Chapter 11 Pike
Pike
I huddle closer to Skylar, bringing her back flush to my chest. My one hand is already draped over her waist, anyway, and she’s holding the other to her face like a personal pillow. She’s soft and smooth and warm, her delicious curves inviting.
Mmm. Good. It’s way too early to get up.
But my brain won’t shut off. Burning pain in my hips pierces through the morning fog, a recurring torment that often wakes me and forces a position change, even in the middle of the night.
I refuse to move now. My body can go fuck itself. Only way I’m moving is if Skylar turns over and makes this even more enticing.
As if sensing my thoughts, she shifts, pressing her ass against me. I groan, and she murmurs something, settling even closer. All thoughts of pain are replaced by the desire to wake her up properly with leisurely kisses along her neck.
It’s been so long.
A sudden sharp awareness makes my eyes jolt open.
I’m staring at the spray of freckles on her neck now, where one tiny mole sits at the cusp of her hairline.
I glance between our bodies, but there’s no space.
Only heat. We’re all attached and stacked up and shit.
My traitorous body is delighted to go along with it.
Fuck. This is Skylar. The only position I have the right to be in is the fetal position.
I extricate myself as quickly as possible, but I can barely make it to the bathroom.
Walking hurts. Holy shit, walking hurts.
I miss not being hyperaware of my body. Now I feel every nerve, every moving joint, every pulse of blood.
I’ve been tapering to take a smaller dose of meds in the morning, but today isn’t going to be one of those days.
I stick my face under the faucet and gulp water, my mouth chalky from my oxy.
Then I glare in the mirror and give myself two good slaps.
So what if there’s an attractive, half-naked woman in my bed?
So what if I imagined the thong she was wearing under my shirt?
We gravitated toward each other while we slept. For warmth. Nothing more.
Back in the bedroom, I pull my still-damp jeans up. The heat came back on at some point during the night, but they’re stiff and threaten to yank off the corners of my already-peeling Kinesio tape.
I need my wheelchair. Ranielle is going to be pissed that I pushed myself so much. Overdoing it brings my progress to a grinding halt. At $300 per session, I might as well cancel PT for the rest of the week.
Skylar stirs as I shake out my sweater. “Pike?” She squints and reaches out her hand.
That’s right. She said she wouldn’t be able to see. I’m even more relieved we didn’t accidentally do anything.
“It’s me.” I give her a quick squeeze, and her warm hand sends another wave of mixed signals between brain and body. “Do you need anything?”
“New eyes. Painkillers. A teleportation device to zap me home.”
“How bad is your sight?” When I researched IIH, it said about 25 percent of people go blind.
“I see your shape. Can you ask David for Benadryl and Tylenol? And coffee.”
“Coffee in bed, right.”
I slip into my shoes with a wince. I have blisters all over my feet. Another strange development after not walking for so long. As if my feet didn’t rub against board boots for eight hours a day most of my life.
“I’m going to call my mom to come get us.” I reach in my pocket where I normally keep my phone, and find the damn condom instead.
“Ask her if she has any bananas.”
I need to get out of this bedroom now.
I could use a coffee too. After my accident, I attempted to cut it out, thinking my body wouldn’t need the kick since I slept for almost fourteen hours a day. But I quickly learned I have even less energy now than I did after a full day of shredding.
It’s like my body is still figuring out how to stay alive.
When Kal finally pulls into Mom’s driveway, my impatience to head back to Rochester has reached a breaking point. My car needs an engine repair that won’t be ready until Wednesday, and my legs are screaming for relief I can only find back home in my bed.
“It was really decent of you to come get us,” I say. “Thanks, man.”
“No point in Laurie driving all the way to Rochester when I was planning to see you anyway.”
The glaring sun makes his long blond hair look golden as it whips into his face, briefly concealing the goggle tan on his otherwise pasty skin. It’s been two full years since I had a goggle tan, I realize, a thought I quickly push away.
“Reminds me of when we’d come here after Bristol,” he says, nudging me. “Good times. Feels like forever ago.”
That’s because it was.
Kal and I first crossed paths at Bristol Mountain’s terrain park.
Sometimes I’d invite him over afterward.
But as I progressed in snowboarding, I outgrew Bristol and Rochester, leaving both behind without a backward glance.
Interactions with anyone from here became rare—mostly a like on social media or a competition meetup.
Everyone from Rochester became part of my past. But Kal and I reconnected a few summers ago randomly when we ran into each other in Italy. Since I moved back, he’s been eager to hang out, though I cancel often due to my pain. Every time I plan something, my body craps out.
“How was your trip?” I ask. “Good vacation?”
“Christmas was slower this year because my grandma’s having a hard time with mobility. But it was nice to see everyone.”
Kal is either Danish or Swedish. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten which, and now it comes up so many times in casual conversation that I feel like an asshole asking about it. He moved to Rochester as a kid, so English isn’t his first language, and he still speaks whatever-ish.
Despite my inability to recall his specific brand of Scandinavian, I’ve always appreciated his worldly perspective. Most of my snowboarding crew wasn’t American, and it’s nice to be around someone again who doesn’t think the US is the center of the universe.
“Is that Skylar?” Kal asks.
She’s in the all-season room with Mom, drowning in an old pair of my sweats. She wanted out of her dress the moment we arrived, and now, with her hair tucked inside my Burton hoodie, I barely recognize her.
He lets out an amused chortle. “Never thought you’d need a fake girlfriend.”
“Don’t make me regret telling you.”
When I called this morning to cancel, I didn’t have the energy to lie. I wave to Mom, signaling that it’s time to go. She guides Skylar by the arm, moving slowly over the icy driveway.
“She doesn’t have her glasses and she’s extremely nearsighted,” I explain as Kal watches them approach. I gesture at my wheelchair. “I’m having enough trouble on the ice as is.”
Her head still down, Skylar lets go of Mom’s arm when she reaches the car.
Mom beams at Kal. “It’s so nice to see you again!”
He offers her a hug, then turns to Skylar to introduce himself, all smiles, but she’s already climbing into the back of his Subaru. She shuts the door without acknowledging him.
“Real sunshine, that one,” he says to me.
“She’s understandably in a bad mood. Pain.”
He helps me take apart my wheelchair. “Why is she in pain?”
“She has a chronic condition. Last night made her flare, and she’s also out of spoons.” Just like me. “Spoons are a measure of quantifying energy and energy pacing when you’re sick—”
“I know what spoons are, man.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised by his eye roll. I only learned about it recently.
People without a disability or chronic health condition usually wake up with enough spoons, or energy, to handle everything they need to do.
They’re like a brand-new phone that charges to 100 percent.
Meanwhile, I’m an old phone that only charges to 40 percent, if it even charges at all.
My spoons are limited from the start, no matter how much I rest. And then there’s running out of spoons more quickly too.
Even something as simple as a shower can drain me like a super-demanding app, leaving me stuck in bed for the rest of the day.
“Lennox gets grumpy when she’s out of spoons too,” Kal says.
Lennox, right. Never takes long before she comes up. According to Kal, they’re best friends, but anyone who spends time with him can tell he’s totally in love with her. They even reserve Sunday afternoons for each other like an old married couple.
“Skylar doesn’t have the same thing, right?” he asks.
I pause, trying to remember Lennox’s condition. Every health issue has an acronym these days. Something with her stomach. Maybe.
“Nope.” I don’t elaborate. Skylar can share if she wants to.
“That’s good—not her pain, but that you don’t have to worry about sex.”
I struggle to maintain a neutral expression. “Are you sleeping with Lennox?”
Kal does an about-face. “What?”
“The sex…I thought you meant…”
“Skylar,” he enunciates. “Sex. Having it. Pain-free.”
I smack his shoulder. “She’s right inside the car.”
“She can’t hear me. I’m just saying, some chronic pain gets in the way of that.”
Does Lennox have endometriosis? That doesn’t sound right.
“Skylar and I aren’t having sex. That’s the whole point of fake.”
Kal gasps dramatically. “Brandon Pike spent the night with a woman just sleeping? Alert the press.”
I flip him off as he loads my chair. I wobble to the front seat, but Kal still manages to beat me.
It shouldn’t feel like a competition, but it does.
We used to race each other at Bristol—him on skis, me on my board.
I know I went on to win fucking gold, but the fact that I can’t even keep up in a driveway anymore makes my soul shrivel up like a prune.
When Kal offers to drop Skylar off, she recites her South Wedge address without hesitation. It’s about twenty minutes from my place.
“I’m going to be antisocial,” she declares and leans against the window.