Page 3 of Still The One

She frowns. ‘You know you don’t have to torture yourself like this. Just delete the original post.’

‘I can’t,’ I admit, a hint of regret in my voice. ‘I hate it, but I also don’t know if I’m ready to forget it.’

‘You’re—’ With her mouth open, the sound of commotion near the ambulance entrance catches our attention. We both turn to see what the fuss is about.

‘Trauma 1 crew to the bay,’ I hear Dale’s voice echoing from the ER overhead speakers through the halls.

‘Sucks to be them,’ Gen says, leaning back in her chair and tossing a piece of SkinnyPop into the air, catching it in her mouth as we watch multiple patients being pushed past us toward Bay 1.

‘Don’t curse us,’ I warn, grabbing my now buzzing phone from my scrub pants pocket.

I glance at the screen, blinking rapidly as if there’s something wrong with my vision. No. He. Didn’t. But I see it with my own eyes. He did. Again.

xx, Fost

Comment made, one minute ago.

I scrunch my face. Why, Foster? Why every year? I inhale deeply, exhaling slowly. Do I respond to this? No. It’d be weird (like having this exact conversation with myself every year is normal). I reach across the screen and tap the thumbs up with my index finger. It’s whatIdo every year in response to his comment. Passive-aggressive is our new vibe as we play a silent game of ‘You still alive?’, ‘Yep, I acknowledge you’. I just wish I knew what it meant.

2

GUY ‘FOSTER’

‘Feeling good?’ Matty asks. He’s my trainer – a guy with graying hair, a solid flavor savor of a mustache, and a slightly growing retirement gut proving his wife really is the cook she claims to be. (She is, I eat there all the time. We live like five minutes away from each other.) He pats me on the back.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Oregon – five years to be exact. A refreshing crisp breeze has the recently dropped leaves dancing around the track and swirling through our tent as I sit on a stool inside with the rest of my team. Honestly, it feels exactly like what I remember a late West Coast summer day feels like. The September heat and humidity of Florida isn’t something I miss right now, that’s for sure.

‘Are you kidding?’ Travis, one of our mechanics, asks. ‘I’ve never seen Foster anything other than calm, cool, and collected. He makes this sport look like a party game.’

I chuckle. ‘I don’t know about that,’ I say, appreciating the compliment.

Years of hard work is how that happened. I’ve been a motocross and Freestyle Motocross Rider (also known as FMX) since I was a kid. I won my first trophy at the age of four, and myfirst big title at fifteen. After that, I’d caught the bug for extreme sports. Backflips off a ramp on a motorcycle, love it. That time I skydived, I’ll never forget it. Extreme sports and me, we jibe. I’m addicted to the adrenaline. To me, cutting through the air on my motorcycle, hitting the power band at just the right moment toward a ramp that will launch me forty to fifty feet in the air so I can do some insane flip, is what life is about. I love the smell of gasoline and engine oil. And the ringing in my ears at the decibel of some of these supped-up engines excites me to my core.

‘Dude…’ Matty, an ex-motocross and FMX superstar, says, ‘I’m telling you, Jeff’s trying it. He’s been landing it and if he does, you’ve got to up your game.’

My riding rival, yet frenemy, Jeff Hunt, is currently making his way up the track to the start. This is his final chance of the day to outdo me, and I can feel the tension building. We’ve taken the top two spots according to the announcers and now it’s up to us who will take first and second places.

‘Nah,’ I say, not even looking up while the announcers ramble off Jeff’s stats as he rides the track, working the crowd up with wheelies and ground tricks we could all do in our sleep. ‘He ain’t trying it. At the last minute he’ll do a California Roll, guarantee it. Jeff will come in second just like he always does.’

‘You cocky son of a bitch,’ Matty toys.

‘Yeah, yeah… I learned from the best,’ I say, shooting him a finger gun.

Matty rolls his eyes, turning to face the track once again.

I’m not entirely paying attention to Jeff’s run because honestly, I can’t. That kind of pressure has been known to stress me out; instead, I’m scrolling social media, trying to focus on myself when Facebook reminds me of a memory.

Holy shit. September 27. I tap over to my main screen to verify the date, then back into Facebook. I almost forgot this year. I can see this photo with my eyes closed (and often do). Thewoman to my right has never truly left my mind – or my heart. My favorite daydreams are being transported back to when we were young and in love. In the picture, she’s wearing a white veil draped over her light blonde wavy bob, and I am wearing a black T-shirt with a tuxedo print. Classy, I know. Even so, we look ridiculously happy, and if my memory is correct, we truly were in that moment.

Despite her still owning a part of my heart, things didn’t work out. I messed up – I’m not afraid to admit it. But she didn’t exactly do the right thing either. Without notice, I came home from a gig one day and she was just gone. It destroyed me, if I’m honest. Our break-up was the one time I was heartbroken and lost, but I bottled it all up inside because that’s what I do. Is it healthy? Not even a little bit. But I’m not from one of those ‘talk out your feelings’ families so I’m honestly not sure how to get over it. I truly don’t think I ever could. But that’s only because if I could go back and change it, I’d still choose to follow my heart and marry Eve. After all, that’s who I am – I take extreme risks. Marrying a woman thirty days after you meet is extreme. But God, was it worth it when it was good.

How can it already have been five years? I rub my hand across my chest, my heart beating a tad erratically right now – like I’m in the middle of a trick or back in that moment of our wedding day. Those two events felt the same.

I’m not even in her presence, so how on earth can a photo of her gorgeous face have my heart topsy-twirly? Eve and I haven’t spoken in years, yet I could never bear deleting her from my phone altogether. And this anniversary post always gets me. I glance at the comments, which are all written by me, and tap the reply button. I’ve done this yearly, and with each comment, I pray she says something in return.Please, God – any words this time. Hello. Go away. Not if you were the last man on earth. Fuck all the way off. Anything.But so far, it’s never happened,and her reply is only ever a ‘like’, moments after my comment has been posted. A simple thumbs up, acknowledging that she is still alive.

I wonder if her heart flutters in the same way mine does when she’s notified of this memory. I hope I’m not the only one feeling that. Well, why let this year be any different than the four before? Here goes nothing. Maybe this will be the time she finally responds. Fingers crossed.

I type out my comment,thenhit send before glancing up at Matty who’s now getting loud.

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