Then I see the magnet used to keep it in place.
One word.
COAST.
Yeah…
It’s extremely easy to fall into the darkness.
But then I see my son.
And I hear his laugh because I’ve sheltered him from the pain of it all.
Just like my dad sheltered me.
Then the storm passes and the blackness turns to light.
And I wake up.
Breathe new air.
And fall even deeper in love with a kid a created.
I search for the light.
And my light is his words.
His last words.
“Time to coast, son.”
40
-Joshua-
So, for the next year I do what he asks. I coast.
I think about him every second I’m out there.
I train when I can, travel only when I have to, and work in between. I place more times than not and even win a few comps. Each trophy sits on the mantel at my parent’s house right beneath a picture of three generations of Warden men. Warden Warriors, my mom calls us.
The sponsors start coming through—ones that are actually worthy of my attention. Chris and my mother take care of everything. The number one clause in all the contracts is that it doesn’t take away from my time with Tommy. Along with the exposure, comes interviews and social media awareness—things I don’t really enjoy but know I have to do in order to get myself out there. It all happens so quickly that I’m not really prepared for any of it—especially the phone call from Chris when he tells me that Globe shoes wants to be my major sponsor. They offer a six-figure deal that’ll entail me wearing their gear, promoting their brand, and they’ll take care of everything else. “You’d be an idiot not to take it,” Chris says. “I’ve gone over every single detail of the contract and they don’t want anything from you, Josh. They just want you.”
I take the deal. I’d be stupid not to.
Chris says the online skate world blew up when it was announced. I start getting messages from everyone and their dog congratulating me. I even make front page of the local newspaper. The day after the newspaper comes out I show up to the job site just like I’ve done many other days and as soon as Robby and all the other guys see me they drop their tools and cross their arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask Robby.
“They refuse to work with a celebrity,” he says, patting my shoulder.
“Don’t be assholes,” I shout, strapping on my tool belt.
They don’t move.
“Get out of here, Josh,” Robby says. “You can’t be wasting your time on a job like this when you have so much else going for you.”
“Shut up,” I say incredulously. Then repeat it, softer this time.
“I’m serious. And so are the boys. We’re all proud of you, Josh. You’ve worked hard and you’ve earned it. You deserve everything coming your way. And as much as we love/hate seeing your handsome face every day, we don’t want to see it anymore.” He smirks. “So, you either walk off my job site or I fire you. Your choice.”
“You’re kidding, right? I need this job. I need a fall back in case anything happens. I could get injured tomorrow and—”
“The job will always be here, Josh, and you know that. But right now, you’re living the dream. Take some time. Soak it in. Enjoy life.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Coast”
I look around at all the guys I’d been working with for the past three years. Their smiles match Robby’s. “Okay, I guess. Um… I quit?”
The room erupts with shouts and cheers so loud it echoes off the walls and the next thing I know I’m being tackled by the waist and dropped to the ground; a dozen men laughing, ruffling my hair as they all celebrate for me. “What the fire truck are you doing!”
“Tools down!” Robby shouts, and we spend the afternoon drinking beers and eating pizza.
I guess it’s a farewell to me and to a life I used to know.
The rest happens in a blur.
I dedicate every win, every loss, every spin of the wheels to the man who created me. And as I watch the sun dip below the horizon from whatever half-pipe I find myself on, I close my eyes and I feel him with me, watching me. And when the sun disappears and the night takes over, I laugh and smash the shit out of my skateboard—not out of anger but to remind myself that our raw imperfections make us real and make us human but they don’t make us.
And when the comps are over and the media and the hype of the event dies down and I find myself lying alone in a dark hotel room, I give in to the forever numbness of my half missing heart and I think about her. I close my eyes and I see her in my vision—feel her hair between my fingertips and her warm skin against my lips as I kiss her neck, holding her, keeping her with me forever. Then she pulls back, her bottom lip between her teeth and she smiles. She smiles and opens her eyes and even though, deep down, I know it’s a dream—a memory—and that when I come back to reality my heart will break and she’ll be gone, it’s worth it. For those few imaginary seconds, it’s worth every single ounce of pain and heartbreak. I smile back at her, call her Emerald Eyes, and I tell her that I love her.
That she was the only girl I’ve ever loved.
And that love is the only one worth sacrificing.
Epilogue
-Becca-
I woke up in a pool of sweat, my mind racing and my heart hammering against my chest. My heart—my poor, sad, broken, heart. I dreamt about him—the version of him that had me thrashing against the sheets and my fingers gripping tightly to the covers surrounding me, suffocating me in my own thoughts. My own fears.
I hated it.
I loved it.
Which pretty much describes everything I feel for him.
My heart loves him.
My head hates him.
Even now, over a year later.
The first thing I did when my eyes snapped open was clutch a hand to my chest wondering how my heart was still beating after the painful onslaught the visions my dream had created. Only they weren’t just visions, they were memories.
True, life, memories.
He stood over me, his eyes glazed with tears mixed with rage. “I hate you the most, Becca,” he’d said, and I stood still, afraid of him.
Him.
The boy with the dark eyes and shaggy dark hair whose smile had once lit up my entire world.
And in that moment, I feared him.
It’s an overwhelming feeling—one I can’t put down onto paper like Linda had suggested I do, yet here I am, trying to justify it.
If there were a single word to describe it, it would be torn.
My head.
My heart.
The two parts of myself ripping my being in two.
I should be used to it by now, right? How many times have I woken up in fear, my nightmares grounding me to my spot?
Fear.
Love.
Hate.
Caused by two completely different people and circumstances.
One is dead.
One is Joshua Warden.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door and a second later the now familiar male voice speaks. His voice is low, barely a whisper. “Are you ready, Becca?”
I shut my laptop and slowly get up, turning to him as I do. His eyes are gentle, yet weary.
One word.
COAST.
Yeah…
It’s extremely easy to fall into the darkness.
But then I see my son.
And I hear his laugh because I’ve sheltered him from the pain of it all.
Just like my dad sheltered me.
Then the storm passes and the blackness turns to light.
And I wake up.
Breathe new air.
And fall even deeper in love with a kid a created.
I search for the light.
And my light is his words.
His last words.
“Time to coast, son.”
40
-Joshua-
So, for the next year I do what he asks. I coast.
I think about him every second I’m out there.
I train when I can, travel only when I have to, and work in between. I place more times than not and even win a few comps. Each trophy sits on the mantel at my parent’s house right beneath a picture of three generations of Warden men. Warden Warriors, my mom calls us.
The sponsors start coming through—ones that are actually worthy of my attention. Chris and my mother take care of everything. The number one clause in all the contracts is that it doesn’t take away from my time with Tommy. Along with the exposure, comes interviews and social media awareness—things I don’t really enjoy but know I have to do in order to get myself out there. It all happens so quickly that I’m not really prepared for any of it—especially the phone call from Chris when he tells me that Globe shoes wants to be my major sponsor. They offer a six-figure deal that’ll entail me wearing their gear, promoting their brand, and they’ll take care of everything else. “You’d be an idiot not to take it,” Chris says. “I’ve gone over every single detail of the contract and they don’t want anything from you, Josh. They just want you.”
I take the deal. I’d be stupid not to.
Chris says the online skate world blew up when it was announced. I start getting messages from everyone and their dog congratulating me. I even make front page of the local newspaper. The day after the newspaper comes out I show up to the job site just like I’ve done many other days and as soon as Robby and all the other guys see me they drop their tools and cross their arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask Robby.
“They refuse to work with a celebrity,” he says, patting my shoulder.
“Don’t be assholes,” I shout, strapping on my tool belt.
They don’t move.
“Get out of here, Josh,” Robby says. “You can’t be wasting your time on a job like this when you have so much else going for you.”
“Shut up,” I say incredulously. Then repeat it, softer this time.
“I’m serious. And so are the boys. We’re all proud of you, Josh. You’ve worked hard and you’ve earned it. You deserve everything coming your way. And as much as we love/hate seeing your handsome face every day, we don’t want to see it anymore.” He smirks. “So, you either walk off my job site or I fire you. Your choice.”
“You’re kidding, right? I need this job. I need a fall back in case anything happens. I could get injured tomorrow and—”
“The job will always be here, Josh, and you know that. But right now, you’re living the dream. Take some time. Soak it in. Enjoy life.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Coast”
I look around at all the guys I’d been working with for the past three years. Their smiles match Robby’s. “Okay, I guess. Um… I quit?”
The room erupts with shouts and cheers so loud it echoes off the walls and the next thing I know I’m being tackled by the waist and dropped to the ground; a dozen men laughing, ruffling my hair as they all celebrate for me. “What the fire truck are you doing!”
“Tools down!” Robby shouts, and we spend the afternoon drinking beers and eating pizza.
I guess it’s a farewell to me and to a life I used to know.
The rest happens in a blur.
I dedicate every win, every loss, every spin of the wheels to the man who created me. And as I watch the sun dip below the horizon from whatever half-pipe I find myself on, I close my eyes and I feel him with me, watching me. And when the sun disappears and the night takes over, I laugh and smash the shit out of my skateboard—not out of anger but to remind myself that our raw imperfections make us real and make us human but they don’t make us.
And when the comps are over and the media and the hype of the event dies down and I find myself lying alone in a dark hotel room, I give in to the forever numbness of my half missing heart and I think about her. I close my eyes and I see her in my vision—feel her hair between my fingertips and her warm skin against my lips as I kiss her neck, holding her, keeping her with me forever. Then she pulls back, her bottom lip between her teeth and she smiles. She smiles and opens her eyes and even though, deep down, I know it’s a dream—a memory—and that when I come back to reality my heart will break and she’ll be gone, it’s worth it. For those few imaginary seconds, it’s worth every single ounce of pain and heartbreak. I smile back at her, call her Emerald Eyes, and I tell her that I love her.
That she was the only girl I’ve ever loved.
And that love is the only one worth sacrificing.
Epilogue
-Becca-
I woke up in a pool of sweat, my mind racing and my heart hammering against my chest. My heart—my poor, sad, broken, heart. I dreamt about him—the version of him that had me thrashing against the sheets and my fingers gripping tightly to the covers surrounding me, suffocating me in my own thoughts. My own fears.
I hated it.
I loved it.
Which pretty much describes everything I feel for him.
My heart loves him.
My head hates him.
Even now, over a year later.
The first thing I did when my eyes snapped open was clutch a hand to my chest wondering how my heart was still beating after the painful onslaught the visions my dream had created. Only they weren’t just visions, they were memories.
True, life, memories.
He stood over me, his eyes glazed with tears mixed with rage. “I hate you the most, Becca,” he’d said, and I stood still, afraid of him.
Him.
The boy with the dark eyes and shaggy dark hair whose smile had once lit up my entire world.
And in that moment, I feared him.
It’s an overwhelming feeling—one I can’t put down onto paper like Linda had suggested I do, yet here I am, trying to justify it.
If there were a single word to describe it, it would be torn.
My head.
My heart.
The two parts of myself ripping my being in two.
I should be used to it by now, right? How many times have I woken up in fear, my nightmares grounding me to my spot?
Fear.
Love.
Hate.
Caused by two completely different people and circumstances.
One is dead.
One is Joshua Warden.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door and a second later the now familiar male voice speaks. His voice is low, barely a whisper. “Are you ready, Becca?”
I shut my laptop and slowly get up, turning to him as I do. His eyes are gentle, yet weary.
