Page 39 of Still The One

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘You said that already.’

‘I did?’ I think back, barely remembering it. ‘Well, I meant it. Portland doesn’t know what they’ve got, for real. I’ve never been more proud of you.’

Eve looks up from the basket now refilled with my bottles of medication, meeting my gaze with those warm, compassionate eyes that have always seen past my FMX boy facade. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, a vulnerability that tugs at my heartstrings. Yep, I hurt her, possibly as much as she hurt me.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘Also, I’m sorry. For everything.’

She stops after standing from the bed – frozen in place.

I want to say more, but the words linger somewhere in the back of my mind, unable to be spoken yet on the tip of my tongue. I swallow them down with the last sip of water and hand her back the empty bottle.

‘I know, Fost.’ Her tone is gentle but pained. Without another word from either of us, she exits the room, and for the next bit, I listen to her bustle around the apartment. The sounds of her loading the dishwasher, then the gentle hum of it running, lull me to sleep.

16

EVE CASSIDY

He’s sorry? For everything? Well hello, they’re words I never thought I’d hear.

My mind races as I lie on the couch, his apology hanging in the air like a delicate thread waiting to be pulled. Part of me wants to grab onto it and unravel the years of uncertainty, and finally find some closure. But another part of me hesitates, afraid that this new-found honesty might just be another temporary moment of vulnerability that’ll suck me back in only to spit me out worse than I was before. Would he ever have apologized had he not been hurt and ended up here?

I dunno. What Idoknow is that it’s way too soon to be having these thoughts. I mean, I figured we’d end up having some conversations about our history, but so soon? That surprises me, considering this is all I ever wanted to hear five years ago, yet he did not pick up the phone or show up at my door and say it when I needed it. For that reason, I thought I didn’t mean much to him. Now I’m second-guessing things.

The couch beneath me is soft, worn, and a little bit lumpy. The room is enveloped in darkness, but the moon’s pale light filters through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor.

Usually, I’m the most calm, cool, and collected person you’ll ever meet. It’s why I’m great at my job – nothing frazzles me. Tonight though, with his recent confession of regret, my thoughts are like a spider weaving intricate webs, constantly unraveling and spinning new ideas and fears into existence.

Did he finally say the words too late? The whirlwind of emotions sweeping through me says otherwise.

There is no way I’m going to be able to sleep. So, instead, when I hear the soft snores emanating from my room and I know the pain meds have knocked him out, I grab my phone and enter his name into the browser search bar.

Guy Foster, Famous 15. Enter.

The once blank page now fills with photos, articles and videos mostly all about the person I’m looking for. One particular image catches my eye, where he’s mid-air with his brightly colored bike, his arms spread out as if he’s soaring through the sky as he hovers just above it. He. Is. Nuts. Tempting fate every day of his life. I’m shocked it took him this long to end up in ICU, truthfully.

I click through the pages of search results, each with images of him performing daring stunts, showing off his tattoos and athletic build. They are a combo of goofy, fun Foster, and FMX pro Foster with an intense look of concentration as he performs for stadiums full of strangers.

Then I notice a video, dated only weeks ago. I tap on the preview and my Instagram app automatically opens to the Red Bull profile page. I unfollowed them a long time ago, precisely so I didn’t get caught up in this kind of stalker behavior. Keeping tabs on a boy you dumped isn’t usually my style. But here I am, in a world turned upside down by that exact boy – again.

This is the video Matty mentioned – the one Foster didn’t want to watch. I hit play. I need to see it. My heart races as I watch Foster riding toward the ramp with an exhilarating speedthat makes my breath catch. The crowd cheers as he performs a jaw-dropping backflip, holding on only to the back fender of the bike, then landing smoothly on the dirt track. His smile is infectious, his eyes shining with pure joy and adrenaline when he rips his helmet off as he comes to a stop. That is a Foster I know, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride watching him do what he loves.

I swipe to the next sequence and this time, it’s the exact one I feared – of the accident that has him sleeping in my bed.

This is why I couldn’t watch him perform every day of the week when we were together. I was in awe of him but was also so in love that I feared exactly this would happen, right before my eyes, and I was certain my heart wouldn’t be able to take it. Based on how rapidly it’s galloping through my chest as I hit replay on the video, I’d say it’s not loving seeing it second-hand either.

How was he not killed? Seeing him in the ER now makes more sense, though even just thinking of it gives me the same anxiety I feel watching the video.

He lived. The lull of his snores right this second is proof.

I scroll through the comments to distract myself from watching the video for a third time and get caught up seeing fans gushing over him.

#PleaseBeOK-I luv u Foster!! <3

The profile picture looks as if this girl is still in high school. Disturbing. I continue scrolling comments.

Give the guy the grand prize for living through this! #OUCH

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