It’s only hours later, when I wake in the middle of the night to get a glass of water to soothe my parched mouth, that I see the text from Ryan. I must have missed it while I was sleeping. I rub at my eyes, not sure if I’m awake enough to read the message properly. But I read it three times in a row, and it seems solid. I can’t believe it’s real.
It was really great to see you tonight! The fund-raiser was a huge success. We raised $410. But I know that’s not enough to make the kind of difference this cause deserves, and so I’m also donating the money I would’ve spent on my travels after the Olympics. Total, it’ll be nearly $3,000. I know you’re probably going to protest, but I’ve been thinking about this for days. I saved up the money for something important, and there’s nothing more important than this.
• CHAPTER 31 •
Team Hallie Conway flies to the Olympic Trials in St. Louis on separate flights: Hallie and her parents in the morning, Ryan in the afternoon, and me and Sara on an evening flight so she didn’t have to call out of work. Hallie insisted that Sara fly halfway across the country with us because she wanted a private yoga session before the big day. Paying for Sara’s round-trip flight, hotel room, and meals probably costs the Conway family nearly two thousand bucks, but they don’t seem to flinch. They’ve already sunk hundreds of thousands of dollars into this dream so far—it’s not worth risking everything and winging it the morning of Olympic Trials by insisting that Hallie practice yoga on her own.
Sara and I are sharing a hotel room, so at seven thirty in the morning we walk together from our room to Hallie’s, where we pick her up and continue on to the hotel’s fitness center. Sara called ahead and confirmed that the fitness center’s yoga studio would be available for them to use. She has a yoga mat strapped to her back and totes a bag full of supplies: a foam block, a speaker, a bottle of lavender essential oil. Hallie emerges from her hotel room in leggings and a stretchy tank top; she’ll get ready and put on an actual leotard for Trials after yoga and a light breakfast.
“Morning,” I say. “Ready for the big day?”
“Ha, no, but it’s here,” she says honestly.
Sara nudges her down the hall toward the elevator. “Oh-kay, let’s go chill out for an hour and find a more positive attitude.”
The yoga studio is located at the back of the fitness center, through a door along the far wall of the gym. As we walk past a row of treadmills and ellipticals, through a crew of sweaty dudes working out on weight machines, we cross paths with Ryan, who’s bench-pressing weights. He grunts, sets the bar back on the holder, and removes one headphone.
“Hey,” he breathes. “Morning.”
“Morning,” we chime.
“We won’t distract you from your workout,” Sara says.
Sara leads Hallie into the yoga studio and closes the door. I’ve never joined one of their sessions, and I wouldn’t dare interrupt now. It’s good for Hallie to have some solo time with Sara to focus on relaxing for the day ahead.
“So, I, uh, I’m not sure I ever properly thanked you for your text,” I say to Ryan.
He removes his other headphone and sits up, grinning. “Yeah?”
“It’s an absurdly extravagant donation,” I point out. “Just, like, way above and beyond. You know that, right?”
He shrugs. “Eh.”
“I just want to make sure you’re really sure you want to do this,” I say.
“Of course I’m sure,” he says seriously.
I can’t help it—I cover my face with my hands. “Okay!” I say brightly. “I’m gonna take your money and run, I guess, before you change your mind.”
He laughs. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
“When I told Jasmine, you know what she said?” I ask.
“What?” he asks.
“That the donation is enough for her to forgive you for almost working with Dimitri,” I say.
His mouth twitches nervously. “Well, that’s good. And… you?”
“It’s one thing to apologize, but it’s another thing to make a situation right again. And you did both,” I explain. “So, yeah, I forgive you.”
“Really?” he asks, almost like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“Yeah, we’re cool,” I say. “Obviously, I know things have been kind of… weird? Between us? For a while now. But I miss how easily we used to get along, and I’d like to go back to that.”
I can feel my heart pounding as I tell him how I really feel; vulnerability is fucking scary. But then, a smile spreads across his face, and I’m flooded with relief. It’s the exact same exhilarating sensation you get when you’re flying upside down above the high bar on a release move and catch it solidly. It’s a dangerous thrill, but then you know you’re safe.
“Avery, you have no idea how much I feel the same way,” he says. He looks down apologetically at his sweat-drenched T-shirt. “I’d want to hug you right now, but…”
“Yeah, no, I’m good without it,” I tease.
“Your loss. I smell…” He sniffs his shirt and makes a sour face. “…amazing right now.”
“Please just promise to shower before I have to spend the rest of the day with you today, okay?” I ask.
“I promise,” he says earnestly.
“Now, back to work. Don’t slack on those biceps, okay?” I joke.
He flexes one arm, and the muscle swells. I resist my instinct to look impressed, and instead say goodbye and walk out of the gym with my head held high.
* * *
I get some coffee, fruit, and yogurt at a café near the hotel, and then return to my hotel room to make myself look a little more presentable for the day. I know the cameras will catch at least a few glimpses of me, and some concealer and mascara will go a long way. I’m blending the makeup under my eyes when I see my phone light up with an incoming text. My stomach drops when I catch the name on the screen—it’s Tyler. We haven’t spoken once since I left LA.
Hey. I just wanted to say that I heard you’re doing really well now, coaching and launching that organization. It all sounds really impressive. Congratulations!
I laugh, dumbfounded. I can’t believe he reached out at all, especially to praise my accomplishments. He never expected me to make anything of myself again; he didn’t think I had the drive to dream, achieve, or succeed anymore. It’s deliciously satisfying to see him recognize how wrong he was. I wish I could travel back in time to that fight, the one a few months before our breakup, when he found me sitting on the kitchen floor with my wineglass in the middle of the afternoon and criticized what looked like a lack of ambition. If only that version of myself could see my life now.
I dash off the briefest, politest text I can muster. It’s funny: for years, I cared more about him than anyone or anything—where he was, how he was doing, what he was up to. But now I don’t even care to know what his life looks like.
Thanks! Hope everything’s going well.
I’ve got more important things to do.