read the words, “Bad Ass Bikers.”

How original, I thought to myself. Or, maybe not to myself. Oops.

Van, who was close to my side, reached around and threw his terminator-arm-of-steel around my waist. “Ms. Sway, I think you should keep quiet in here.” Purposefully meant only for me, his voice was low.

I only nodded because now the ringleader was giving me the death stare. “Yeah, you oughta keep your bitch in check,” Biker Billy barked back at me followed up with a not-so-intimidating stare.

Now, I may only be five-foot-two and weighing in at... well, I’d rather not say these days, but I was in no shape with a broken arm and my baked potato shaped body to be pummeling biker dudes, but my hormones controlled me these days, and I started to lunge forward.

Van caught me, for good reason.

He then convinced me to sit next to him, which I did while he ordered a beer along with Emma.

My drink? Water with lemon.

Am I adventurous or what?

Biker Billy didn’t stop from trying to provoke me and hitting on Emma. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Van getting pissed off. Over the last few weeks, he’d grown protective of us. I knew for sure he was at his wits end when his knuckles began to turn white as he gripped his beer.

Funny enough, it was reassuring being around him. He reminded me of Jameson with his anger, which makes me feel close to my dirty heathen even with hundreds of miles separating us. Not that I have any attraction to Van, I just felt safe with him.

When the music playing throughout the bar changed to “The Hurricane” by Bob Dylan, I knew Biker Billy had no idea what type of hurricane could be unleashed upon him if he pissed Van off.

Biker Billy leaned closer to Emma, rubbing his fu manchu. “So beautiful,” he said in an extremely gruff voice, marked by his years of smoking. “What do say about going for a ride?”

Emma obviously didn’t understand what type of ride he was referring to.

“I’d love to!” she said to Van’s and my horror.

“Emma!” I blurted out.

“What?”

“I think we should leave,” Van suggested, tossing a fifty on the bar and standing threateningly beside me. “Let’s go.”

“But I want to ride on a Harley!” Emma insisted, stomping her foot. “Just one ride.”

“Emma Riley, get in the fucking car!” I shouted, pointing toward the door.

I was hardly in the mood for any of this but, also, I was clearly not thinking when I told the entire bar that she was Emma Riley.

“Silly Sway,” Emma jumped in. “It’s Emma Gomez now,” she said haphazardly. “I’m married.”

The entire bar took notice.

“Wait, you’re Jameson Riley’s sister, aren’t you?” a girl asked from behind the bar grinning like Miss America after she’d been crowned.

“No, I was mistaken,” I muttered, pulling Emma to the door. “They’re not related.”

Biker Billy grabbed Emma’s hand. “The lady said she wanted a ride.”

“She doesn’t want a ride,” Van growled, standing inches from him. He pushed Emma and me protectively behind him. “Like she said, she’s married.”

“That’s not what she said,” Biker Billy didn’t back down either, and I began to realize we were about to be in one of those biker brawls you see on TV. You know the ones where it ends with someone getting shanked and missing teeth and then suddenly the bar blows up.

“Nice going, asshole,” I whispered to Emma. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Me!” She pointed at herself with wide-eyes as her black waves fell into her eyes. “What did I do?”

“You insisted on coming into this shit hole.” I gestured to Biker Billy and the clan. “You’ve created a war!”

“It’s a little dingy, but I wouldn’t call it a shit hole.” She completely ignored my remarks about the war.

“You’ve completely lost your mind.”

More fu manchus and schmuckstachers made their way toward us.

Everything happened so fast that Emma and I had no idea what actually went down. The only thing I remember was Biker Billy screaming.

Before I knew it, Emma and I were being placed inside the Expedition and driving away like bats out of hell. Looking out the back window, I half expected the bar to blow up.

Emma turned to Van. “You have some serious aggression issues.”

Van said nothing in reply but his glare did.

Though I wasn’t sure this was ever possible, Emma was quiet for a good hour.

I liked Van more and more every day.

“No more biker bars,” Emma whispered as we pulled into a drive through Burger King. She only said this because Van told her she couldn’t get a kid’s meal unless she apologized. I found this extremely entertaining. Emma had finally met someone who refused to put up with her bullshit.

She slapped my leg when the guy in the drive-through handed her a paper hat. “Do you remember that tornado we got caught in outside Kansas City?”

“How could I forget a tornado, Emma?”

She shoved a chicken nugget covered in barbeque sauce in her mouth. “You never know. You could have blocked out the memory.”

“Nope, it’s still there.”

Once we found a hotel room that night, Emma and I still weren’t on speaking terms. Mainly, because I had to pee every few miles, and Emma wanted a warm bed to sleep in.

So what did she do?

While we circled the parking lot looking for an open stall, she turned on Britney Spears to annoy the shit out of us.

“You can’t be serious!” Van said. “We are not listening to Britney Spears. I draw the line there!” He ripped the iPod out of the stereo, tossing it in Emma’s lap.

“That’s hardly fair!” She glared at him. “I let you listen to that country shit earlier.”

“Ms. Sway, isn’t it your turn to sit in the front seat?” His eyes met mine in the review mirror, pleading.

“No, no—you guys go ahead. This is entertaining.”

By the time we did make it to the hotel, Van was annoyed, and so was I. Not only did Emma get her way with the Britney Spears, but she proceeded to sing along to every goddamn song.

Now Jameson could sing like a motherfucker. Emma could not. Not even a little bit. She was completely tone deaf and sounded like a coyote in heat.

When we checked in, we were all cranky. Extremely cranky.

“You know what? I hope you piss the bed!” Emma blurted out the first thing she could think of to insult me when I told her I refused to sleep in the same bed as her.

“Yeah, well, if I do, I’m putting the sheets on you!” I barked back, curling into my Snoogle body pillow.

It was ridiculous. We were never going to make it to Elma alive, considering we were only in Jamestown, New York, and ready to kill each other.

I tried to sleep, but with Emma and her snoring I remained wide awake. Who knew someone who was so tiny could snore so loudly. I remembered this from our summers together traveling, though. And it wasn’t about to get any better any time soon.

The noise eventually became too much.

I even tried putting a pillow over her head, but that just seemed to echo the noise.

The hotel room we were in overlooked the pool and it was calling my name; either that, or I was hearing things now. As I laid there, thinking about what happened over the course of the last six months, I couldn’t help but think that maybe if I closed my eyes, it would all be a dream. I did, and when I opened them, I was disappointed it wasn’t.

Van was sound asleep on the couch, and amazingly enough, I snuck past him and made my way to a lounge chair near the pool. I was just outside the room—I didn’t go far—but it was the first time since the accident where I felt I was completely alone. And not in the sense that I was alone, it was that I felt freedom.

About ten minutes into my alone time, the skies in New York began to rumble and growl. Did I move?

No.

My little spaz and me, we just sat there as the wind slightly picked up. The air smelled and felt humid with the impending rain clouds.

One minute it was clear, when suddenly the sky was occupied by dense, suffocating clouds, as though fate had stepped in and unrolled a dark, cotton blanket over the city.

Have you ever observed the pattern of a rainstorm?

The rain usually started out light. Then, before you knew it, you were trapped in a downpour. Where there was once dry pavement, now there were puddles. Where you once were secure and warm, now you were vulnerable. Dry turned to wet, blue to black, and then, with the shifting of the wind, wet turned back to dry, and a rainbow appeared in the sky.

You might’ve wondered what was the point? Then, in the quiet after the storm, you noticed that the plants and animals that were previously dehydrated and dirty were now nourished and bathed. That with each drop of rain, life was cultivated and restored—that you, who was once weary and wilted, was rejuvenated, stronger. A survivor.

So drenched and maybe a little cold, I watched the rippling of each drop spring from the pool. I’d never felt more alive sitting there in that rainstorm, cleansed of the past.

Van appeared, his glare obvious even through my wet lashes and blurred vision.

“I’ve been looking for you, Ms. Sway.” His hand reached for mine. “Please come with me. You’ll get sick out here.”

I shook his hand away. “No, I’m fine.”

And then I was crying.

Van shifted his weight from one foot to the next, contemplating my denial, and then he sighed, taking a seat beside me.

“Are you okay?” His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized things he may have missed before when I kept telling everyone I was all right.

“No,” I admitted for the first time. “I thought I was, but I’m worried. What if everything isn’t okay? What if Jameson can’t get past this?”

He didn’t say anything; he, too, focused on the pool and its rippling water drops.

“Just lie to me.”

Van finally sighed, his t-shirt clinging to his oversized chest muscles.

“I can’t tell you that because I don’t know that he will.” He finally looked at me, rain drops dripped from his dark hair. “I will tell you that a love like you have, with him, is enough.”

“Will I be all right?”

“Eventually, yes.” Van smiled as he stood, taking my hand to lead me back inside the room when the wind and rain started to pick up again. “But it takes time. Don’t give up on him.”

Most of my life, I avoided everything in the hopes that it would magically go away, and I wouldn’t feel anything. It didn’t work. There were times when the only thing we could do was feel the pain. At some point, you’d feel it, whether it was instant, or thirty years from now.

You could be in the grocery store, getting your mail, driving, daydreaming. You could be doing and thinking about nothing and then all of a sudden you feel it. We might not know what the feelings mean, but we had them, and it was important to have them—it was part of healing, right?

Back inside the room, in bed, my phone buzzed, snapping me out of my pity party, and I was relieved to see that it was my dirty heathen. Playing with the strands of my wet hair, I read his message.

S: Missing you right now, honey. Just wanted to let you know I was thinking of you. Love you.

He always knew exactly what to say and when to say it. There I was, wondering how in the hell we would heal from this, and here he was, thinking of me in that exact moment. I started crying again, clutching my phone to my chest. Eventually my hormones calmed down, and I was able to answer him.

S: I love you, too. Congrats on the win.

J: As always, it was for you.

S: I know, thank you.

J: Give my little guy a pat for me.

S: I will, see you soon.

Slipping my phone under my pillow, I drowned out the horrific noise of Emma snoring and eventually fell asleep. I had a feeling the little flailing spaz could hear it, too, because he was thrashing all around all night. Or maybe it was the pint of ice cream I’d devoured before bed?

 

Being on a road trip with Emma had about as much appeal to me as setting myself on fire. Sadly, there I was, somewhere between Ohio and Indiana and, at that point, I could’ve cared less after everything that had happened so far on this road trip. It was a disaster.

We stopped somewhere to get food and gas. I couldn’t tell you where because, like I said, I didn’t care. All I knew was it wasn’t Elma.

Being a punching bag for a child, I had to pee. Grunting, pushing, and pulling just to get out of the car, I was amazed that I was actually able to walk.

Peeing in a taint tank, AKA porta potty, also had about as much appeal as setting myself on fire, but I’d go a step further on this one and include having my toenails ripped off.

Just the smell in that damn thing was enough to make me want to puke.

I intended on trying to place toilet paper on the seat and then scratched that idea and did the hover over the seat thing. Well, that plan would have worked, but I failed to realize how slippery the floor was.

I’ll spare you the gruesome details but in my attempts to right my footing, my arm, the casted one, slipped inside the doom dump. Gagging, I almost vomited. I’m actually amazed I didn’t.

It was hands down the most disgusting, horrific, smelly incident that had ever happened to me. Embarrassed and smelly, I made my way back to the car to wait for Emma and Van.

What seemed like for-fucking-ever, Emma and Van finally emerged, and then burst out laughing.

Fucking laughing!

“Can you just help me?” I reached for the paper towels next to the pumps.

I must have looked rather ridiculous. I mean, there I was with a baby bump walking around with shit on myself.

What was worse, my baby bump had popped out considerably. Now I looked like two sticks with a baked potato on top. Not to mention my pants kept slipping down because in my mad rush to exit the taint tank, I forgot to button them. I could apply for my plumber’s license any day now.

More laughing, no helping and, at one point, Emma began taking pictures with her cell phone. Van was no fucking help either. He was doubled over, face turning red from laughter. I wanted to push his burly ass but, no, there’d be no budging him.

How this was so funny was what I wanted to know? I was covered in poo—hardly funny—and those two could hardly look at me without giggles.

“You know what, assholes? Can you laugh at me after we clean this off?”

Van tried to nod, laughed, and then reached for a hose.

A little shit head of a kid walked past, staring at me in horror as he took in my appearance.

“What are you looking at?” I blurted out.

He gave me a look that was somewhere between scared shitless and horrified by what I had on me.

The assholes finally stopped laughing and assisted me in cleaning up the mess, but Emma being Emma wasn’t watching where she was throwing the used paper towels after we cleaned off my cast. I was tempted to cut the cast off because it smelled that bad.

Anyhow, Emma was throwing them over her shoulder.

They were not going into the trash.

Instead, they went into the back seat of this old Plymouth parked beside us with an elderly woman sitting in the front seat. When her elderly husband got inside, he wrinkled his nose and gave his wife, I assumed, a look of complete disgust.

“Irma, did you shit yourself again?” he asked his wife.

Emma, Van, and I all looked at each other at the same time. We had no choice but to laugh uncontrollably … until I peed my pants.