Page 18 of Unlocked Dive
“I didn’t say no. I did the two I had room for, but that wasn’t impressive enough. He started talking up my double pirouette. It was my newest trick, and I worked on that fucker formonths.I always liked showing it off. I had it tight at that point, too—I was barely losing any height.”
If I close my eyes, I can still feel it in my body—the float of the release and the compact blur of the rotations, the rope back under my hands like magic, and my shoulders stretching to absorb the catch.
Muscle memory can be a cruel, ironic bitch. I suck in a breath and push the next words out past the hurt.
“Gabe was filming me on his phone, acting all excited and, I don’t know, sort of proud? Like an actual big brother.” I laugh, hating the way it sounds, young and needy.Jesus, Echo. Get it together.My head falls back, and I stare out the window again, suddenly ready to be done with the story. “So when he suggested I try it into the switch, I agreed. One double on the right, one single on the left. Should have been plenty of height.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“I was pushing for maximum clearance, and I started the beats too close to the rigging point.”
“It threw off the swing.”
“Yep. Stupid rookie shit, right? Maybe it was the hangover. But I threw the double anyway, and of course, because of the extra swing, the rope wasn’t where it was supposed to be when I came around.” Even then, I wasn’t scared, my brain refusing to believe the betrayal until I actually hit the ground. “I almost got my left hand on the tail. It wouldn’t have saved the pirouette, but it might have slowed me down enough to get my feet under me. And I still should’ve been okay—it was barely fifteen feet to the mat, and I know how to fall. I’ve taken a hundred of them.”
“Aerials 101,” Byrd says, almost nostalgic. I can feel the weight of his attention, even as he navigates the twisting two-lane road, like his ability to make meimportantis as natural to him as breathing.
Who cares if he thinks I’m important? I’m just trying to get my dick sucked, right? But something warm blooms in my chest, and I breathe a little easier.
“Yeah. But those techniques don’t work as well on wood floors.”
“You missed the mat? How the hell did that happen?”
“About ten inches of me did. And I don’t know how. It was a big crash-style mat. Four by eight and six inches thick. My parents wouldn’t let me train at home without it. I shouldn’t have been that far off-center, even with the bad swing.” I shake my head as if I can still deny it after all this time.
“I heard the crack before I felt it, and then everything’s kind of a blur. Gabe freaking out and calling my dad, the ambulance, and the ER. I remember the sirens and how they magnified the pain, turning it into these long, wailing waves of agony. I remember thinking I was gonna miss my flight to Amsterdam and I hadn’t even started packing, and how my dad would be pissed.”
“You were in shock.”
“That’s what they told me. My head CTs were clear.” I laugh again, but even I can tell it sounds forced.Nothing to see. Nothing to save. Nothing to blame but myself.“I woke up in the hospital room after the second surgery and realized I’d finally done it.”
“Done what?” He’s frowning at me again, and his mouth is still beautiful.
“Suicide by ego. Like every other fallen god.”
“I guess that explains the tattoo.” He glances at my wrist, and I run my fingers over the word carved into the scar.
“It works on so many levels.”
“Thank you for telling me.” The words are oddly formal, but another layer peels away between us, exposing something vulnerable I’m not ready to examine.
“Did it help?” I want him back to flustered and charmed. I want him craving, not concerned, but the questions fall out anyway. “You gonna fix me now?”
Fix me. Fuck me. Find my soul.
“I want to.” His voice is rough and sorry, and I wait for the rest:But there’s nothing left to fix.
It doesn’t come.
We crest the final hill, and the sea devours the horizon.
The last thing I expect to see when we finally pull up another one of those long-ass Mendocino driveways is a real live circus tent. It rises like a personal mirage from the sandy soil of what they call the pygmy forest—meaning stunted pine trees and manzanitas, rather than redwoods. We’re only a mile or two inland, and it’s flatter here, too. The space around the tent is cleared and scattered with trailers, from a tiny hand-painted ticket wagon to a sleek airstream. Two big box trucks parked at the end of the driveway declare “Big River Big Top” on the sides in a looping script.
“Mendocino has its own circus?” I ask as Byrd parks the 4-Runner next to one of the trucks.
“It’s actually a European-style traveling company.” A chuckle rumbles from his chest at my amazement. “My friends Shilo and Cheyenne run it with Shilo’s ex, Halston. They hire acts from all over the world and tour the Pacific Northwest from June to October every year.”
“Is that how you met them? Back when you were performing?” Although the lot has a lived-in feel, with camping chairs and milk-crate tables tucked beneath awnings on a few of the trailers, no one seems to be around.
