“I’m really not that drunk.”
She was. It colored her cheeks, blurred her eyes, strung her words slightly together. I’d watched her consume beer and tequila. But I wasn’t going to use the time to argue with her about that. There were other factors at play.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I said quietly and tried to remain as calm as possible despite her defensive tone that was only because she was embarrassed and drunk. “I’m not going to sleep with you for the hell of it and then wonder when the hell I’m going to see you next.”
“Christmas. We said Christmas,” she said, wiping her face.
“We said Christmas before this happened. There’s too much between us for this to be some random hookup.”
She played with her fingers, refusing to look me in the eye. The longer I waited for her to look at me, the bigger the ball in my throat grew. I wanted to tell her that I cared about her too much to meaninglessly fuck her. Without even kissing her and spending the whole day with her, I knew that I’d be going to Tokyo with so much weight on my mind, and the last thing I needed was mental drag. I wanted to tell her that I compared all the girls to her, still after all this time. I wanted her to know how open and vulnerable I felt around her, especially today. I wanted to tell her how terrified I was about losing her.
But admitting anything more would add to the emotional sludge.
“You should be at your going away party,” she muttered and reached for her phone tucked in her purse. “I should go. I’ll call Jacob and see if he or Ava can come pick me up. Or I’ll call an Uber.”
“Is that what you really want?”
She exhaled. “No. But it’s what I need.”
I needed to know what all of this meant. I needed to know what to expect when I got back. Where did we stand?
She opened her Uber app, and I sat there with a stuttering pulse as she ordered one. I wanted to fight for her to stay so we could resolve this, but I felt as lost as she did. I had no idea where to even begin with all the hurdles in our way.
My throat tightened around my words. I couldn’t muster up anything but defeat. “Um, okay,” I said. “Can I at least sit here with you until it comes?”
She looked at me with an expression so wounded that I wondered how I was supposed to heal after seeing it. She nodded, then quickly looked back at the ground. I wasn’t sure how I was going to hold in my sobs until the Uber came and whisked her away.
When it arrived, she gave me a tight hug and buried her face in my neck. I inhaled the smell of her hair and shampoo and imagined I was breathing her in, so the memory could stay longer, so I could keep a part of her after I let her go.
Again.
Why am I always letting her go?
As I pulled away, she tugged me back, not finished with the hug. “Good luck in Tokyo,” she said softly in my ear. “I know you’re going to do great. I’ll be watching. And remember that I’m so proud of you. No matter what happens, I’ll always be proud of you.”
The reminder of the Olympics should have flicked a spark of excitement in me like it’d been doing for the past few weeks, but it didn’t. It didn’t fill me with anything except more regret that I was leaving her with things unanswered, unsaid, and unresolved.
All I could do was nod as she pulled away to get one last look. She gave me a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes. My throat balled with emotions as she closed the door. Everything I’d been holding in started leaking out.
I held up my hand to give her one last wave, and she did the same before the Uber started down the street. I didn’t go back inside until the warm July air relaxed all my muscles, and I fully cried all my emotions into my palms.
I beelined to my room and locked the door. That was when I found the pile of clothes I’d lent her for her nap folded neatly on my nightstand. A part of her still lingered. Hovering over the clothes, I debated whether I should smell them or toss them in the laundry where the dirty scent of my sweat from dryland would taint the fabric. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I held my blue Berkeley shirt, brought it up to my nose, and searched for the answer to my question. I wanted to remember. I wanted to relive those days when we were us. I closed my eyes and inhaled a long breath that filled me up with the smell of her. My heart dropped.
She still smelled the same.
Chapter Five
The Olympics was a magnifying glass. Everything, even the smallest things, was bigger than life. Every triumph—like winning a circular slab of gold pinned to a ribbon—was considered the Holy Grail. Every misstep—like taking fourth in an event or losing by a millisecond—was magnified as a complete failure. The number of medals determined your worth and your prowess. Medals and success were currency in the Olympic Village. The games created two weeks of a fantasy land, and the athletes were at the heart of it all.
Team USA had been in Tokyo for a week, squeezing in last-minute taper sessions, mental training, team exercises, and adjusting to the huge time difference. Seventeen hours for Talia, me, and the other West Coasters. Thirteen hours for American prime time on the East Coast.
I livestreamed our walk into the stadium, hidden in the sea of over five hundred athletes that comprised Team USA, wearing designer navy blazers, red and white striped long-sleeved shirts, white slacks, and boat shoes. Hundreds of thousands of people were packed into the stands. All the athletes wore their country’s opening ceremony uniform. Right in the middle of the USA parade, we followed the billowing flag and spent the remaining hour watching dancing, music, and storytelling, followed by the lighting of the torch that signaled the start of the two-week fantasy. The ceremonies magnified our senses, our adrenaline, our excitement, and our nerves.
When I got back to the apartment I shared with Talia, we tore off our opening ceremony uniforms, put on cheap practice suits, and started the shave down. After three weeks, I finally got to cover my body in shaving cream. My armpits, my legs, and yes, even my arms. The men shaved everything too, and I imagined all of the hair congealing in the Tokyo pipes and was grateful not to be a plumber. After the shave, I felt so light. I had an extra spring in my step from having silky smooth limbs, pent-up energy from tapering, and adrenaline, and I was ready to fly through the water.
As I plopped on my twin bed, not being able to control marveling at the smoothness of my legs, I checked my phone, and a wave of text messages from friends and family lit up the screen, probably in response to my Instagram. But the first person I went to was Kennedy. We hadn’t spoken in the eight days since my party. Honestly, it didn’t seem as long since the second I’d landed, I’d been so busy doing last-minute training and preparations that by the time all of that was over, everyone had stormed back to our apartments, mingled with athletes from other countries, kind of like the first week of college, and passed out. But now that her name appeared on my phone, I felt eight days of unresolved issues suffuse the room.
Saw your Instagram story. Can’t wait to try to spot you when they air it tomorrow night. Good luck on your relay heat tomorrow. I’ll be watching.
She ended the text with a smiley face.
My heart soared. She was thinking about me.
I responded, Thank you! It was definitely an experience. Still can’t get over it. We’re antsy right now and just want to get in the pool.