14. Luca
There's a well-known adage in the recovery world that basically states there are three places an active alcoholic or drug addict ends up—in jail, at an institution, or in an early grave.
I've never been in the first, I have no intention of being in the last, so, in a way, I'm glad to be going to the second.
Well, glad might be too strong of a word, but it's the best option out of the three, isn't it?
"Hey. We need to talk," Travis says.
He's sitting across the table from me in his hotel suite, and between us, we've destroyed eight burgers, not to mention a few servings of fries and onion rings.
Carb loading. It's the night before the grand final, so we're allowed.
Definitely not stress eating. Yeah, definitely not that.
It's not like anything big is at stake…just, you know, Travis's shot at earning the title after placing second for seven years, my first shot at it, and of course, the lovely aftermath for us to deal with as a couple no matter what happens out on the water tomorrow.
"What's up?" I ask.
He stands and waves me over to the balcony. We step outside. It's a balmy night. We're both in board shorts and tank tops.
Travis drops down into a chair. "I have something to tell you. Two things, actually. And I don't think you're going to like either one."
I take a seat, trying to stay calm. "Okay."
"The other night, over dinner, you said you wanted to tell me about your time in rehab because it was the right thing to do."
"Uh-huh." I'm starting to get nervous. I have no idea where this is going, but I don't want to freak out prematurely, either. I take a deep breath. "Go on."
"Well, that's what I'm doing now. I'm telling you because you have a right to know. I've been deliberating whether to tell you now or wait until after tomorrow, but I know what the time after a grand final is like. It's chaotic and frenzied and not the best time for a serious conversation."
"Okay. Now I'm starting to get worried."
"Sorry. I'll just come right out and say it." His eyes meet mine. "Your dad told me about your addiction the first night I met him."
"He did? When?"
"When you, uh, did your disappearing act, he mildly assaulted me, thinking I was involved in it somehow."
"He mildly assaulted you?"
"Yeah, I mean, no. He grabbed me by my shirt, that's all. I shouldn't have used the word assault. Sorry. I'm a little nervous. I…I don't want you to be mad at him. Or me. Mainly me because I'm selfish and I don't want to lose you again."
"You won't lose me again."
His eyes glimmer, and I can't tell if it's because of the light or if tears are welling in them. "You promise?"
"I do, benzinho. I do."
"Are you upset?"
"No." I look out at the black ocean. "I'm really not. More like wondering why you didn't tell me you knew."
"Because it felt like something you should tell me. And I didn't want to come between you and your father. He's been so worried about you, Luca. We both have."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I've been the worst."
"You really haven't."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
"It means I've been looking into this over the years, and believe me when I say addicts are on a sliding scale ranging from high functioning to complete disaster. I've read plenty of horror stories about the lengths people have gone to to feed their addiction. Lying, stealing, crime, survival sex work, violence. I could go on. I'm not judging anyone's behavior because of the disease, but what I'm saying is, in a way, you, we, have been lucky that it never went that far with you."
"That's true…I guess. God…" I blow out a breath. "Even though it could have been so much worse, it still sucks, though. I cannot begin to tell you how horrific rehab is."
"Ah, yeah. About that."
"What?"
He squirms in his seat, his discomfort clearly visible. "This is the other thing I have to tell you. The potentially much worse other thing. The one that makes me really fucking scared I will lose you."
"Why? What have you done?"
Wearing a pained expression, he begins, "Well, it started three years ago. After…"
"Yeah, yeah. I know." After my worst breakdown.
"Yeah, so…after that, we got back together again, and I wanted to do something. I'm not comparing our situations at all, but I need you to understand that it's the worst feeling when the person you love most in the world is in trouble and you can't do anything to help them."
"I get that."
"So…" He exhales sharply. "I contacted all your suppliers, and I've been paying them to provide you with pills with a smaller dosage. Gradually. Like, it's been going down in increments of ten percent."
"I don't understand. Why would you do that?"
"Because I figured you'd go to rehab again, and since it didn't work the first two times, I thought you stood a better chance when you went in again if you didn't have to come down off stuff that was at full strength but much lower."
"How much lower are we talking about?"
"You're down to twenty percent."
"What? The shit I've been taking is only twenty percent of the strength of the real stuff?"
"That's right." He nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks at me. "So rehab will still be a bitch…but maybe not as bad as before? And that, in turn, might help you with your recovery. Make it a bit easier? Make it…last."
"Oh my god, Travis."
He gulps, looking worried by my reaction.
I jump out of my chair, crouch down in front of him, and start kissing the tops of his hands.
"What are you doing?"
I've started to cry, and after a while, the tears falling onto his boardies seep through the material.
He pulls me off him. "Talk to me. Please."
There are so many things I'm feeling right now—relief, confusion, fear, joy—but I don't have it in me to verbalize any of that.
Which leaves me with just one word.
"Obrigado."
As I ride the waves, a rush of adrenaline surges through my veins. I edge my board just right, feeling the tension in the lines as I prepare for my next move.
The wind catches my kite, and I launch myself into the air, soaring high above the water. Time seems to slow down as I rotate backward while suspended in midair. The sensation of weightlessness is exhilarating as I twist and turn, the power of the wind propelling me forward.
I spot my landing zone amid the rolling waves. Salty water spritzes across my face as I touch down gently on the water. The faint roar from the crowd on the beach travels on the wind, and I know I nailed that whole move.
We're about halfway through the grand final.
I've given up trying not to give a moment's thought to my opponent. That's not compartmentalization, you'd need next-level psychoticness to be able to do that. And I am many things, but psycho isn't one of them.
I stay focused, planning my next move while a separate part of my brain unpacks last night's conversation with Travis.
I woke up this morning and realized why I said thank you after he told me what he'd been doing.
And when he woke up, I turned my feelings into words and said to him, "One of my greatest insecurities in this relationship has been feeling like I'm not enough for you. Not rich enough. Not famous enough. Not sexual enough."
He scoffed, as I expected him to, but before he could come up with the assurance I knew he was about to give, I told him, "I’ve realized it's not about you. It's about me. You can give me all the love in the world, but if I can't receive it, then we're stuck."
And that's what I need to get from rehab. A physical detoxification for sure, but once that is done, I need to take a good hard look at myself and determine what's stopping me from receiving.
Is it my mom abandoning me?
Is it growing up in a world that systemically devalues brown and black people?
Is it because anything short of penetrative sex is viewed as less than?
Could it be some combination of all of the above?
As Travis would say in his thick Aussie accent, 'That's some full-on shit, mate.'
It really is.
But one thing is crystal clear to me—he loves me. That's why he did what he did. I'm not mad. I don't feel betrayed. I just feel…loved.
So, yeah, I have all of that emotional unpacking to look forward to at rehab.
Right now, though, I need to catch this motherfucking gust of wind and show the judges—and everyone else—how the best kitesurfer in the world runs this shit.
A few minutes later, the horn blares signaling the end of the grand final.
It's time to head back to shore and find out who will be crowned this year's world kitesurfing champion.
I pivot my kite, my lines tense, as I look for Travis. He's a few hundred feet away, but as if sensing me looking at him, he looks at me, raising a fist in the air.
What I'm feeling is so confusing and nonsensical. I want to win more than anything else, but I also want him to win more than anything else.
Unfortunately, there's no such thing as a tie in kitesurfing. It's never happened in the entire history of the sport.
He rides in toward the beach, and I do the same, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore growing louder the closer I get.
A huge roar from the crowd greets us as we make it onto the sand at the same time.
Tournament staff help us out of our gear. Once we're both unclipped, we walk over to each other to await the judges' scoring.
Normally, you stand a few feet away from your opponent.
But Travis isn't a normal opponent.
He comes to an abrupt halt a few feet from me and turns to the spectators…and the dozen or so cameras pointed at us.
I know why he stopped.
In all the years we've been together, I've avoided PDAs and even being seen in public with him, worried that added exposure could result in one of my dealers going to the press and selling me out as an addict.
But I don't give a shit if that happens now.
I'm standing a few feet away from the man I love more than I thought it was possible to love someone, and I want the whole fucking world to know.
I crash into him, hugging him so tight, he makes a choking sound.
I ease back a little, staring into his beautiful green eyes, overcome by the force of my love for this incredible, kind, patient, sometimes infuriating, always good-hearted man I have the privilege to be with.
"Mate."
"Benzinho."
And then, I grab his face and give him a sloppy, salty kiss that he returns with equal fervor.
It's only when we pull apart that I register the crowd are on their feet, losing their shit. In the best way possible.
"They're going to know…" Travis begins.
"…That I'm the luckiest guy in the world to be with you? Yeah, that's fine. I don't mind."
I take Travis's hand in mine.
His mouth has fallen open. "Am I dreaming? Because if I am, please don't ever wake me up."
I grin. "I love you."
Travis swallows, then a massive smile overtakes the lower half of his face. "I love you, too."
"No matter what happens?"
"No matter what happens."
I give his hand a squeeze. "Good."
We wait for what feels like forever. Judging in kitesurfing is a notoriously slow process. But finally, the scores start appearing at the bottom of the screen.
The camera zooms in on Travis first as he takes in the numbers popping up, doing the complicated arithmetic in his head.
Then it's my turn. I fill up the two giant-sized screens as my scores are revealed. I'm running the numbers in my head, too.
"Have you been able to figure it out?" Travis whispers.
"No, I?—"
"Ladies and gentlemen," comes the announcer's voice through the speaker.
Oh, shit. This is it.
I honestly have no idea which way it's going to go.
Travis didn't choke—which I am beyond happy about—and I did really well so I'm sure we've both scored highly. It's going to come down to a fraction of a point, and my brain isn't equipped to handle that sort of math.
"The winner of this season's World Kitesurfing Championship, and the new world number one kitesurfer, is…"