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Timmy yells again, and this time I can hear the excitement and the joy in his voice. It makes me laugh, reminds me again how much I love this sport—and why. I carve a couple more lines, then when we’re about halfway through the pipe and I’ve got a good feel for the weight of the board with Timmy on it, I pop an air-to-fakie. I don’t catch huge air, but I’m not trying to. I just want to give the kid a little thrill.
It must work because he grabs on tighter to my leg, even as he laughs his head off. On my next line, I add a fakie ollie, then carve swiftly into another line where I pull an alley-oop. We’re three quarters of the way down the pipe and booking it now and I’ve got good control, so I figure what the fuck. I carve up the transition at a forty-five degree angle and when we hit the top of the vert, I jump us into what I think is going to be a 360 but ends up being a 720.
It’s not inverted, not corked, it’s just a plain spin, but from the way Timmy whoops you’d think I’d just pulled a YOLO flip or something. We carve the last line while everyone cheers, and I’m not sure who’s grinning wider when I sideslip through the end of the pipe, Timmy or me.
“That was amazing!” Tansy yells as she comes running up to us. I open my arms for a hug, but she flings herself onto Timmy, who returns her hug enthusiastically. Then he’s laughing and talking about a million miles a minute as he climbs to his feet, telling her and his parents everything that happened—like they didn’t see it for themselves.
Then Z’s there and Cam and Luc and they’re all talking about the alley-oop and the 720 like they’re the most amazing tricks they’ve ever seen and I can’t help grinning along with them—right up until I glance down to the other end of the pipe and see Logan sitting there, watching all of us. He’s not alone, Victor’s with him, but I can tell he’s upset by the dejected slope of his shoulders.
Fuck.
I unstrap from my board, then start toward my brother as quickly as I can—without making it look obvious. He has more pride than three people.
“Ash!” Timmy calls after me. “Thank you!”
I give him a thumbs-up. “No problem, man.”
The last thing I hear as I walk away is Z asking Timmy if he wants to go again—this time with him.
When I get closer to Logan, I can tell he’s trying to smile when he talks to Victor, but even a few yards away I can see that there are tears in his eyes. The knowledge guts me and I feel like a total ass. I’m not sure what I did—Logan’s not the kind of kid to be upset because I tried to make another kid happy—but something’s not right. And since I’m the biggest asshole out here in Logan’s opinion, it’s no stretch to think that I’m the one responsible.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?” I ask when I get closer, pretending not to see his tears though doing it rips me apart. But again, the last thing I want to do is hurt his pride and start a fight.
Victor raises his brows at me, gestures with his head. I nod to indicate that I’ve got Logan, so, after a quick word to my brother, he turns away and starts the snowy hike back to the hotel.
“Hey! Victor!” Logan calls after him, once he realizes the aide is leaving. “Wait up! I want to go back, too.”
“I’ll take you back,” I tell him.
“I can take myself back, thanks.” He turns his chair, deliberately turning his back on me, and starts to glide away. Months ago—when he first came home from the hospital—Cam found him a couple sets of Wheelblades online; they’re like mini-skis that attach to the front wheels of his chair and make it about a million times easier for him to move in snow. He didn’t have much of a chance to use them this winter, because he didn’t get out of the hospital until the major snowfalls were done. But we’ve used them every day since landing in Chile, and up until now, I’ve considered them a total blessing.
At the moment, though, they’re pretty much the bane of my existence. I want Logan to sit still and talk to me a
nd it couldn’t be more obvious that that’s the last thing he wants—and the last thing he plans to do.
After waving Victor on, I walk beside Logan the whole way back to the resort. More than once he gets stuck on a block of ice or a particularly big rock just barely covered by the snow, and it takes every ounce of willpower that I’ve got not to offer to help him. Experience has taught me that doing so will only piss him off more.
I try to talk to him a few times, but he just shuts me down. So rudely and completely that I’m a little pissed off myself by the time we make it back to the hotel. Which is, of course, exactly what Logan is going for, the little shit.
Once we’re in our room, I strip off my boarding gear, then watch silently as Logan does the same. I want him to say something, even if it’s to yell at me for whatever I’ve done that’s hurt him. If he does that, then I can apologize and maybe we can move on. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt this kid. All I really want to do is make everything as easy for him as possible.
I feel so guilty and I love him so much.
Long, silent minutes pass as I wait for him to get his thoughts together and talk to me. Logan has a temper—there’s no denying that—but he’s also pretty reasonable and articulate. Once he gets over his mad enough to think, he’ll talk. He always does.
Except the creeping minutes turn into half an hour and then an hour and he still hasn’t so much as acknowledged my existence. The tension in the room—and in my body—is stretched to the breaking point and even though I know it’s the wrong move, I crack first. I can’t take it any longer.
“Logan, I’m sorry—”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes,” I tell him, getting off my bed and walking over to sit next to him on his. “I really am.”
“Oh, yeah?” He lifts his chin, stares at me challengingly out of gray eyes that look so much like my mother’s that it nearly guts me all over again. “What are you sorry for then?”
“Whatever I’ve done to hurt you—”
“That’s not good enough.”
