Why was this a thing?

“Why do I have so much stuff?” I asked Nora.

“What are you doing? I thought we were wedding planning.”

“I can clean out my closet and wedding plan at the same time,” I told her. “I’m a great multi-tasker,” I said, pulling empty hangers out and tossing them on the bed.

“Hey, be glad you have it all. I’m living out of a suitcase at the moment and have worn the same shirt twice this week.”

“Oh, what a hard life you live,” I jested. “Must be terrible sleeping with your boyfriend, I mean, fiancé,” I corrected, “every night.”

“Quit it,” she replied, sensing my jealousy. “You’ll be here soon enough. Sleeping in that Airstream of Sin doing god knows what with Brett.”

“Airstream of what?”

“Never mind,” she said.

“Nora.”

“Sin... it’s just something that Reid and Hoyt used to say,” she explained. I knew exactly what she was talking about. Brett’s past with women and all of the things he used to do in that trailer of his. “It won’t be like that anymore, though. He’s different now.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“He is. We had dinner the other night and I can tell that he’s head over heels for you. He wouldn’t shut up about you.”

It made me smile to know that he’d been talking about me, but I couldn’t stop the thoughts of him in that Airstream from threatening my happiness. Add it to the list of things I was going to have to okay with. Not only was his job dangerous, but he was going to be the object of other women’s desires. I’d never really been a jealous person and I was going to try my damnedest not to become one.

“Well,” I said with a huff. “Looks like I’ll be pressure washing the inside of his camper when I’m finished with my closet.”

* * *

Two hours later, I was finishing up The Great Closet Purge of 2015. I’d somehow gotten sidetracked with my drawers, pulling old sweaters and downsizing the massive collections of black leggings I’d accumulated. Ten pairs seemed like enough to keep me dressed. I placed eight into the donate pile.

My phone chimed and it took me a solid five minutes to dig it out from underneath the mess I’d made. I had to be a special breed—making a bigger mess by trying to clean up. My closet looked phenomenal though. I’d even color coordinated all my shirts, the rainbow effect it created—from red to purple—across the bar was soothing to my organizational soul.

The box in the corner that I’d been avoiding all day was even more prominent next to organized boots and shoes. I looked down at my phone in my hand to see a message from Brett.

Brett: What’s up?

Me: Cleaning. You?

Brett: Riding.

Me: You shouldn’t motocross and text.

Brett: Funny girl. I’m watching videos of me riding at the moment.

Me: And here I thought you only liked to watch videos of me.

Brett: Those are my favorite.

I snickered to myself as I tossed my phone down on my bed, unable to keep from pulling that box that I knew had Jamie’s clothes in it. He wasn’t coming back. I didn’t need all of his things to remind me of that anymore. He’d want me to give his things to someone who could use them. I had photographs and memories of him, which were all I needed.

Pulling the lid off the box, I felt strong. I felt ready, but the second I saw his extra set of Army fatigues sitting my heart fell into my stomach. The thought of him sitting in that Humvee, riding along with his unit buddies, thinking they were doing a standard security check. I could only imagine what had happened that day. The Army was pretty brief about what had happened to him. I’d seen enough movies and television shows for my mind to create the scenario.

I pulled a sweatshirt of his from underneath and brought it up to my nose. The smell of him was gone. Replaced by the stale scent of cardboard from years of being stashed away. I felt a tear fall down my cheek. I didn’t feel sad the way I used to. It wasn’t the sadness of longing for him that I used to feel. It was more a sadness that everything had happened the way it did. The what-ifs and the shouldn’t-have-happened’s.

I kept the photo album and the few small items of his I had. The clothing all went in the donate pile, except for the fatigues that I would give back to his mother. She would want them. She would want to see his name on the patch.

I let out a cleansing breath as I boxed up all of my items for Goodwill. The sun was setting so I knew I’d have to drive them to the depository the next day. Just as I closed up my freshly organized closet, my phone chimed again. I fell onto the bed, exhausted from living in the past, and opened my phone screen. A video message from Brett was waiting. Except it wasn’t his face I saw when I pressed play. It was Hoyt, grinning like a fool.

“Your boy is back on it,” he said proudly before turning the camera to a huge mound of dirt. The roar of a dirt bike could be heard off screen—growing louder and louder as it approached. Within seconds I saw Brett and his bike fly up the hill and through the air as it hit the crest. The way he twisted his body and released his grip on the bike only to pull it back underneath of him moments later had me holding my breath.

The video ended with him safely landing on two wheels, but I was gasping for air imagining what could have happened. It was terrifying. Knowing that he’d been filmed that day was not helping. When I’d watched the videos of Brett from the past it wasn’t as nerve-wracking, especially considering I knew when and where he was when I was doing so. He was sitting next to me or at physical therapy. He wasn’t spending every waking moment trying to one up himself like he’d just done in that video.

The stunt was flawless.

He’s a professional, I reminded myself. Over and over again.

Me: That’s awesome.

I wanted to be supportive. I wanted to cheer him on, but the idea of having a box in my closet with his name on it, full of reminders of him being alive, was weighing on me. As I lay in bed that night, I tried not to think the worst. I’d already been through the worst once, the odds of that happening to me again had to be small.

What kind of universe would actually have me go through losing the man I loved twice in one lifetime? I tossed and turned that night and prayed I’d never have to find out.

“I plan on being back in top shape,” I told one of the reporters from MX Magazine after I had a pretty kick ass run on the track. He was a frail little thing, looking like he definitely spent more time behind a computer than on a bike. I had to give him credit though, he knew his motocross. He’d pretty much retold me my entire career in a matter of ten minutes. The excitement as he told me about last year’s rise to the top had me anxious to get this interview over with and back on the track. “I’m actually feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time.”

I was pleased that I was able to get right back into it. I worried that I might have to ease back in, but my physical therapy had paid off. It was literally like riding a bike. I hadn’t missed a beat as far as what I was capable of doing. Hoyt and I had been working on a new run for me to try out at the exhibition next month. The addition of the quarter pipe ramp to the layout was giving me all kinds of ideas—bigger, better, higher tricks were always my end goal. I hadn’t talked about it yet—didn’t want to jinx it—but I was pretty close to nailing a triple with added flair. It was one thing to turn the bike, but if I could turn my body and the bike at the same time I would floor the judges for sure.