Coming Up for Air

by Nicole B. Tyndall

  Standing on Braden’s front porch, I ring the doorbell. Normally, I’d just let myself in through the garage, but tonight, not only are his parents home, they’re also hosting an end-of-the-season dinner for the swim team, so I want to be on my best behavior. I rock back and forth on my Keds, Remy’s borrowed sundress swishing gently around my knees. Nervous butterflies flutter in my stomach. I haven’t spent a ton of time with Braden’s parents before, and things with Braden and me have felt a little off lately.

  Seconds later, the door swings open, and I’m greeted by his fresh buzz cut, the sharp lines of his face, and that megawatt smile. There’s a kitchen towel thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and he’s wearing a fitted, short-sleeve button-up and dark jeans. Braden’s eyes light up when they meet mine, and he pulls me tightly into him.

  “Thank god you’re here.” He takes a step back, rests his thumb under my jaw, and kisses me softly.

  Suddenly my concerns feel silly, like maybe they were only in my head.

  “It’s not going well?” I ask, knowing Braden was nervous about his parents inviting Coach Jones.

  “No, it’s fine. Just better with you.” He looks around the entryway, and, finding it empty, puts two hands on my hips and gently pushes me outside.

  “Don’t you have a house full of people?”

  He takes another couple steps forward, leaning me against the brick wall of the porch. He’s grinning so big.

  “Yes, I do,” he says, “which is why we are so smartly outside.” And then he wraps a hand behind my head and kisses me deeply.

  My body relaxes, leaning against him, and I make an embarrassingly satisfied noise. He nips my lip in response.

  “Braden—”

  Without pulling away, he shakes his head. “Very busy right now,” he mutters against my mouth. Then he presses a thigh between my legs, pushing me more solidly against the brick. Then the front door bursts open.

  “Jesus Christ, Varsity,” a familiar voice says. Then he looks at me. “And, Hadley—you know, I expect better from you.”

  “Sorry, James.” I grin at Braden’s best friend, not feeling sorry at all.

  I try to wiggle free from Braden’s grasp, but he doesn’t budge. “Hashi, can a guy not enjoy two private minutes with his”—he turns to me—“very beautiful girlfriend without you barging in?”

  “Sorry, man, but your mom isn’t messing around with this dinner. She wants you in the kitchen.” He looks at us, at Braden running his fingers through my hair. “All right, whatever, I’m telling her I tried.” And then James goes back inside.

  Alone again, I shift my attention to Braden. “You’re in a good mood.”

  He nods. “Well, I just killed my last meet of the season—broke my own record in the fly—and scouts were there from a couple Ivies. And now I have you here too. So, yeah, I’m in a good-ass mood.”

  “Braden! That’s awesome!” I steal a quick kiss and then pull away before he can sweep me up again. “I can’t believe I missed that. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

  “No, it’s okay. I knew you couldn’t make it. And I’m obviously not going to an Ivy. They don’t do athletic scholarships. But it’s still cool.”

  I feel myself relax a little. It’s still a year away, but thinking about Braden moving to the East Coast makes my stomach sink.

  “Definitely,” I say. “Things still going well with U of M?”

  University of Michigan is still Braden’s first choice. They have a top-ten swimming program, offer scholarships to athletes, and have shown some solid interest. Plus, we would be in the same state. Not that we’re really talking about that—not yet, anyways.

  “So far,” he says. “But I guess we won’t know for sure until the fall.” He takes my hand. “Come on, let’s go inside. I want to show you off.”

  * * *

  As we approach the kitchen, the smell of sweet roasting carrots and rosemary chicken fills the air. A Hall & Oates song is playing, an oldie I recognize from Dad, who sometimes sings to it on Sunday mornings.

  Braden’s hand is resting on the small of my back. He leans in and whispers, “I forgot to warn you, my mom is on her third glass of wine.”

  “Hadley!” Mrs. Roberts exclaims when she sees us. Her blond hair is tousled in an attractive way, and her white collared shirt is perfectly pressed, sleeves rolled up. She’s wearing layers of necklaces, skinny jeans, and her heels are loud on the hardwood.

  “Hi, Mrs. Roberts,” I say as she hugs me, wineglass in hand, enveloping me in her floral perfume.

  She takes my hands in her empty one and lowers her voice. “How’s your mom?” But before I can answer she continues, “Braden told us about her hair. I just think it’s so sweet that he cut his too. You know, he doesn’t—”

  “Mom,” Braden scolds her.

  I look at him, fighting the urge to run my fingers along the soft ends of his buzz. “Me too. And she’s all right. Hanging in there. Thanks for asking.”

  “Of course, honey.”

  I look around the room, taking it in for the first time. James is peering into the oven, a towel now over his shoulder too. Mrs. Roberts must be recruiting the boys to help. And Coach Jones is standing near the table wearing a Lakebook polo, his bald head shining under the kitchen lights, with Mr. Roberts next to him, husky and dark, and in his usual sport coat. They’re speaking in an urgent, serious way, each with a bottle of beer in their hands.

  Logan approaches us, a little underdressed, and the echo of something uncomfortable moves in my gut. “Hey, guys.”

  But then Mrs. Roberts draws our attention.

  “Okay, everyone,” she says, turning down the music. “I just want to say congratulations on a fantastic season. I know that we’ve missed some meets this year—catering always seems to happen right in the middle of everything—but we wanted to take a minute to appreciate your hard work and let you know it did not go unnoticed. So thank you, Coach Jones, for helping Braden through that little injury to finish strong.” She pulls a cold bottle of champagne out of the fridge and then pops the cork, looking proud.

  James lets out a whooping cheer.

  A beat later, she’s passing out flutes. She hands a glass to everyone—even me and the rest of the underage crew—each with a splash inside. She winks at me. “Just a taste.”

  “Hold on just one more second, Molly,” Mr. Roberts says to his wife. His voice is deep and authoritative. Everybody looks at him.

  “Braden,” Mr. Roberts continues, “Coach said you didn’t hit your numbers.” But his expression doesn’t match his words. He’s grinning, and it reaches all the way up to his eyes.

  Braden stands up taller. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

  Coach clears his throat. “Not your times, Roberts. Your ACT score. I was talking to some scouts tonight, and they want to see you up a few points before—” Coach has that same strange energy.

  “Oh, the Ivies?” Braden interrupts, clearly confused. “I’m not going there anyway.”

  Coach looks pleased with himself. “No, not them. Somebody else. They called me earlier.” He pauses. “Stanford.”

  Braden sets down his champagne. “What?”

  “Oh my god.” James looks impressed, which is a rare sight.

  Logan says, “That’s the number one program in the country.”

  “Well, no shit, dude,” James replies.

  Braden takes a deep, steadying breath. Then he rubs his face. A sure sign he’s trying to keep his excitement tempered. “A few points on the ACT? How many is a few?” He knows that I worked all winter to get my math score up a single point.

  “Three. They want to see you go up three. But they’re happy with your times in the pool; you’d just have to keep it up.” Coach is all but beaming. “Probably means you can’t take that break this summer, for the shoulder surgery
. You’ll have to do club this summer to keep in shape. But what do you think? Can you push through for Stanford?”

  “Until November, for signing.” It’s not quite a question.

  At the suggestion, my stomach sinks. Braden needs to get off those pills, not delay the solution.

  “Signing starts in November, yeah,” Coach confirms, “and there are four opportunities to retake the ACT between now and then. Two over the summer and two in the fall.”

  “Holy shit.” The expression on his face opens up, all teeth. “Holy shit, holy mother of all—oh my god.”

  Mrs. Roberts, looking almost as thrilled as her son, tries to give him a warning look for his language.

  “Hadley, oh my god.” He picks me up, plants a smacking kiss on my cheek, and spins me in a circle. He’s so happy—experiencing such unbridled joy—that I can’t bring myself to voice my concerns. Not right now.

  “Congratulations,” I manage, truly feeling pride behind my worry. Everybody is looking at us, all wearing matching grins.

  Then Mrs. Roberts raises her glass. “To Stanford!”

  And the whole room clinks, drinks, laughs. My mouth is bubbling with champagne, but it tastes sour, like dread.

  Braden’s dad claps him on the shoulder, a surprising show of affection, and Braden’s smiling like he just won the lottery.

  Except he didn’t. He worked for it. And sacrificed.

  And I can’t stop wondering, How much?

  * * *

  Throughout dinner, the room is jovial. Candles burn low, the music remains upbeat, and food is passed around with gusto. The boys continue to joke around, playfully picking on one another, and it’s all fun and games except for one uncomfortable moment when Logan lays into James a bit too hard.

  Braden’s arm rests comfortably across the back of my chair, and I lean against him, grateful he’s happy, and try hard not to focus on anything else. But the worries are persistent, pressing themselves to the front of my mind every few minutes.

  And then, three hours after I arrrived, everybody is getting ready to go. Braden walks Logan to his car, who said he wanted to show him something, and James and I are standing alone on the front porch. Braden’s parents are inside, showing Coach some pictures from their son’s early swim days.

  James turns to me, looking a little lost in thought. “Hey, Hadley. Um, this might be…I don’t know, but what do you think of Logan?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Did I give myself away? I don’t have a good reason to feel weird about him. “What? He’s fine. Why?”

  James shrugs. “I don’t know. Braden’s been hanging out with him a lot lately. Just seems kind of random.”

  Even though I agree, and I got a weird vibe from him, too, I find myself defending Braden. “Well, they are on the same team. They kind of have to spend a lot of a time together.”

  He sighs. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  “Did he upset you, earlier? That jab about JV?”

  “No, that’s not a big deal. I don’t know; it’s probably nothing.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m going to get out of here. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  He gives me a one-armed hug and walks down the steps, just as Braden is walking back. They slap each other’s shoulders in parting.

  “Hey,” Braden says, still on a high from the Stanford news as he wraps an arm around my hips.

  “Hey,” I answer, feeling conflicted.

  “What’s wrong?” He cocks his head. “ ’Cause if you ask me, that was a seriously great night.”

  “No, it was. I mean, it is.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I just…I mean, I thought you were going to have that surgery this summer.” You promised.

  He lets his head fall. “I know. I’m sorry. I did say that. But, like, how can I not try? And it’s just a couple months’ difference. As soon as I sign, I can take care of everything. It’s just the final push, you know? I’ve basically been training for this my whole life.” His hands move up and down along my arms, and his face is so openly satisfied, so proud of himself, that I’m finding it difficult to protest.

  I nod, trying my best to be happy for him.

  “You’re worried, huh?”

  “I am. I’m sorry. I want to be the supportive girlfriend. I just can’t help—”

  He interrupts, “You’ve had a hard year, Hadley. I understand why you’d worry. But I’m okay. I really am. Not everything is going to turn into the worst-case scenario.”

  And suddenly this conversation feels familiar. It’s like when Braden and I first met, and I was afraid of my feelings for him. But if I hadn’t tried, I would have missed all of this. So I decide to be brave. I decide to try to be happy for him. “Okay. You’re right.”

  And by the time I get into my car to drive home, I almost believe it.

  I’m sitting next to Dad at Remy and Judd’s graduation ceremony. I can’t believe the school year is over. Between my concerns for Mom and Braden, I feel like I’ve only been halfway present for the last couple months. The ceremony is long, loud, and honestly, pretty boring. But since Mom felt too sick to attend, I’m trying to make up for her absence, cheering as loudly as I can when my siblings accept their diplomas.

  When we’re finally back home, the only thing I want to do is take a nap, but the plan is to continue the celebration with Mom. At least here, if she feels too sick, she can go lie down.

  The five of us are sitting in the living room with the windows open to the late-afternoon breeze, trying to learn how to play one of Judd’s favorite board games. The new graduates are both still wearing their caps and gowns.

  “So the goal is to accumulate four cones, but in order to do that, you have to build a civilization.” Judd looks up at our faces to see if we’re with him. “Okay, and I guess we need to talk about the Spirit cards too.” He looks down at the stack. “Or maybe, first, we should talk about the players. What do you think, Rem?”

  “Your call,” Remy answers, watching as Judd references a homemade set of instructions. She looks like her head is spinning as much as mine. We all know how badly Judd wants this to work, but I’m losing hope by the second.

  He says decidedly, “Let’s go with the players. There are, um, kind of a lot.” He lists them on his fingers. “Two wizards, a maverick, the Arbiter—”

  “Judd,” I interrupt, trying not to let the forced cheerfulness collapse around us. “I don’t know if we’re going to be able to figure out how to play this game.”

  “No, it’s totally doable.”

  “Judd.” Remy backs me up. Her tassel sways as she shakes her head. There’s a tension between them, and I’m not sure why. I’ve been debating asking all day, but they both seem to be pretending everything is fine. Our family doesn’t usually do the whole politely friendly and overly optimistic thing, but we’ve all been trying, because these days, it feels like optimism means something.

  Mom’s face is pale, but she presses her lips together, trying not to laugh, as she gingerly adjusts Dad’s old T-shirt around her head, her arms still moving a little stiffly after the surgery. I think Mom secretly finds it kind of amusing, watching us on our best behaviors.

  “What TV show is this from again?” Dad asks.

  Judd and I answer at the same time: “Parks and Rec.” Judd says it with his mouth full of crackers and hummus from the spread of food sitting next to the game.

  “That one the kids have been having me watch, with Amy Poehler?” Mom tells Dad. “It’s pretty funny.”

  We’ve been trying to keep Mom’s spirits up in every way we can think of. Remy loves to entertain her with endless fashion shows, presenting options for any and every occasion. I’ve been documenting the process, capturing silver-lining moments. And Judd tries to make her laugh with comedy marathons on Netflix and—his favorite
option—every board game ever. Including homemade varieties, like this one, that he and his gamer friends work on for fun.

  I speak as nicely as I can, “Judd, this game is literally described as ‘punishingly intricate.’ And they never even fully reveal the instructions! It would be basically impossible to figure out. Let’s just play Exploding Kittens again. That one is easy.”

  Judd’s true personality finds its way through our wholesome fun-for-the-whole-family facade. “If you’re going to suggest literally the most basic game we own—”

  “I like Exploding Kittens!” I object.

  Dad looks through the pile of games sitting on the floor and picks one up at random. “We haven’t played this one.”

  Remy chimes in, “What if we play a different kind of game. We could do a pretend ceremony? Hadley could call out our names, take pictures? Dad, you can pretend to be the principal, and we can reenact it all, for Mom.”

  “Remy,” Judd scoffs. “Come on, I’m not pretending—”

  “Hey. Kids.” Dad’s voice is suddenly serious.

  When I look up, Mom’s face is agonized.

  My heart rate kicks up. “Mom? You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She takes a short breath. “But, Judd, would you mind moving the food? I just…the garlic smell.” And then she puts a hand to her mouth, quickly stands, and moves to the bathroom. My heart sinks. She tries to keep us from seeing the chemo-induced nausea, but she can’t always fight it.

  “One second, guys.” Dad follows to check on her.

  Judd freezes, a pained look on his face. “It’s not your fault,” I tell him quietly.

  “I should have thought of it. I shouldn’t have been eating in front of her.”

  Even Remy shakes her head. “No, it’s okay.”

  At that exact moment, my phone rings. Braden’s calling. I ignore it, reminding myself to call him back later. We keep missing each other; he’s so busy trying to impress Stanford.