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“Up,”Sebastian says, coaxing me off the couch until he can slip my coat over my arms and gently herd me to the door.
“Where are we going?”
“Your next challenge is to embrace surprises. It’s okay to not know the outcome.”
I roll my eyes and follow him out the door.
The first surprise is when he walks past his truck. He only smiles when I throw him a questioning look, and then his hand is a hot presence at my back. “I’ve got you, Bee. It’s okay.”
“I trust you.”
Sounds reach us before the sight does, laughter and thumps and a small crowd. When I see the skateboard ramps, it makes sense. Though the crowd seems disconnected, they react as one. It’s a modern Shakespeare play—oohs and cheers with each movement.
We perch on a bench, and we’re not the only onlookers.
“I broke my tibia on those steps.”
“That’s funny. I twisted an ankle there when I was eight. Slipped on my roller skates and grabbed the rail, but it was too late. I was laid up for a week. God, Aiden was annoying. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He even slept on the floor in a sleeping bag in case I wanted water in the middle of the night.”
“Maybe he missed his calling as a nurse.”
“Nobody needs that.”
“Watch,” Sebastian says, so I do.
Every attempted trick, regardless of result, is cheered. Beginners mix with what looks like pros, and they high-five each other as they pass, back slaps and smiles. It’s supportive and beautiful.
I smile at their camaraderie. “Before I came back, I wrote a bio about a skater who won an amateur competition. When I asked her what she was going to do with the prize money, she said her brother needed new shoes. It surprised me, but she explained that he’d helped pay her entry fee, and now she was going to take him to the best store in town and get him whatever he wanted. She was more excited about that than the trophy.” I blink back the memory. “Only seventeen, and she had more of her life figured out than I did. Do,” I correct.
“If the outcome didn’t matter, what would you be doing?”
“Writing.” There’s nothing else. “Two years working checkout at Target and that summer on reception when I was nineteen have proven I am not cut out for anything else.”
“Not to argue, but you could do anything you put yourmind to, and we both know it. If writing is what you want, then that’s all the more reason to try.”
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t make trying any easier. One of the skaters, a kid with long hair, a gray flannel, and a beanie, fumbles a spin move and rolls down the bank, only to come up smiling while his friend runs over to hug him. I swallow back the lump in my throat. If trying felt like that, would I be as scared as I am? I’ve already lost years in waiting. Can I really afford to hold myself back, win or lose? How many times have I reassured the subject of a memoir that it’s not about having the perfect story, but a relatable one? Flaws and all.
Messy, like Sebastian said.
Not perfect.
But improving.
When I see that the swing set beside us is free, I pull Sebastian toward it, on a mission.
“Bee, I’m almost forty.”
I’m sitting before he can stop me. “There’s no age limit on fun. Now get your sexy ass over here and push me.”
He does, and we spend the next few minutes not speaking, the sounds of the birds and passing parents washing over us. Sebastian looks calm. Meanwhile, all I can hear is my own voice saying “sexy ass” over and over.
I need to lock these feelings up before I spill them all over the damn place.
Maybe it’s because I can’t see beyond the next few months, but I’ve never felt younger and older than I do right now. “As a kid,” I start, slowing my swing but not turning around, “I couldn’t wait to grow up. So manyyears of being the baby of the family, and all I wanted was to prove I could make it without help.”
“You’ve done that.”
“Have I? So I’ve published a few books, but none of them have my name on them, and I can’t even publicly confirm I wrote most of them. Just once, I want to achieve something that I can show people.”
