I MAKE IT ALL THE WAY through the grocery store and the ride home without mentioning our previous conversation. The need to know his past is burning a hole in my mind.  He’s like a good book that you can’t put down. You want to keep flipping the pages, but Braxton’s pages are all blank. I know very little about his story, and what I do know wouldn’t fill one measly page.

I’m ready for my appointments tomorrow, and I can hear Braxton watching TV. I’m restless, and I hate this feeling. If I were home, I’d probably be knee-deep into peeling old, yellowed wallpaper from the grandma’s kitchen or pulling up the worn linoleum and doing my best to avoid asbestos. I need some laughter.

I pick up my phone and dial Myla, who picks up on the first ring. “Hello, is this my bestest friend in the whole world calling?”

“Hello back to you, my bestest friend ever. How the hell have you been?”

“Aww, you know me. Busier than a one-armed man in a paper hanging contest.” That’s Myla. She was born in Ohio, and has some of the craziest sayings I’ve ever heard— but she can always make me laugh.

“Wow. That busy, huh? Do you have some time to spare for your runaway best friend or do I need to make an appointment?”

“I’ve always got time for you. So, how’s the rodeo and that hot man you’re shacking up with?”

“We are not shacking up together. Correct your terminology. We are sharing a camper until mine is ready.”

“Yep, just like I said shacking up.”

“Stop it.”

“Just calling it as I see it. Anything happen yet? Come on; give me something to enhance my non-existent life.”

“He’s my patient, Myla.”

“So, something did happen. Giiiiiiive me deets. Please?”

“How do you know something happened?”

“Ha! So something did happen?”

“Stop. I can hang up on you.”

“But you won’t, because you miss me.”

“Now that is something I will confirm. Tell me, have you been keeping busy, or wallowing in self-pity with your best friend gone?”

“Both. I’ve been sewing like a seamstress on a mission from God, and then I wallow in my self-induced pity when I realize I have no one to show my efforts to or try them on. It’s depressing.”

“Well, how about Monty? She loves trying on clothes.”

“Ha. Umm, I hate to break it to you, but your sister is a snob. She’ll only wear Balenciaga or Alexander McQueen from the New York runways. My creative style is more Target on steroids and protein.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. Sorry, Love. You’re making outfits for your low-budget western film. Damn though. I’d love to have seen Monty sporting a pair of chaps.”

“Yeah, well, unless they come with Swarovski Crystals and Louboutin boots to match, it’s not going to happen.”

I sigh just thinking about the harassing photos I could have teased her with. All my implicit threats of giving familial pics to the stalkerazzi will never see the light of day.

“Penny for your thoughts, because I know your phone data costs more than mine.”

“Shit. Sorry. I got lost in thinking that only my evil side misses home.”

“That tells me your good side is having a great time, then. Good for you. It’s well deserved.”

“Speaking of well deserved, weren’t you going to come see me one of these weekends? You know I won’t be able to last a month without chattering like a loon to you in person.”

“Yes, dear. I have a plane ticket landing in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in two weeks, and reservations at the Ambassador Hotel. Want to come and sleep in a normal-sized room for a few nights with me? I’ve got a suite with two beds.”

“Wow. Look how far I’ve sunk when a full-sized room is a bribe. Of course, I do. We’ll have a slumber party and talk all night.”

“Speaking of which, has he found out yet?”

“Found out what?”

“About the moaning and groaning when you sleep.”

“Yes, I told him. It was no big deal.”

“What? No big deal? He hasn’t heard you yet. You sound like a one-woman orgy going on. Geez, that’s kind of hard to miss. He must be a heavy sleeper.”

“He’s a gentleman and probably wouldn’t bring it up if he did hear it. He’s not like the men we know.”

“Amen to that. Hallelujah!”

“You never answered me from before. How is Mr. Dick Wiggler?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“You know, your bull rider.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“From your first day there and he answered the door in his wet towel?”

“Oh my God. Stop it, Myla. That’s not what I said about him.”

“It isn’t? Hmmm, must have been how I imagined it to look. Oh well, how is he?”

“He’s well. He’s staying healthy and seems to be doing all the right things to maintain his fitness. I’m not worried about him.”

“That’s good. He’s in the best care possible. They all are. I hope they know this and appreciate you while they have you.”

“They are. Everyone here has been nice to me.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I miss you like crazy, but I have to go. The director is texting me about some stuff, and I’m gonna need both of my hands to respond. I’ll text you my flight details as it gets closer if we don’t talk beforehand. So you get a reprieve for now.”

“Reprieve? From what?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject earlier with all that ‘missing my best friend’ talk, but I have to go. He’s blowing up my phone.  I love you.”

“I love you too, Myla. Later.”

I roll over and plug in my phone for the night; hopelessly bored to death. I could go out and join him, but I’m not a TV person. It’s so mind numbing it drives me crazy to waste my time on it.

Muted conversations of people that I cannot see invade my vented windows. I lie still, merely listening to the sounds of the night in a strange city. Hollywood is so loud that I never realized how crazy it is until comparing it to my last few weeks on the road.

I scoot to the edge of the bed and use my toes to turn the dimmer down on the lights in the room. I should go ahead and turn them off, but push it to the slightest glow of light. There— it’s perfect.  There’s a slight breeze pushing against my curtains, and the night air settles in over me.

****

“MORNING, DOC,” THE girl that tends to the horses says as I come out of a plank pose.

“Morning.” I throw a small wave to her before sitting and getting into the Lotus position to end my workout. I use the tail of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face.

“I wonder why she didn’t say hello to me?” Braxton says. His eyebrows are drawn together, perplexed over being ignored.

“Maybe she likes you and couldn’t build up the nerve to speak.”

“That’s Annie. She talks to me all the time.”

“I don’t know, Braxton. Maybe she didn’t see you.”

“I’m kinda hard to miss in this red t-shirt and shorts.”

“Would you like me to call her back and ask her?”

“No. Let’s move on.” He lifts his left foot and tries to place it on his right thigh, in the Lotus position, but it won’t stay. It just keeps sliding off his shorts and back down to the ground. He growls in frustration after his fourth attempt.

“Relax, Braxton. It’s not supposed to be aggravating. If you can’t physically perform the move, modify it to fit your abilities.”

“Like how?”

“Just criss-cross applesauce. You know, like kindergartners sitting on a rug for reading time.”

“Kindergartners? If you say so.” He twists his legs like a pretzel and does his best to stretch his back to sit up straight without rounding his shoulders forward.

Several ladies are walking around the parking lot for their morning exercise giggle as they pass by, throwing glances at us. The oldest in the group pushes two of the younger ladies forward as they almost stop to watch us, making the whole group burst out in a collective laugh.

“What is so funny today?” Braxton asks.”Are they laughing at me doing yoga? Am I doing it all wrong? Tell me.”

“You’re not doing it wrong. Stop pouting and breathe.”

I’d like to know what’s so funny today too, but I have a feeling it’s me and not Braxton. They’re looking at me when they laugh, and I know a catty look when it’s thrown my way.  I stand and pick up my towel, shaking the grass from it before folding and rolling it up.

“How do you feel, Brax? Better, same or worse?”

“I feel better. I feel energized, but maybe that’s because I haven’t done my cardio yet to wear me down.”

“That’s great. You should feel energized and awake. You did well. Keep repeating those moves and the muscles will stretch further and further, giving you more flexibility to handle the random jerking motions of the bulls that you ride.”

“If you say so, Doc.” He takes a quick glance at the time on his phone and waves me away jogging. “Shit, it’s almost time for my practice ride. Gotta go.” He jogs across the grass and out onto the lot. I lose sight of him within a minute between the campers.

I head back to our place to change into my scrubs before my first appointment. It’s Wes. I groan inwardly. He’s a strange man, and all the warnings from Braxton don’t help any. I’ve dealt with strange men before. Everyone has their little quirks, but some are more prominent than others.

I’m standing at the stretching tables helping some of the team ropers when Wes walks in.  His long, lanky body gives him away in a crowd if you didn’t know his face. The straw cowboy hat with the bright green suede band does nothing to scatter the ominous mood that follows him like a shadow.

He’s the kind of man you know to stay away from when he enters a room; people who weren’t planning on leaving start to grab their things and eye the door. 

An already quiet place gets even more so as he sits and waits with his large folder in hand. Papers are scattered and peaking out of the confines of the rubber band holding it all together since the spine is ripped and frayed.

“Wes, are you ready?” The stench of whiskey hits me as I approach.  At first I thought it was spilled on his wrinkled clothes, but he’s sweating it out of his pores. Bloodshot eyes meet mine, but he seems awake.

“Yeah, I guess.” He follows me back to my provisional examine room, shuffling his feet as we walk. He grunts when I ask him to step on the scales to obtain his weight. Without bothering to remove his boots or hat, he grudgingly steps on the panel for a weight check, ignoring the readout on the digital display. He’s underweight for his height. I know that much without doing any math.

He leans on the edge of the examining table, one butt-cheek desperately clinging to the side while the other barely fills his worn-out jeans.  I pull a gown out of the plastic bin and hand it to him. He takes it from me like it’s the last thing in the world he expected today.

“I’ll be back in a few and will announce myself before entering.” He doesn’t respond, just grunts at me, expelling the sour smell of alcohol and body odor.  I grab his records folder gently to see if I can make heads or tails of it while I wait. He doesn’t argue, so I pull the curtain closed and leave.

I give him five minutes to change because he was moving like a sore man without any will to walk today. “Wes, are you ready?”

“Yeah, c’mon in.” He’s in the gown that I handed him, so I guess goal one has been achieved. Stained socks peep out at me from the green cloth that hangs well past his knees.

I start the physical exam process of taking his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature before he speaks. “I’m probably not going to pass this physical. I’m just warning you.”

I move my stethoscope from his chest to his back, moving around the gown ties to get to his skin and gasp loudly.  Ugly black and purpling bruises discolor his torso and into his shoulder area. Broken blood vessels create a roadmap stretching across his left side.  “Did the bull do this to you last week?” I blink back tears that start to form in my eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. Bruises are pretty common for a bull rider. You’ll get used to seeing them.” He breathes deeply for me, in and out slowly, coughing a few times, and I’m thankful that he doesn’t have any issues there.

I use my lighted pen and look at this vision, having him follow it around. They dilate and move appropriately. He appears to be in good health, despite the overwhelming damage to his body. His reflexes are slow, but that’s understandable for how his body looks. I take a seat at the computer and add in my comments to his record before turning to him.

“I know what you’re going to say. Don’t sit me out. I need points to stay on the circuit.” His voice is honest and firm. He doesn’t beg, and I can admire that.

“Tell me. Is the alcohol a problem, or was last night just a rare night out?”  I hold his gaze, not letting my eyes drop from his even though he had my attention far longer than was comfortable.

He releases a long sigh, and that elongated noise gives me a clue that the truth is coming. “I drink every night. It eases my aches, helps me to forget my troubles, and makes me sleep.”

“Assure me that you don’t practice or ride drunk, and I’ll think about it.” I raise my eyebrow waiting for his assurance. It’s times like these I hate being a doctor and feeling like a mother to each of my patients. He stops tracing the square pattern on the examination gown and finally shakes his head no, but doesn’t make eye contact with me either.

“No, ma’am. I don’t.”

“I’m going to write you a prescription for 800 mg of Motrin, to be taken three times a day. You are not to drink any alcohol while taking it. I’ll be watching you.” I sternly point my index finger at him to emphasize my point. “And when you are more healed, I want you to come join me in the mornings for yoga. It’ll be good for your body and maybe those other troubles you mentioned. ”

“Humph. I doubt that. I’ll take the prescription, but I ‘m not doing the yoga. Thanks, Doc.” He shakes out his jeans and starts to slide one foot into a pant leg, so I ease out of the curtain, dismissing myself.

Whew. That wasn’t so bad after all. I think his nasty reputation is more bark than bite.