It’s only six p.m. back home. Prime time hasn’t happened. She’ll text you after the morning session.
Our relay finished in first, another gold for my collection. By the time I was dressed and out the door, walking back to the village after the morning session, it was ten thirty at night on the East Coast. A slew of text messages invaded my phone, signaling my 200-free had already aired. My heart raced at the anticipation of finding Kennedy’s name buried in the pending messages. I kept scrolling until I reached those I’d already opened. Her name was right underneath Liam’s, the last message was my smiley face Tuesday afternoon.
Why the hell didn’t she message me? Where was the congratulation text for my second gold?
Maybe she got busy. Maybe she had a happy hour with friends. Maybe she had a bad day. Don’t worry about it.
* * *
By the time I had my final event on Saturday morning—the 800-meter free against Amira—the week got weird. That magnifying glass never strayed off us. The media buildup for the 800-free was off the charts. They fed into our relationship like a starving pride of lions on a dead antelope carcass. She liked messing with them and told me to wear something gay on our walk to the natatorium Thursday night for our 800-free heat, one last hurrah. We had to go out with a bang, she said. So I wore my pride Speedo shirt, each lane a different color of the rainbow, and Amira wore her swimwear sponsor’s pride shirt. The magnifying glass intensified once again. Something as little as a shirt underneath our warm-ups or a congratulatory pat on the back after our races blew up to feed the narrative.
“Amira Kőszegi and Quinn Hughes Make Gay Pride Statement Ahead of Their Final Race.”
“Swimmer Amira Kőszegi, Darling of the Rio Olympics, Attempts One Last Chance for Gold.”
“Amira Kőszegi and Quinn Hughes Races Draw Astronomical Ratings.”
“Fans Want Star Swimmers to Date after Their Battle in the Pool.”
“Quinn Hughes’s Rise and the Downfall of Amira Kőszegi.”
Once I swept up my fifth and final gold in the 800, I could see the disappointment on Amira’s face. I almost felt bad for her, but I’d swept gold in all my events, claimed Tokyo as my games, and dethroned the fastest swimmer in the world, which meant what? That I was the fastest swimmer in the world? That couldn’t be. I felt anything but. I could feel how fast Amira was; it squeezed my lungs like a stress ball, my breaths short and shallow. And the 400-free was really anyone’s race if ten hundredths of a second separated first and second.
But the weirdest thing to come out of the week was that by Saturday night—when the swimmers finally went out and celebrated with alcohol and sex—the girl who kept painting smiles on my face earlier in the week hadn’t texted me since Tuesday. And that was when I knew something was going on. As much as I wanted to celebrate and float in the clouds for reaching my dreams, I couldn’t help but feel confusion and anger as to why I hadn’t heard from Kennedy. Was this intentional? Was I creating problems now that the Olympics were over for me, and I could finally worry about the things I’d been ignoring? Was I even allowed to be upset?
“You look so happy that you won five gold medals,” Talia said in our apartment as she did my makeup. She’d insisted, and since I hardly ever wore it, and we needed to soak up the last bit of fantasy, I allowed it.
“I’m confused,” I said with a deep exhale.
“That’s definitely not the emotion I expected to hear. Look up.” She dunked the mascara brush in the tube and proceeded to smooth it on my eyelashes.
“Kennedy hasn’t texted since Tuesday morning.”
“That’s probably a good thing, right?”
“No. Something’s up. You don’t go from texting every day, saying how much you miss me and how pretty I am, and then ghost me.”
“That does seem odd. Did you text her?”
“Well…no.”
“Couldn’t you?”
“Yeah but…she’s been texting me constantly, and now it’s been four days of silence.”
“How about you text her? Do you wear lipstick?” She pulled a dark red tube out of her bag.
I frowned. “No. It makes me look like a clown.”
“Is that a no?”
I pulled out my phone and stared at my text thread with Kennedy. I had no idea what to say. Like, “Hey, are you still alive? Hey, do you have power? Did you see my races?”
Did it really matter what I said? If something was going on and she was ignoring me, she would continue no matter what. If she wasn’t ignoring me, she’d respond to anything.
Talia wants to put lipstick on me. I think it will make me look like a clown. Yay or nay? Help.
It was the lamest text to send after four days of silence, but I had nothing left to lose. “There, I texted.”
“Good. Now wait. It’s still early for them. Don’t let this ruin your night. You deserve to celebrate. You are the newly crowned fastest swimmer in the world. You dethroned the Mermaid, and you have a Peruvian surfer making eyes at you. Live in the moment.”
“But—”
She put her finger to my lips. “No buts. We deserve tonight. Nothing is going to get in the way. If she’s not going to text you for four days after you’ve won three more golds, you deal with it after tonight. Have fun. Let loose. Go hook up. Who are the contenders for tonight?”
My mind went to Kennedy and how I wished she could have been a contender. But Talia had a point. I didn’t work my ass off for four years just to mope at the Olympics after winning five medals, setting two world records, and dethroning my biggest competition. If Kennedy wanted to ignore me, fine. I’d worry about it when I flew to New York in a few days. Until then, I had no reason to hold back.
“We need to pick contenders,” I said with new determination flowing inside me. “I need a distraction.”
She shook my shoulders. “There we go. That’s the spirit. You gonna text the surfer? She got silver, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know—”
“Why not? You have another prospect?”
“Maybe. We’ll see if they fall for the bait.”
“The bait?” Talia tossed her head back and laughed, then pulled out some skin-colored liquid. Concealer? Foundation? I had no idea, but I allowed her to put it on my face.
“What about you?” I asked. “The Italian rowers?”
She grunted. “Ew, no. They were hitting on every single woman. I’m way over them.”
“The Spanish diver? The South African IM-er?”
“Psh, I did a Spaniard in Rio. I’ve moved on from that country,” she said and winked.
I played along and put my hands up. “Oh, sorry to have missed that memo.”
“My eyes are on the South African IM-er.”
“Sticking to swimming, eh?”
“Yeah, and he’s sexy. Ripped body. He could hoist me up and—”
I raised a hand. “I love you, but I don’t want to picture it. Sorry. I’m sure Lillian will want all the straight details.”
Since non-Olympians weren’t allowed inside the village, Liam met us outside the premises, already drunk. I guess he and my parents had taken a few shots of cold sake before he ditched them to barhop with us because like all of us, he wanted to hook up.