Chapter 18 Fuck Me Sideways
FUCK ME SIDEWAYS
MABEL
Ryder seems a little shocked that the interview has taken this turn, but I knew it was coming.
And as much as Trina might want to verbally whoop my ass later for not presenting my usual, graceful, polished responses when someone asks how I deal with the unfortunate tragedy of being a woman, I’m so tired of pretending.
“You know, Whitney, as much as I would love to sit here and say that it doesn’t bother me.
That I just keep my head down, focus on the work and my family and let the noise be just noise, but that’s not true.
I think that for people like us, who choose a profession that puts them in the spotlight to some degree, you expect that it’s going to come with a certain level of scrutiny, right?
But for me, it started before snowboarding became my career.
The first time I heard a think-piece about myself, I was nine years old, and some middle-aged man living in Utah was pontificating over whether my choice to pursue snowboarding and not skiing or diving was a stain on my family’s legacy.
My third-grade teacher read it aloud in class.
And that’s not even the first time my choices were being picked apart by strangers; it’s just the first time I realized how much I was going to spend my life living for other people.
To say it hasn’t affected me would be a lie. ”
Whitney nods, squinting her eyes in that way interviewers do when they think they’re getting deep.
“Can you talk a little more about that? Because I see it, you know? Having followed your career and the careers of other athletes and powerful women, I feel like there is a certain wall that we put up in order to sort of compartmentalize our careers and our personal lives in the way that—sorry to say, Ryder—men don’t always have to think about.
We have to, because it can have a serious effect on our mental health if we don’t. ”
“Yeah, I mean, I think you hit the nail on the head right there. And I think for me,” I press a hand to my heart, letting the thumping rhythm guide me as I choose my words.
“I built these walls at the expense of living a real life. I’ve been so afraid of how I might be perceived that I’ve developed this hard, unshakeable persona.
Mabel Quinn keeps her head down. Mabel Quinn is modest but grateful.
Mabel Quinn is just lucky to be here. And that thought process, that character I’ve been playing has started to sort of rot me inside. ”
I can feel Ryder’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. Not yet. I have so much to say, and until now, I’ve been too much of a coward to say it. Even if it’s through the lens of a stupid, contrived interview about our sham of a marriage, he deserves to know the truth.
“All those years of suppressing my emotions got to me, and I started to take it out on other people. No, not other people. I took it out on Ryder.” I squeeze his hand, but still can’t bring myself to face him.
“I feel like I used Ryder as a scapegoat for all of my grievances because he was there, just about the same age as me, doing the same job with the same pedigree and not facing the same scrutiny. Being pissed off at the patriarchy and the establishment and society for the way we’re treated as women is difficult because they’re ideologies.
They’re not tangible things. But being mad at Ryder because he could act like a regular teenager, getting into trouble with nothing more than a slap on the wrist?
That was easy. Hating him because no one ever questioned his place on the slopes or accused him of being a nepo-baby?
Easy. Even now, I fall back on this annoyance like a crutch.
Every article written about us since we got married has questioned my motives, my headspace going into Milan, whether I’m pregnant or not.
Even when they’re talking about Ryder’s dating history, it’s not really about him.
It’s about me and how I must feel knowing he had a past before me.
No one asks if Ryder married me to get ahead or if having a wife will mess with his game or speculates that because he’s eating a taco, he must be an expectant father. ”
Finally, I turn to face Ryder, and the unshed tears in his eyes are a punch to the gut. For a second, there are no cameras, no microphones, no Whitney Walker and her listeners hanging on our every word. It’s just me and my husband and the words that are so long overdue.
“I’m sorry, Ryder. I know that none of that is your fault, and you never deserved to be treated like my punching bag. I want you to know that I’m going to do my best to be better, okay?”
It’s not much. I don’t think I could possibly make up for a decade of undeserved snark, but it’s something.
“Mabel,” Ryder says quietly, reaching out to run a thumb over my lower lip.
At this moment, it feels like we’re the only two in the room.
Like suddenly, I’d be willing to give up everything if it meant he’d lean in and kiss me.
“Does this mean you’re going to stop being so mean to me?
If so, that’s a bummer. You’re hot when you’re all huffy and bratty. ”
I shove him in the chest, knocking him into the boom and making the microphone reverb, but we’re too busy laughing to care.
“You’re a pain in my ass, Rye Bread,” I say between chuckles.
“I’ll be a pain in your ass forever and ever, Marshmallow.” He kisses my knuckles again, and maybe if we were alone, I would have been brave enough to lean in and ask for a kiss on the lips instead.
“So is there anything you want to say to those people who are spending their time speculating about your marriage and dating histories and the state of your uterus?” Whitney asks, and I snort because it’s just so ridiculous.
“Yeah, there is. Get a life, you judgmental creeps. This man right here,” I point to Ryder.
“He’s mine, and no amount of gossip rag trashy articles masquerading as real journalism are going to change the way I feel about him.
Oh, and stop talking about women’s bodies and speculating if they’re pregnant.
It’s gross and predatory and makes me want to scream. ”
Ryder snaps his fingers like we’re at a poetry slam, muttering “I know that’s right” under his breath, and before I know it, we’re doubled over in hysterics once again.
“Well, that feels like as good a place as any to stop,” Whitney says once we’ve collected ourselves.
We sit through the obligatory thank you’s and once the cameras stop rolling, Whitney thanks us both again, and then we’re shuttled into a car.
Trina, of course, scolds me for going off script, but I can tell her heart isn’t in it.
She wouldn’t be doing her job if she didn’t remind me that publicly acknowledging my flaws will only give the people trying to take me down more fodder, but I think even she knows that Ryder deserved that apology.
From the Hot Girl Walk studio, we’re brought to the local news station to film a couple dozen bumpers to be broadcast during the Games next week, and then we’re whisked to the radio station to do the same thing for their on-air presentations.
By the time we’re finally dropped off in front of my—I mean, our—condo, the sun is gone from the sky and both Ryder and I are too beat to do anything but flop on the couch.
“Want to order Thai for dinner?” Ryder asks, kicking his feet up on the coffee table while I melt into the cushion.
“The trainers will probably kill us if they find out we’re eating anything but grilled chicken and blanched vegetables three days out from Milan.”
“Good point. Pizza it is.”
“Make sure you get a giant bottle of ranch dressing, too. And—”
“And the cinnamon sugar dough ball things with extra icing for dipping. I got you, Mabel.”
The silence in the condo is broken only by the sound of our breath and Ryder’s fingers tapping on his phone as he orders our dinner. This is the first time we’ve been alone since this morning, and I can feel the weight of the day pressing down on my chest.
I’ve been captivated by my wife since I was seventeen years old.
How fake could this fake relationship really be if he can pull an admission like that out of his ass? Did he mean it, or was it all for show? Do I even want to know either way?
“So, Rye Bread. We should probably talk.”
“There’s something about this couch, huh, Marshmallow? It’s always where we talk.” He waggles his eyebrows as he emphasizes that last word. I nod gingerly, licking my lips as I try to gain the courage to start. But what the hell do I even say?
“Hey Ryder, so I know we’re married and living together and you just told millions of people that you’re obsessed with me, but uh…
were you serious? Because I always thought we had a weird, love-hate dynamic going on and that my teenage crush on you was unfounded.
You can see how this is a lot of information for me, and my head is spinning out of control and I don’t know how I’m supposed to take my next breath, let alone figure out if these feelings I’m developing for you are real and based in truth or if the last few weeks have been some weird fever dream that I’m going to wake up in pain from. ”
Yeah. Sure. That’s chill.
“You’re not ready to talk, Mabel.” It’s not a question. It’s not a judgement. It’s a simple observation from someone who has known me my whole life. I let go of the breath I’ve been holding.
“I’m not. I’m really not, and I know that’s not the right thing to say, and it’s immature and—”
“Marshmallow,” he interrupts my rambling. “I think it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
Ryder quirks one eyebrow, and then in a move I’ve only seen him perform with a snowboard strapped to his feet, he pulls his knees to his chest and launches himself into the air, landing on two feet on top of my coffee table with his arms outstretched. And then, he starts to sing, horribly off-key.
“It’s time to try defying gravity!”