Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

  “That’s part of it?” Ryan deadpans.

  “Yeah, doesn’t it look great?” I joke back.

  Hallie flits through the rest of the routine, shouting a dramatic “Ta-da!” as she hits the final pose.

  “Needs some work,” Ryan suggests kindly.

  “But we’re on the right track,” I insist.

  “I’ll run through it twenty more times today,” Hallie promises.

  “That’s not necessary,” I say. “Let me buy you that Gatorade, and then we’ll drill the choreography until it’s muscle memory.”

  Hallie skips through the gym, leaning on one balance beam as she kicks up her feet and clicks her heels in midair, making her way toward the vending machine in the lobby.

  “Motivating her with treats? Interesting coaching strategy,” he points out.

  “Effective coaching strategy,” I correct him.

  I head toward the lobby. Ryan makes a soft noise like he’s clearing his throat, and when I look back toward him, his mouth is half-open, like he’s about to say something.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  He presses his lips together and dips his gaze away from mine. “Nothing,” he says. “I was going to say something, but it’s nothing.”

  I look at him curiously, but he just crosses his arms over his chest and nods toward the door of the gym.

  “Go catch up with Hallie,” he says.

  • CHAPTER 8 •

  I want to believe that I’ve grown up a lot since I was Hallie’s age. It would be nice to think that I’ve blossomed into a mature, confident, graceful adult. But then Ryan will make a particularly charming joke or simply breathe in my direction, and I’m forced to remember that I’ve been harboring the same teenage crush for a full decade. So maybe not much has changed.

  “Heading out?” Ryan asks.

  It’s a Wednesday in the middle of December; we’ve just wrapped up our morning practice, and we’re scattering in different directions for our midday break. Kim picked up Hallie for lunch and homeschooling, Ryan is retreating into the office for a meal, and per usual, I’m on my way out. Even though I’ve worked at Summit for a month now, I’ve never quite been comfortable spending the lunch break hanging out with Ryan. I know he stays here. I don’t want to intrude on his personal space—and if I’m really honest with myself, the prospect of regular alone time with him sounds like a nervous thrill. What would I say? So I typically eat at home.

  “Yeah,” I say, a little embarrassed.

  He gives me a bemused smile. “You know, you’re more than welcome to hang out here,” he says. “Even when you’re off the clock.”

  I look at the door, then back at Ryan. “Do you want company?” I ask.

  “That’d be nice,” he says. “Unless you have other plans.”

  That’d be nice, I replay in my head. Between clubbing in college and a high-profile relationship with a famous athlete in my twenties, I eventually got comfortable around men—even intimidating ones I was attracted to. I could flirt, banter, relax. But maybe because Ryan is from a completely different era of my life, back when the prospect of interacting with guys point-blank terrified me, I lose my cool around him.

  It’s time for that to change.

  “Do you have food here?” I ask.

  “I brought a ton of leftovers, if you want to share,” he says. “It’s just some chicken and rice and veggies.”

  The offer is very sweet. “Sure, why not? Thank you so much.”

  He heats up the leftovers in the office’s microwave and clears space off the desk for us to sit and eat.

  “Did you make this?” I ask.

  The chicken is a little bland, but it’s not bad.

  “It’s basically the one meal I know how to make, yeah,” he says.

  “I ate a version of this pretty much every single day back when I was training,” I say. “It’s like comfort food.”

  “Exactly, same,” he says.

  There’s a moment where neither of us says anything. I could change the subject to something completely professional, like Hallie’s floor routine—but I recognize it wouldn’t hurt for Ryan and me to get to know each other on a friendlier, more personal level, too.

  “I actually love to cook,” I tell him. “My first few years in California, I lived in dorms or these tiny apartments with bad kitchens, but eventually, I moved into this place with a huge, awesome setup for cooking. For the first time in my life, it was like I had both the space and the lifestyle to actually enjoy food.”

  “Oh, wow,” he says. He looks down and pokes a piece of chicken with his fork. “I wish I had known that before serving you this.”

  “No, no, don’t worry, this is good,” I lie. “And it’s so nice of you to share. Maybe I’ll cook something for you sometime.”

  I can’t tell if I’m overstepping a boundary, but he doesn’t seem to flinch.

  “It’s funny that you say that you could enjoy cooking more once you left gymnastics,” he notes. “That’s how I felt about working out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It turns out, once the pressure of winning medals isn’t hanging over your head, you can chill out a little more,” he says.

  “No kidding,” I deadpan.

  “I used to get so bored with conditioning when I was a gymnast, but after I retired, I realized I missed that kind of workout. So that’s why I started lifting weights just for me—not for the sake of the sport.”

  “Ha, see, I felt the opposite way. I’ve done enough conditioning for one lifetime,” I say.

  “Fair enough,” he says.

  “How’d you get into coaching?” I ask.

  “Back in high school, I coached kids’ classes, just to make a little money during the summers,” he explains. “So I knew I liked it. And then around the time I was thinking of retiring, my old coach from Michigan connected me to Mary here at Summit. The timing was perfect, since Hallie was leveling up and wanted to work one-on-one with a coach. The Conways looked into Powerhouse, but Dimitri didn’t have room for her at the time.” He explains that Dimitri’s hands were full with other gymnasts: Emma Perry, Skylar Hayashi, Brit Almeda. “And the Conways were pretty reluctant to find another coach in another state because of Todd’s career. So I was the best option—better than nothing.”

  “They took a pretty big chance on you,” I say.

  He knocks his knuckles against the wooden windowsill behind him. “Trust me, I’m grateful for that every single day.”

  He already knows that I coached a preteen girls’ gymnastics team back in LA, and we trade coaching stories back and forth. He’s had more than his fair share of dealing with sassy thirteen-year-old gymnasts and their uptight parents, but so have I. This is such a niche profession, it’s rare that I meet someone else who understands it completely; even in the close-knit gymnastics circle, I don’t know any other coaches around my own age. I’m glad I got over my nerves about eating lunch with Ryan at Summit. It’s good for us to be friends.

  • CHAPTER 9 •

  While the rest of the world counts down to the clock striking midnight on New Year’s Eve, or the ball dropping in Times Square, we’re more focused in the gym. Chalk dust hangs in the air as Hallie Sharpies a red X over the day in the calendar in Ryan’s training binder. There are 175 days to Trials.

  Hallie’s floor routine has been my singular obsession for most of the month. I sometimes catch myself tapping out the steps while rinsing my hair in the shower, or humming the music while I refill my water bottle. She has the choreography down pat by now, and we’ve settled on which tumbling passes go where. We still have a ways to go when it comes to her actual performance—but I know the nuanced details, like the sassy tilt of a head or the satisfying thunk of a cleanly stuck landing, take time to develop. She’ll get there. I’m optimistic.

  So, today, Ryan wants Hallie to prioritize bars and vault. He told me I could take the day off, but the prospect of a weekday stuck in the house with Mom and Dad was too dull to cons
ider. Instead, I spend hours lolling about by the chalk bins between the bars, fluffing the dismount mats, sucking down water bottles while wielding a whistle and stopwatch through Hallie’s conditioning reps.

  When Hallie heads home for dinner at six thirty, the sliver of night sky I can see through the gym windows is navy blue and studded with stars. New England winter nights are frigid, and this one is no exception. I’m gathering my stuff by the stereo—phone, socks, hoodie—when Ryan sidles up and leans nonchalantly against the plastic shelves.

  “Are you going out tonight?” he asks.

  I have no plans. Three days ago, as I slathered peanut butter on a banana and slid out the side door to the garage, Mom and Dad suggested that we all watch the ball drop on TV, like we used to. That’s how I spent almost every New Year’s Eve as a teenager, back when I lived at home and had no social life outside of the gym. My new life mirrors my old one all too well. If I were still living in LA, I might try to slither into a sequined minidress, pulled down tight around my thighs, and dance while clutching an overfilled champagne flute as the clock struck midnight. I can’t do that here. I have no clue if Boston even has clubs, and if it does, there’s no way I want to brave the line outside with bare legs on a winter night.

  “Uhhh…” I try to stretch out the word in order to buy myself time to generate a response that saves me from looking like a loser with no friends, but nothing comes to mind. “Well… not really?”

  I’m grateful that his expression doesn’t flicker with pity.

  “My friend is having a party tonight,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say, exhaling and feeling my cheeks flushing pink. “You don’t have to invite me out just because I have nothing better to do.”

  “No, no, I’m saying…” He chuckles and looks down. “I’m saying you could come? If you want to.”

  The way his voice lilts, I get the sense that he’s not just being nice. He sounds nervous, like he’s actually hoping I say yes. I’ve never seen a hint of vulnerability from him before, but I like it. Part of me wants to spit out a reassuring answer quickly so he doesn’t have to feel flustered; part of me marvels at seeing him like this.

  “Or, you know, if you’d rather do something else, that’s cool, too,” he rushes to add.

  It’s funny, I guess, the way we’ve spent hundreds of hours together at this point, and yet we’re still not quite comfortable around each other. Our lunch two weeks ago was a good step forward, but we have a ways to go.

  “That sounds like fun,” I say, aiming to sound cool and confident, instead of overly eager. I’m not sure I land the right effect. “I could swing by.”

  “Sweet,” he says, knocking the side of the stereo with his fist. “I’ll text you the details.”

  A million questions start to unfurl on my tongue: What should I wear? Should I bring drinks? Who’s your friend? Where’s the party?… Is this a date? But by the time I work up the courage to spit out even the most basic ones, Ryan is already straightening up and heading across the gym.

  “See you tonight!” he calls, stretching up to slap the top of the door frame as he disappears into the lobby.

  Once I’m sure he’s gone, I turn to face the mirror that runs along one edge of the floor. I’m bare-faced, with a lifeless ponytail that probably should’ve been washed yesterday. Chalk dust and foam pit particles cling to my clothes. I have no idea what kind of party I’m in for, but I can guarantee that this look isn’t going to cut it. I head home, checking my phone at each red light, waiting for Ryan’s text.

  * * *

  There’s a message on my phone when I step out of the shower. I wipe the fog from my screen against the blue terry cloth of my towel and read Ryan’s text: a Somerville address I don’t recognize, 10 p.m., BYOB. Many of my former classmates moved to Somerville after college, especially the ones who stayed local for school. From what I know of it, it’s the kind of place with fixed-gear bikes and all-organic markets, not far from Harvard. It’s just bustling enough to feel hip—I think. I’ve never actually been.

  I clutch the towel to my chest, shivering a little at the shock of cold air outside the shower, and head into my bedroom to find something to wear. My flimsy clubbing dresses are gone, but any of them probably would’ve looked desperate and out of place, anyway. Instead, I find a pair of pleather leggings and a silky black cami. I hesitate, wondering if my black knit sweater would be more appropriate. I rummage through a dresser drawer until I find it. The fabric feels comfortably thick under my fingers. Ryan is my coworker. But arms are just arms, aren’t they? And it’s New Year’s Eve. I push the sweater back into the drawer.

  I blow-dry my hair, put on a tasteful layer of makeup, grab a bottle of wine from the liquor cabinet downstairs—though I need to blow a coat of dust off of it first—to stash in my purse, and then… wait for time to pass. It’s barely after eight. There was a time in my life when going out before midnight seemed lame. Now, the prospect of even making it to midnight seems questionable. I pad into the kitchen to scrounge for leftovers.

  “You’re going out?” Dad asks, looking up over his glasses. He’s eating a plate of pasta with one hand and reading a magazine in the other.

  “Yeah, if that’s… okay?” I ask tentatively.

  He tilts his head. “I guess I can see how sitting around with your parents tonight probably isn’t your idea of fun.”

  “Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, trying to force a laugh.

  He shrugs. “Pasta’s in the fridge,” he says.

  I make myself a plate and pop it into the microwave, trying to figure out what to say to him as the appliance hums in the background.

  “Ryan invited me to his friend’s place in Somerville,” I explain. “I’ll take an Uber there.”

  Dad reaches for his wallet and fishes out two twenties.

  “No, Dad,” I say, laughing. “Uber doesn’t take cash. But I got it. I’m good. I’m making money now, you know.”

  After Dad and I finish our pasta, we join Mom in the living room to watch TV. The crowd packed into Times Square looks miserable in tonight’s frigid, slushy weather. Their “2020” glasses are a jarring reminder that the Olympics are just months away. Between the countdown clock in the corner of the TV screen, ticking away the minutes to midnight, and the uncomfortable sensation of my pleather waistband digging into my stomach when I normally sit here in sweats, it’s impossible to forget that I have somewhere to go. I’m anxious to leave; I’m nervous about the prospect of heading into a party where I only know Ryan, and I’m curious to see how the night will unfold. The year ahead feels like a fresh start, and I want it to hurry up and arrive already.

  Mom and Dad encourage me to leave at nine thirty, but I force myself to wait at least another twenty minutes before I dare call the Uber. I don’t want to show up embarrassingly early. When my driver arrives, he grumbles about traffic but plays a comforting mix of pop hits from the ’80s and ’90s as the car whisks me through the suburbs and into the city. If I were meeting Tyler at a party, I’d text him a heads-up: On my way. But I don’t know Ryan that well. My finger hovers over his name in my phone. I do my best to resist the urge.

  Finally, at ten thirty, the car stops in front of a three-story house with a strip of a snowy front lawn. A group of people cluster in the wide bay window of the first-floor apartment; that must be it. I scurry up the front walk, climb the short set of stairs to the porch, and take a deep breath before ringing the buzzer.

  A trim, dark-haired guy comes to the door a few seconds later. His mouth parts halfway, and he gives me a quizzical expression. “Hi?”

  I glance past his shoulder to see if I can spot Ryan, but I’m not tall enough to see beyond this guy’s bulky frame. “Hi, uh, Ryan invited me?”

  “Oh, hey, c’mon inside,” he says, stepping back to welcome me into the apartment. His expression softens. “I’m Goose. This is my place.”

  “Goose?” I ask.

  “Mike Guzowski, but everyone calls me Goose,” he
explains, gesturing to the group of people gathered in his living room.

  The room is dim, illuminated by a strip of lights along the window that emit a soft glow that rotates through the colors of the rainbow. There’s a massive sectional along one wall where an assortment of thick-necked, muscled guys sit with their dates, facing the TV. The screen is turned to the countdown in Times Square, but mercifully, it’s on mute. Instead, ambient electronic music floats through the room. The party is dominated by a dining room table set up for beer pong with teams of two facing off at each end. The kitchen island is entirely covered with empty beer bottles, flattened six-pack cartons, open bags of chips, and a Tupperware full of lopsided, homemade chocolate chip cookies.

  Ryan is perched on the arm of the couch, sipping a beer. He pops up when he spots me.

  “Hey, you made it,” he says, approaching me and Goose.

  He hesitates for a split second, then leans in for a hug. It’s the first time we’ve ever been this close, and I can detect some kind of cologne. I lean into him for a brief moment, and his hand grazes the small of my back.

  “Good to see you,” I say.

  Training was only a few hours earlier, but here, at the party, it feels like it could’ve been days ago. I unzip my black wool coat and shrug it off, tossing it on the pile of parkas and peacoats on the love seat.

  “I brought, um, this,” I say to Ryan, fishing the bottle of merlot out of my bag.

  “Oh, sweet,” he says, looking down at the label. “Thanks. Should we open it?”

  The merlot seemed fine earlier that night, but now that I see everyone else nursing beers, it feels like an uncomfortably fussy choice.