Our bus drives through the village and pulls up to the complex. We shuffle off one by one to a crowd of rabid fans. Some of them are spectators for the Games, some are other athletes. It’s a tricky ordeal with all the competitors in one place. Most of the young ones lead relatively normal lives outside of the Olympic Games. Other than the few standout stars, no one really experiences the level of celebrity that I do.
“Ben Castillo!”
“Can I get an autograph?!”
“A picture? Please?! Oh my god.”
A camera is thrust in front of my face before a cluster of security guards rush forward and push the crowd back to let me and the rest of the team pass.
I’m not usually a dick, but I can’t drag my gaze up off the ground. I can’t interact with fans right now. I walk straight into the complex, ignore the fact that everyone is still looking at us, and let security lead me to the main bank of elevators. There’s a whole security team surrounding us now, and I will the elevator to hurry the fuck up.
I imagine Raelynn here in the middle of this mess, and it makes me feel even worse. I clutch the note tighter in my hand, wishing I’d thought to stow it someplace safe before getting off the plane. Even though I saved the number in my phone, I want to preserve her handwriting.
“Ben!” someone shouts. “Dude! Just one picture! PLEASE!”
The elevator dings and security ushers me inside quickly. I don’t release a breath until the doors glide shut and I’m away from the crowd.
“From now on, we’ll enter through the back entrance,” the head of the security detail informs me.
I nod and look away.
I realize the entire Olympic Games will be lost on someone like me. I’ve been here before, and any modicum of excitement I felt about defending our Olympic title is dead now. I’ll attend practices, turn it on when I hit the court, stand up on that podium, and hold up my gold medal for the flashing cameras. I’ll attend the required press conferences, host the scheduled Nike-branded luncheon for the release of my sneakers, and I’ll do it all without a single complaint. But here, in this tiny apartment, reality will hit me so hard it feels like I might double over from the weight of it.
Inside our room, I toss my bag on the bed, and Anthony follows suit.
“I’m going to go check out the food situation,” he tells me, leaving without asking if I want to go with him.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, look at the bleak decor, and then slowly unfold my hand. The note is moist on the edges. Some of the ink has run. I flatten it out on the nightstand and grab for my phone, confirming I have the right number saved. Then, before I can think better of it, I press call.
I hold the phone up to my ear with bated breath. It rings over and over, and it feels like a dagger is slowly sinking into my gut.
Then, finally, a guy picks up. “Hello?”
I frown in confusion. “Oh…sorry. Is this Raelynn’s phone?”
“No, man. I think you have the wrong number.”
His voice fades out at the end and I can tell he’s taken the phone away from his ear, about to hang up.
“Hey wait.” I read him the number on the note.
“Yeah, that’s my number,” he says, growing impatient. “I think you got it by mistake.”
Then he hangs up and I stare down at the numbers I memorized that are now utterly useless.
Raelynn gave Lele a wrong phone number, maybe by accident, but most likely on purpose.
Just to be sure, I call it once more, being sure to dial every number with careful attention to detail. The same guy answers and tells me to fuck off.
Desperate now, I open the internet browser on my phone and type in Dale’s Diner in Pine Hill. There’s no website, but I find its Google Maps landing page. There are three reviews alongside an address. Under that, it asks if I own this business and want to add a phone number and operating hours.
I try to think back and determine if I ever saw Raelynn answer a phone while she was working.
No. Fuck.
How can a place exist today without a phone number?
I’m starting to feel anxiety creep up my neck. My hands are shaking. My chest burns with every breath. It’s fine. I have money to burn. Resources at my disposal. I’ll ask my assistant to look into her. Hire a private investigator if needed.
Then I remember.
The nursing home.
Yes.
I search the name on Google and there’s a number listed on their website. Thank god. I dial it and my heart pounds while I wait for someone to answer. Then—like I’ve been doused in frigid water—I realize what I’m doing with aching clarity.
“Hello?” someone answers in a polite tone.
Silence.
“Hello? This is Brookdale Assisted Living. Can I help you?”
I immediately cover my mouth with my hand as I slide the phone away from my ear and hang up.
I can’t do this. I can’t invade her life like this. No private investigator. No leaving messages for her at her dying grandmother’s nursing home. Fuck. Oh fuck.
What do I do?
What can I do?
“Ben? You okay?” Anthony asks sometime later when he finds me sitting on the edge of the bed, right where he left me hours ago.
No.
I’m not.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Four
Raelynn
There are four of us crammed inside the tiny office on the third floor of the research lab. They’ve given us this one corner of the building to designate as ours, and we’ve really done our best to make it feel like home. Julia strung heart-shaped twinkle lights from the ceiling for Valentine’s Day and never took them down. The massive cutout of Jamie from Outlander (kilt and all) we gifted Kayla for her birthday last month lives here too, taped to the wall beside a headshot of Kayla puckering her lips at him.
I can’t turn my chair completely around without bumping into Ryan, and he has to ask me to scoot back and stand up if he wants to leave. I don’t think the space actually qualifies as an office, more of a broom closet, but as lowly graduate students, we’re lucky to have it. The others might begrudge this stuffy office inside the Cahill Center at Caltech, but I don’t. I could be back at Dale’s, delivering pancakes at this very moment.
This is where I dreamed of returning to when I was stuck in that trailer back in Texas.
That dream sustained me during the long hours waiting tables and cleaning houses.
And that dream was realized much sooner than I thought it’d be. Sooner than I wanted it to be.
I wasn’t prepared for how quickly Nan passed. How suddenly she was struck with a bad case of pneumonia. I was by her bedside for a week straight, missing my shifts at Dale’s, asking for time off from the cleaning company. When they fired me, I couldn’t blame them. I was too caught up with Nan to worry about getting a paycheck. I was so laser-focused on her treatments, worried when they said the medicine wasn’t helping like it should, worried that my time with her was getting cut short. Sure, I wanted to chase my dreams, but not at the expense of Nan. I would have stayed with her forever. I would have lived in that trailer and worked at Dale’s for years if only it meant I could keep her alive.
She passed a mere three weeks after Ben left. He was still in Tokyo for the Games, winning a gold medal, carrying the American flag for his country, highlighted on every magazine cover at the supermarket. Meanwhile, I was standing at a gravesite, burying the only person who ever truly loved me. The only family member I’ve ever known.