The answer was yes because now, whenever I woke up, I wanted the day to fast-forward to my evenings with her. And as much as I loved our evenings, I wanted so much more to live for.
Realizing how stupid my walk was, I did a one-eighty and went back home. I needed to suck it up and have this conversation, apologize for my petulant behavior, tell her I appreciated her helping me. But when I got back inside, all the lights were off. I used my phone’s flashlight to lead me up the spiral staircase.
“Kennedy?” I whispered as I crawled into bed. “Ken?”
She was either sleeping or pretending to be, leaving me to curl up on the farthest end of my side without leaning against her, feeling ashamed that it was my fault we were both going to bed angry, our fight unresolved. The nights were the worst part of the day. That was when all my anxieties woke up and frolicked. With the fight still lingering, it was like a stimulant to my worries. I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep.
“I’m sorry,” I said, in case she wasn’t already asleep.
Chapter Thirteen
I didn’t realize how much of an impact my break from the pool made on me until I walked into the locker room. The chlorinated air filled my nose and settled the nerves bubbling inside me. It was like stepping into my house after months of being away, and the smell of home brought instant nostalgia and a sense of calm. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
Kennedy was right. I needed to try. The best way for me to get out my anger was always swimming, especially during a brutal practice. I relied heavily on my workouts when I had a bad day. There was something about exerting tons of energy in the pool or weight room that really helped drain my toxic emotions. As I squeezed into my suit, I wondered if my depressive emotions were still accumulating because I hadn’t turned to my regular outlet. For the first time since the Olympics, I craved a brutal workout. I might not have been ready for that lactate test months ago, but I was hoping that one was waiting for me on the whiteboard. A workout to slap me in the face and tell me to wake the hell up.
David looked up from writing the sets on the whiteboard, jumped up from his squat position, and pulled me in for a welcoming hug. “You’re back,” he said and patted me on the back.
“I’m back.”
He pulled away and allowed his smile to grow. “What does this mean? Are you in for Japan?”
“I’m not really sure, but I woke up today wanting to swim. So here I am. Give me a lactate set. I’m ready.”
“I don’t have one scheduled for today, but maybe I can tweak something around for later in the week?”
“Don’t listen to her requests,” Lillian shouted from behind as she pulled her Berkeley swim cap over her head, shoving her messy bun underneath it. “She’s literally the only one who wants a lactate set.”
“But if you ask, you shall receive,” David said.
“I won’t show up for the rest of the week if that’s the case,” Talia added.
“That’s fine. I’ll just make sure to have a backup hell workout for next time. I’ll go through my old practices, pull out the ones I flagged that made any swimmer of mine barf, and there you go.”
“You actually do that?” Talia asked with rounded eyes. “You flag your barfing workouts?”
David flashed a malicious smile. “I do. I’m very proud of it. Now, you guys wasted a minute. You have one more, or I turn on the hose.”
Lillian and Talia gave me a playful scowl.
“We hate you,” Lillian said and leapt into the five-foot pool in true cannonball fashion, which I’m pretty sure she did on purpose to get me wet.
After I sandwiched my goggles in my eyes, I leapt into the pool, and the cold water empowered me to trudge through my thoughts. During that 800 warm-up, some clarity settled in me. How I’d been so incredibly unfair to Kennedy the night before. She was right. I’d been allowing the water to thrash me anywhere it wanted, but when the hell was I going to stop?
Afterward, my limbs felt like Jell-O, which informed me that they would be sore tomorrow. I left the pool feeling weightless, for once having the energy to continue upward in my day. It made me optimistic, added an extra pep in my step. I decided to use that energy for the better. Since I had a lot of apologizing to do, I ran to the store to grab all the ingredients for Kennedy’s favorite meal: Serena DeLuca’s gnocchi with pomodoro sauce. And then I traveled to several wine stores to find her a Petit Verdot. I cleaned the apartment, did our laundry, and when dinner time neared, I read the recipe to make sure I didn’t mess it up because last time we cooked together, I mistook two teaspoons of salt for two tablespoons, and holy sodium, we went through our red wine and Brita water very quickly. This dinner had to be perfect, just the tiniest thing to show her how sorry I was about the night before.
As six o’clock approached, I had the table set, wineglasses out, gnocchi and sauce broiling in the oven. Then my phone went off on the kitchen island right after I finished pouring the Petit Verdot.
It was a text from Kennedy. Hey, a reminder that I have soccer practice tonight. Should be home around 830.
I let my phone topple on the kitchen island and faced the oven; the timer had two minutes left until I was going to scoop a nice heaping spoonful on her plate next to the spinach salad with her favorite red wine vinaigrette.
But now this whole dinner that I’d put so much time, thought, and effort into had to be delayed. The gnocchi would get cold, the taste would be ruined by the microwave, and the salad dressing would make the spinach soggy. All because I couldn’t remember the soccer practice she told me she had on Mondays from six to eight. It was my fault for not remembering, and the failure triggered the depression. My anxiety told me that because I didn’t remember, the food wouldn’t be as good, and Kennedy wouldn’t fully appreciate the meal and would continue to be mad at me and leave me. I knew this was irrational, but I could feel the progress I’d made starting to unravel. I kept telling myself not to let my disappointment overshadow the progress. I’d gone to practice. I’d felt amazing afterward. I was looking forward to going to practice the next morning. That was progress. That was something to be proud of.
She came back around eight thirty, busting through the door in jogger pants and an old Aspen Grove soccer sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, baby hairs sticking out in every direction as proof of a good workout. Even disheveled from practice, she looked so beautiful.
“Hey,” she said through her huff and tossed her duffel bag on the floor. There was still uncertainty in her tone. “It smells good in here.”
“Yeah, I made dinner. That Serena DeLuca gnocchi recipe you like.”
She found the plates I put on the kitchen counter with the feta strawberry spinach salad on top and the red wine vinaigrette drizzling from the salad pile.
“Is that the red wine dressing I love?”
I nodded. “And some Petit Verdot on the table.”
“Wow, Quinn. You went all out tonight.”
“I wanted to have a nice meal with you. But I forgot about your practice so I have to heat it in the microwave.”
I got off the couch, unwrapped the foil over the gnocchi dish, and put it in the microwave. She observed me, and the longer she lingered, the more worry filled her stare. She had been speaking with uncertainty ever since she walked through the door, and we’d been awkwardly shuffling around everything left unsaid from the night before.