But I’m laughing as I unbuckle the board and climb back to my feet. No doubt, it was pretty fucking sick for the first ride of the season.
With my board clutched in my hands, I climb back up the stairs, then jog across the parking lot to the building. I can’t wait to go again.
I do it three more times before the sun finally comes up. I’d stay here all day if I could, but this is a pretty popular group of shops here in Park City. The businesses will start opening in an hour or so and the parking lot will fill up pretty quickly. Besides, I got what I came for.
A few runs where it was just me, my board, and the fresh powder.
A few runs where there was nobody to watch, nobody to judge.
A few runs where, after months of hell, I feel like myself again.
It won’t last, but right here, right now I feel good. Not great, not invincible, not even happy, really. But good enough.
Maybe that’s why I’m not ready to leave yet. After so many months without it, the snow continues to beckon. I may not be as good as Z or Ash or Cam, but I love snowboarding just as much as they do.
Maybe more, because I have to work for it so much harder than they do.
Fuck it. One last run won’t hurt anyone, I tell myself as I start my fifth climb up the ladder. I’ll make it quick—just do the roof and the dumpster, and maybe butter my way across the parking lot. It’ll only take a couple of minutes. In fact, I—
I freeze as I pull myself onto the roof, staring in surprise at Z, who is sprawled across the apex of the roof like he owns the place. Then again, that tends to be how he acts everywhere he goes.
“Hey, bro,” he says, lowering his Wayfarers so he’s looking at me over the rim. “Sick ride.”
“It was pretty good.”
He snorts.
“It was broadway man, and you know it. You fucking own streetstyle.”
“I’m pretty sure Darcy and Marc own streetstyle, but thanks for the vote, man.”
Figuring what the hell, I settle myself down next to him, bracing my feet on the slant so I don’t slide down. I got in four good rides—trying for a fifth was greedy anyway.
“Darcy and Marc are pussies,” he says. “They don’t take the risks you do.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s because they have multi-million dollar careers to think of.”
“Multi-million dollar whatever. You start playing it safe, you die. Simple as that.”
“Wait, let me write that down.” It’s my turn to snort. “Pearls of wisdom from the Z Michaels School of Snowboarding.”
“Hey. You could get worse advice than that, you know.”
“Oh, I know. I’m pretty sure I’ve gotten worse advice than that from you. Even if you are the greatest snowboarder to ever ride.” I say the last in a douchebag announcer’s voice, mocking the guy from ESPN who kept saying that about him all last season—even when he fucked up. Most especially when he fucked up.
Z just laughs, like I knew he would. But then he looks at me, really looks at me, and I can’t help squirming under the scrutiny.
“You’re probably right, dude. Probably right.”
“I’m definitely right. So, what are you doing up here, anyway? Streetstyle isn’t really your scene.”
“I came to get you. Obviously.”
“But how did you know I’d be here?”
This is my place. I’ve never shown it to anyone before. Except Cam—which, now that I think about it, is probably all the answer I need. She’s always been bad about keeping secrets—even small, harmless ones—from Z.
“Virgin pow? First of the season? Where the fuck else would you be except for your super-secret snowboarding lair?”
Maybe it wasn’t Cam after all. Maybe Z just has the snowboarding “Force” that tells him everything. When it comes to him, stranger things have happened. Besides, it doesn’t really matter does it? If I have to share this place, I’d rather it be with him.
We sit in silence for a couple minutes, enjoying what is essentially the first real day of winter. But I’m hungry—hard not to be after I barged four runs with no food at all in my system—and I decide to see if he wants to catch some breakfast. But before I can ask, he pulls out a silver flask and takes a long pull from it. Then he holds it out to me.
“I thought you’d given up drinking before noon.”
“I have.”
I eye the flask in his hand. “Could have fooled me.”
“Yeah, well, this is more for you than me.”
“Really.”
I can feel myself tense because if Z thinks I need to be drinking, then something’s going on with Cam. And if that’s the case, then fuck, yeah, I need a drink. A big one. To hell with my empty stomach.
I take the flask, take a sip—and grimace at the taste of tequila. Of course that’s what Z’s drinking. Of course. You’d think I’d be used to the taste of the stuff considering how many years I drank it for no other reason than because I wanted to be like him—but I’m not. All this time and I still can’t stand the stuff.
I hand the flask back, then brace myself—mentally and physically—for whatever comes next. “Tell me,” I say.
“She’s going to kill me for this,” he says, looking into the distance for a few interminable seconds. “But I don’t give a shit. You need to know.”
“Need to know what?”
He focuses on me, then, his blue eyes staring me down with laser-like precision.
“Cam’s pregnant. And I don’t give a shit what went down between you. You need to be there for her.”
At his words, my world spins off its axis. And my first thought, next to OH MY GOD, is that of course Z chose to tell me this when we were sitting on a fucking roof. He’s always had more faith in my ability to stay balanced than I deserve….
Chapter 15
Cam
“I don’t understand how this could happen,” I tell my doctor after she confirms that the three different pregnancy tests I’ve taken weren’t giving me false positives after all. “I’m on the pill. I don’t miss doses. I’m careful.”
Not careful enough, obviously. She doesn’t say it, and maybe I’m just imagining it, but the words hang there in the air between us as she puts my chart down and scoots her stool closer to the exam table I’m sitting on.
“We had you on the lowest dose pill we could, since the goal was to regulate your cycle for competition versus protecting you from pregnancy. After the last one made you so sick, we switched to this one because of just how low the dose was—enough to lighten your periods and get them consistent, but not enough to—”
“—to keep me from getting pregnant.”
I finish her sentence for her, even as I wrack my brain trying to remember our last conversation about this. I don’t remember her saying specifically that this pill might not be strong enough contraception, but that doesn’t mean much. At the time, it had been over a year since I’d had a boyfriend and since Z didn’t know I existed, I wasn’t particularly concerned about its contraceptive benefits, or lack thereof.
Now, however, I’m very concerned. Only it’s too fucking late to do anything about it.
“I’m so stupid,” I tell her. “I didn’t even think about it. And then, when all I did was spot for my last couple of periods, I figured it was the pill. It wasn’t until I missed this one completely that I thought I might be pregnant.”
And still I hadn’t believed it. I took the test because I wanted to be sure that I was overreacting—and now that I’m sure I’m not overreacting, it blows all my carefully laid plans for this year straight to hell.
What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?
“You have options,” she tells me. “Utah has fairly restrictive abortion laws, but if that’s the route you decide to go, you have a little bit of time before it becomes a problem.”
“Abortion?” I say. The word feels foreign in my mouth, which is ridiculous considering it’s been skating around the outskirts of my mind
since I took the first test two days ago. Still, this isn’t a decision I ever thought I’d have to make. I’m one of the guys, have been one of the guys for my entire life. The fact that now everything is going to blow up because I’m not—because I have this uniquely female problem—makes me feel a little like I’ve stepped into another dimension. One that is very bizarre and even more sadistic.
My unease must be obvious, because the doctor rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. “That isn’t the only option, Cam. You can also choose to have this baby. You’re young, in great physical condition. There’s no reason to believe this pregnancy won’t be successful. Either way, you don’t have to decide now. Take a few days, think about it.”
She goes over to the cabinets at the far end of the room and pulls out two folders.
“One of these is about abortion and one about pregnancy. Look them over. Think about what you want to do. They should answer most of your questions, but feel free to call me if you have any questions on either option.” She pauses for a moment, like she wants to let me absorb the words she’s saying. Too bad it isn’t working as I pretty much stopped listening after she said the two words that changed my life forever.
“So, do you have any questions I can answer in the meantime? I know this is a lot to think about.”
“Snowboarding.” It’s the only thing in my head, the only idea I can hold onto besides—everything is ruined. “I checked online yesterday and the answers are different depending on what site I went to. Can I snowboard while I’m pregnant?”
Dr. Amato looks sympathetic even as she shakes her head.
“I’m afraid not, Cam. Most doctors will say a woman is welcome, and even encouraged to continue her regular exercise regime during pregnancy. And while some doctors might not be against a gentle ride down the mountain on a snowboard if the woman is careful, that’s not what you’re talking about. You’re talking about competition-grade courses and runs in the half-pipe and falls that, when they happen, are hard enough to break bones and give concussions. Not to mention the fact that you’re three months along. You’ll start showing soon, and as that happens your center of gravity and your balance are going to change significantly. Staying balanced on a snowboard requires total knowledge of your body and how it moves—in a couple months, you won’t have that because it will be changing constantly as the pregnancy grows.”
I nod slowly, try to keep my face composed as I pretend that my entire life hasn’t just fallen down around my ears. I knew before I asked that she was going to say that, but I had hoped—I had hoped.
This was supposed to be my year. My year. I grew so much as a boarder last year, took things to a whole new level. Plus I’ve been weight-training all fall, working my ass off so that I’m in the best condition of my life going into this season. I wanted to take things to another level, wanted to push the limits on the tricks female boarders do. I was going to own the podiums this year.
Now all that is gone.
And what am I supposed to do with all my endorsement deals? I have contracts in place worth more than a million dollars—contracts that I’m supposed to fulfill. I can’t just—
“Breathe,” Dr. Amato says as she shoves my head down between my knees. “Just take a few seconds and breathe for me, okay? In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to breathe again, to be honest. But I do what she says, and after a minute or two, the dizziness recedes. Not the panic—that’s still here in spades—but at least I no longer feel like I’m going to pass out.
“I need—I need—”
“You need to sit here for a couple more minutes,” she tells me even as she opens the door and walks into the hallway. She’s back in just a few seconds, and a couple minutes after that, her nurse comes in with a large glass of orange juice.
“Drink it,” Dr. Amato tells me as the nurse holds it out to me. “It’ll steady you a little.”
I don’t want to tell her that there’s nothing in the world that can steady me right now, so I take the juice. Take a couple of long swallows before setting it aside.
“Keep sipping it while we talk,” she tells me as she settles back down on her stool.
I don’t want to talk anymore—don’t want to think anymore—but that’s not really an option right now. So I do what I’m told, drinking the juice slowly as she gives me a list of instructions that is both utterly incomprehensible and totally terrifying all at the same time.
“I’m going to give you some sample prenatal vitamins. I want you to take one a day for the next few days, while you’re thinking about your options. If you decide to keep the baby, it’s important to get you on vitamins as soon as possible as you’re already three months along. Also, I’m going to have my nurse do a blood draw before you leave today. We’ll test you for anemia and a few other things, plus we’ll check for STDs—which is standard in all pregnancies today. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Good to know since I figure my worry card is currently all filled up. I don’t say that, though. I don’t say anything as she finishes giving me instructions that will keep my baby safe and healthy. My baby.
My baby.
My baby.
The words tear through me, nearly bring me to my knees as I allow her to guide me out of the room.
“Remember to call me if you have any questions at all. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you back here in a week, just to check things out.”
“A week?”
Is that normal? I don’t have time to come back here every week! I have—nothing to do, I realize as I stop in front of the appointment desk.
“Just so we can talk,” she says soothingly. “By then, if you’ve made a decision, we can talk about the next steps.”
“And if I haven’t made a decision?”
“If you haven’t, then we’ll just do a routine check-up, make sure you’re healthy and the pregnancy is healthy. Sound okay?”
I nod numbly because it doesn’t seem like there’s anything else that I can do at this point. I pay my co-pay on autopilot, make my next appointment the same way. And then I’m walking out into the waiting room where Tansy and Ophelia are nervously watching the door.
Tansy jumps up as soon as she sees me.
“Are you okay? What did the doctor say? Are you—oww!”
She breaks off when Ophelia elbows her in the stomach, hard.
“Sorry,” she sheepishly adds.
Ophelia doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask any questions at all. She just wraps her arms around me and hugs me as tightly as she can. It’s exactly what I need right now and for a second, just a second, I bury my head in her shoulder and take deep, shuddering breaths as I struggle not to cry. She pats my back, combs her fingers through my hair, makes low, soothing sounds that somehow make everything better and worse at the same time.
If someone had asked me even six months ago how I felt about Ophelia, I would have said she was good for Z but that I wasn’t looking to be friends with her. It’s amazing what six months does, and now, here we are, nearly as close friends as I am with Z and Ash.
“Let’s go home,” she says after a couple minutes, and I just nod. I’ve been staying with her and Z for the last couple of months—I’d planned on moving out, getting my own place, but she and Z insisted that I stay with them through the season. Z has a huge mansion, so there’s plenty of room for me to give them their space, especially since I pretty much have an entire floor all to myself.
I don’t say much on the drive home except for the obvious.
“The test was positive. The doctor gave me some information to read on”—my voice breaks and I clear my throat, try again—“on my choices.”
Neither Tansy nor Ophelia pushes me on what I’m going to do, which I’m grateful for. I mean, I know what I should do. I should get an abortion and start the season the way I’ve wanted to all along—in tip-top shape, ready to conquer the world. I’m sure it’s what Mitch will tell me to do,
what the guys will expect me to do. And it’s the right thing to do. It is.
And yet I’m having a really hard time getting there. Maybe it’s because I’m still wrapping my head around the reality of being pregnant, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’m being more stupidly emotional than I ever thought I could be. But every time I think about getting rid of Luc’s baby…
I’ve already lost my best friend since this mess started. Am I really going to deliberately get rid of his baby, as well? The idea is anathema to me.
But how can I not when I have contracts and endorsements and expectations and—
I slam the door shut on that train of thought as I feel myself start to panic all over again. The last thing I need right now is to hyperventilate in the middle of Salt Lake City traffic. Something tells me Ophelia and Tansy won’t handle it as calmly as Dr. Amato did.
The car is silent, too silent. I know they’re giving me my space, and I appreciate it—I do—but if I have to drive all the way home with only my thoughts to listen to, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. But I can’t think of anything to say that isn’t help! or fuck! or make it stop!—none of which are particularly cheerful. So I reach over and flip on the radio instead, hoping the noise will drown out my thoughts as well as the silence.
It might have worked, too, if “Bleeding Out” from Imagine Dragons wasn’t the song currently playing. Fuck. Are you kidding me? It’s like the universe is actually out to get me.
The lyrics wash over me before I can stop them, words about losing your way and seasons hiding and skies turning gray “and everything is screaming.” God, it’s exactly how I feel right now and how I’ve felt for the last two months. Like everything inside me—everything I am and everything I’ll ever be—is screaming, screaming, screaming. What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?
God, things are such a mess. Such a fucking, awful, terrible mess—and I don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to dig my way out. Don’t have a clue if there even is a way out. Everything feels so overwhelming right now, so terrifying, that all I want to do is curl up in a ball and hide for about a million years.