But Ryan grimaces anyway. The way Dimitri dismissed me is enough to cause him to furrow his brow and sympathetically squeeze my shoulder. He knows how close a gymnast and coach can be; I’m sure he can imagine how awful that rejection felt.
Jasmine sidles up to us with the two drinks.
“Cheers!” she declares, clinking her own Jasmine Fizz to mine.
Ryan joins in the toast, and she peppers him with questions about his work, gushes about how much she misses Summit, and joyfully accepts his invitation to come by sometime. I linger by his side, feeling suddenly like the third wheel. I try to snap out of this tense, dark mood and match her level of enthusiasm, but it seems impossible. Jasmine wears her peppy persona like a second skin. I know she’s not really like this. The megawatt smile, the relentlessly upbeat energy—back when we were close, she turned it on for the judges; now, she does it on TV. I’m curious if she lives fully like this now, hiding her sensitive soul, her nervous side, and her darkly funny jokes from Dimitri, smoothing out her quirks until she’s a flat reflection of whatever he wants her to be. She always did know how to perform.
“I don’t mean to keep you, Ryan,” she says, touching him lightly on the arm. “I know you’re here to socialize with the other coaches. Why don’t you go off and enjoy? Avery and I can catch up.”
My stomach drops. Ryan glances at me inquisitively, and I have no choice but to grin back at him.
“Go,” I say.
He looks uncertain, but leaves my side to join in on a nearby conversation with three stocky men. Jasmine and I each take a long sip of our drinks. I don’t think either one of us knows what to say.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I respond, searching for the right words.
I have seven years of burning questions for Jasmine, and none of them are appropriate cocktail party fodder. Do you realize that you got everything I ever wanted? How did you end up married to that monster? Are you even happy?
“I don’t mean to stare, I’m sorry,” she says, blinking, embarrassed. “It’s just, wow. It’s still so surreal that you’re here.”
“I only moved back a few months ago,” I explain.
“From LA, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, LA,” I confirm. “I came back for this coaching opportunity. It was just too good to pass up.”
She never has to know the truth.
“So, are you two, like, a thing now?” Her eyes dart in his direction.
I wish I had thought to hammer out a joint answer to this question with Ryan before we walked in the door. I don’t want to say yes, only to have him find out and think I’m overestimating his feelings for me. It’s not like we’ve had the What are we? talk yet. But downplaying my situation with Ryan doesn’t feel right, either. I settle for a purposefully coy sip of my drink.
“Oh my god,” she says, dropping her voice down to a whispered squeal and clutching my arm. “This is nuts, isn’t it? After all these years? We always thought he was so cute.”
For a split second, I forget everything, and we’re just teenagers again, best friends, teammates. We were so close, we were each other’s designated Butt Glue Girl—we’d take turns applying the roll-on adhesive just under the edges of our leotards before competitions so we wouldn’t get uncomfortably distracting wedgies in the middle of routines. I’ve never really understood flashbacks before, but this one comes roaring back with full clarity. And then the moment is over, and I get the ice-cold sensation that Dimitri is watching me, and I duck my head down. I remember to speak quietly and control myself.
“It’s very sweet how this has all come full circle,” I manage to say. “And you? You and Dimitri? I still can’t believe it.”
The enthusiasm on her face flickers before she catches herself. “I know. Isn’t it funny how life works out?”
“I had no idea you were even into him back then,” I admit.
I feel bold saying it, daring her to acknowledge how bizarre her relationship appears to be.
“Oh,” she says, blushing. “Well, nothing happened until I was a little bit older, obviously. You had already moved by then. And it just…”
Her gaze drifts over my shoulder toward her husband, and she loses focus.
“Made sense,” she says finally.
There’s another flicker of emotion on her face, but then it disappears without a trace. I think about the way we used to play Fuck, Marry, Kill while stretching at practice, and how Dimitri was too old and weird to be put on the list, even as a joke. We seriously weighed the pros and cons of Kevin Federline, and Tom, the gym’s janitor, and even Alexei, a gymnast with a gross rattail we saw at competitions. But Dimitri? Not even once. I cannot fathom one single thing about Dimitri and Jasmine that makes sense.
She looks at me brightly again. “Do you want a tour of the house?”
As she leads me through the home she shares with a man old enough to register for an AARP card, the man who once—when she was twelve years old—poked the side of her bottom left exposed by her leotard, observed it jiggling, and told her to “watch it with the cookies,” I feel increasingly disturbed. She shows off the new velvet throw pillows meticulously arranged on the white bed in the master bedroom, and the monogrammed towels hanging in the en suite bathroom. She chirps about the gorgeous natural sunlight in the home office, though I realize neither of them works from home, and tosses a wink when we enter the guest room, or as she calls it, “someday, a baby’s room.” She does this all while traipsing three or four steps in front of me, far enough away that we never have to face each other. The tour is so tightly packed with minuscule details about where she purchased this rug, or why she deliberated over that paint color, that there is simply no room for me to interject and ask what the fuck is going on.
When the tour concludes on the first floor, Jasmine offers to refresh my drink, which I accept. The minute the glass is full, I find Ryan on the couch in the living room. He lights up when he sees me, scooting to the left and patting the space next to him so that I’ll take a seat. He drops away from the conversation with the other two men in the living room.
“You’ll never guess what Dimitri said to me while you were with Jasmine,” he says, excitement straining through his hushed tone.
I rack my brain and feel a slow sinking feeling in my gut; nothing good could come of this conversation.
“He offered me a job,” he says, beaming.
“At Powerhouse?” I ask.
“It would start this fall, after the Olympics. I could bring Hallie—she’s young enough that she could train for 2024, and Dimitri and I could train her together,” he explains. “I mean, think about it: more resources, better facilities, working with Dimitri Federov.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” I say.
Ryan’s face falls slightly.
“I mean, wow. That’s a lot,” I continue, rushing to switch to a more congratulatory tone.
“I’m really excited,” he says. “I can’t believe he wants to work with me.”
“What would Hallie’s parents think?” I ask, trying to find a hole to poke in this plan.
“I don’t know exactly, I’d have to talk to them,” he says. The lilt in his voice makes me realize he hasn’t thought through this part yet at all. “I can’t see why they’d turn down Dimitri. True, Powerhouse is slightly more expensive than Summit, but not by much, and it’s literally the best training center in the world. So.”