There's a single defining moment within every skater.
It lasts only a second. Two if you're good.
Three if you're really good.
It's the moment you're in the air, your board somewhere beneath you, and nothing but wind surrounds you.
It's the feeling of being airborne.
The sixteen-year-old version of me would've said it was the
greatest feeling in the world.
Then at seventeen, I had my son.
And every single second became a defining moment. Even the ones that consisted of heartbreak when his mother left us.
Seventeen. Single. Dad.
That's what my life became.
Yet, every day, I managed to find that feeling of being airborne.
Or at least I convinced myself I did.
But I lied--to myself and to everyone around me.
Until she showed up; Tanned skin, raven dark hair, and eyes the color of emeralds.
You know what sucks about being in the air?
Coming down from the high.
Sometimes you land on the board and nail the trick.
Then kick, push, and coast away.
Other times you fall.
You fall hard.
And those are the times when it's not as easy to get back up, dust off your pads and try again.
Especially when the girl with the emerald eyes becomes your drug...
And you become her poison.
It’s a hard emotion to explain—what it feels like to fake every single moment of your life. To breathe but to not exist. To smile but to not be happy. To nod and agree but to not really care. And some nights, I’d put Tommy down to sleep and listen to him speak and there’d be an ache in my chest and I didn’t know why. So as I sit on the edge my bed, beer in hand, and listen to the fireworks go off around me—the cheers as hundreds of people bring in the New Year—I can’t even find it in myself to look forward to the next day, let alone three hundred and sixty-five of them.