by Ginger Scott
My body moves so fast and my mind focuses on what fuels me so intently that I don’t realize what’s happened until I feel Maddy’s hand brush my leg as I push off the wall and spin. I twist and startle in the water, the wave of my wake washing over me while I grab at the rope and push water from my eyes.
“What’s wrong. You okay?” I say, breathless.
“You went a hundred too far, Will. You beat me already,” she says.
My chest rises and falls, my lungs trying to claw their way back to normal from the ragged abuse I put them through. I stare at her, and her expression looks like pity.
“Don’t,” I finally say, swimming to the edge next to her. I move to lift myself from the water, but her hand finds me again, her touch on my bicep soft, but arresting.
I look at her touch and then into her eyes. She pulls her hand away, reaching instead for the rope behind her. She doesn’t speak for several seconds. She doesn’t have to.
She and I—we never really needed words. That’s why we stayed away from each other. You can’t hide how fucked up you’re feeling when the other person can read it all over your face.
“Thanks for the race, Maddy,” I say. I lift from the water and pick up my clothes, shaking away enough of the water to step inside without leaving a slippery trail. I leave the door opened a tick behind me, but I don’t wait for Maddy to get out and leave. We’re done here.
We probably should have never started.
Chapter Five
Maddy
He doesn’t even look tired.
Will was early to training, most of his warm-up laps done before my fingertips hit the water. I’m dragging today, and I know it. My dad knows it, too. He just doesn’t know the reason why.
I left here last night early enough to get a decent night’s sleep, if only my eyes and mind would have cooperated. I laid awake until almost three, and I honestly think sheer exhaustion was the only thing to knock me out. Without it, my mind would have kept working to make sense of Will’s behavior…of my own.
“Do it again,” my dad says the second I lift my body from the pool. His mouth is flat, and he’s painted with disappointment. My chest hurts because I don’t like it when I make him act like this—like a real coach.
“Yes, sir,” I say, mimicking his tone. It doesn’t help my case. His glare drops and his eyes narrow, that flat line on his mouth moving into angry territory.
I dive in and begin my strokes to the other end, a swimmer’s equivalent to running away. I get to the other side and push off to return, but my eyes catch Will and my dad talking. My strokes get sloppy, and without realizing it, I stop in the middle of my lane, reaching for the rope. My dad’s eyes swing my direction, so I pull my goggles down and act like I’m adjusting something until he looks away.
The second their conversation breaks, I start my swim again, and I don’t stop for a dozen laps. It isn’t my muscles making me slow today; it’s my head.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Today is about speed. We’re going to sprint today, probably until your arms feel like they’re going to fall away from their sockets. Today is all about getting a good start, and all about nothing but you and the wall over there, and getting there as fast as you can. So hydrate, shake out whatever might be holding you back today,” my dad pauses, his eyes moving to me, “and then get on the blocks, ready to go.”
Amber, the girl I met the first day, waits for me near the bleachers, her bag wedged next to mine. I admire her spirit—but small talk, and being an inspiration or team leader or whatever—is kinda the last thing on my possible list right now. My mouth closed tight, I manage to show her a smile as I snatch my water bottle from the side pouch on my bag.
“I love sprinting. I hope I don’t embarrass myself,” she says.
I hold her gaze and smile with my eyes while taking a drink. I have to manage one motivational minute. Amber seems sweet, and the turmoil in my head isn’t her fault.
“You won’t. You wouldn’t be here if you did anything embarrassing in the water. Remember, it’s all about personal bests. Don’t worry about what any of the other swimmers do.”
Wow, that wasn’t half bad.
“It’s you I’m worried about. I watched you swim at Nationals last year,” she says, looking from me to her feet over and over again. “You’re pretty much the reason I’m here. I pushed myself enough to make it into this camp. I honestly don’t even care if I make the team from here. This is so enough.”
She laughs nervously before drinking more water and looking the other way. I’ve never really had a fan before, and it feels nice and awkward at the same time. I sort of feel responsible for her.
“How old are you?” I ask her. Her eyes dart to me.
“Eighteen,” she swallows. That means she’s a new eighteen. Probably fresh out of high school.
I glance from side-to-side before leaning into her.
“Come back here tonight, after practice. Be here by nine,” I say, the right side of my mouth twitching.
“Oh….kayyyy,” she says, her eyes worried, but a glint of excitement in them. I remember when mine looked that same way when the older swimmers took me to The Flour Mill the first time. A perk of growing up here in Knox, the person working the door always knew someone who knew someone who let them in when they were too young.
I leave Amber wondering, and on that fun edge of nervous and excited that I’d give anything to go back to. I take my spot on the blocks, and I wait while the other lanes fill with girls, too. There’s enough of us for two heats, so at least there will be a rest between sprints. The guys line up behind them, enough to fill every lane, and Will has decided to take one, two away from mine. He’s clearly avoiding me, after near skinny-dipping last night. That was a stupid idea. I got caught up. I wanted to remember how it felt to that girl, who had that feeling in her chest like a guy might just want her. I let myself forget who it was I was letting look at me. Will did, too, until something else entirely took him over. The way he moved in the water was almost desperate—like he was fighting for his life.
Maybe he was.
I glance to my right to see Amber take lane one, and I wink at her, smirking when I turn back to face the water. She’ll learn quick—drink fast, grab your lane, because that first one? You’re never going to win from there.
Fifties are my favorites—always have been. My mom liked them, too, and when I’m in my lane, focused on nothing but one arm after the next, the wall, the touch, the kick—it’s seconds where I get to be her, just for a little while.
My dad calls us to get set, so I stretch my arms out, shake away my nerves and take my position, my fingers itching to go the second I anticipate the sound. That’s the secret to a great start. You have to feel it, otherwise your opportunity to be first will pass you by.
The instant my dad’s breath hits the whistle, I’m coiled, and when it sounds, I’m off. My body slides through the water, my feet kick and I find my zone. Kick, pull. Kick, pull. I repeat and push myself to make each series faster until I feel the familiar home of my palm on the smooth tile at the other end.
My smile takes over my lips, and I throw my arms over the ropes, breathing hard and pushing my goggles up to see how I did. My father’s standing on the other end, his arm raised over his head, one finger up, and Amber squeals, covering her mouth before looking at me with nothing but sheer elation all over her face.
I bluff. I smile tightly. She’ll think I took it easy, probably. She’ll let these initial seconds pass; she’ll exit the pool, then we’ll all climb out of the water and catch our breath to do it all over again. She’ll think I gave her a gift, but I didn’t. I lost. I lost because someone was faster, and when I turn my body as I lift myself from the water, both my father and Will are looking at me like something terrible just happened.
It did. And I have exactly four minutes to fix it.
The next heat of girls takes to the pool, and I’m assaulted by the sounds of cheers of encouragement. Funny how I ca
n’t hear a single thing when I’m the one in the water. I watch the girl in my lane work. She comes in first easily, and she barely pants as she climbs onto the deck next to me. Her eyes hit mine, and I swear I see pity in them.
Will’s group swims next, and as much as I tell myself not to watch, my eyes can’t seem to move away from his body. This time, I block out the sounds, and I focus only on his form. He’s loose, but somehow, even from far away, I can tell that every muscle in his body is prepared for war. He grips the blocks and his head rises, eyes forward and looking ahead to the next several seconds, like he’s traveling through time. My dad’s whistle startles me, I’m so buried in the visual, and I miss most of Will’s entry into the water, his body gone under the surface in a blink. When he rises, just like last night, his movements are smooth but urgent—every stroke more like an attack. Hands pound and fight through every stroke, almost as if he’s more machine than man.
He wins easily, and as I step up to the blocks again, I watch the swimmers near him offer congratulations. Will stands there expressionless, swinging his hand in their direction to tap knuckles only to be polite. His eyes remain on the water, like he’s searching for something underneath. I should be doing the same thing, only I can’t stop looking at him.
We sprint for nearly an hour, and I lose my first three heats, each race getting tighter, until fatigue takes down my opponents and nobody can keep up. I have them in stamina at least. It doesn’t make me feel any better, and it doesn’t erase the crease between my father’s eyes—the ones that tell me he thinks something’s wrong, too.
Something is wrong. My head is all fucked up because of Will Hollister, just like I knew it would be. Yet, every time I pull myself from the water, he is the first place every ounce of my attention goes. I study him. I look so hard that for the first time since that day on the rope swing, when he was on his way to being a man and I was still a child, I notice all of the little differences between Will and Evan Hollister. Where Evan was polished, Will is rough. One brother quiet but always in control, the other loud as he pounds and kicks, absolutely nothing about the way he moves in the water in control at all.
My dad doesn’t say a word when I exit the pool. He talks to a few of the other guys, but Will and I are left alone, as much physical distance between us as we can both put there. I can tell he’s actively trying to stay away just like I am. Something happened last night—we got too close to the center of both of our pain.
That can’t happen again.
I slip into the locker room and change, glad to have driven myself here this morning. My T-shirt and shorts are on in minutes, my hair clipped in a wet twist on the back of my head, and my phone is held in my hand to text my best friend so I can avoid talking to anyone on my way to my car. Amber manages to catch me before I sneak away unnoticed, though, and I feel her hand brush along my arm, stopping me mid-step through the front door. I turn to look into her anxious eyes.
“You…you said nine, right?” Her brow is pinched slightly, and I know it’s because she beat me, so she assumes I must hate her now.
Part of me does, but not really. Just the immature, ego-driven part that doesn’t feel like admitting that nobody beat me today but myself.
I give Amber a closed-mouth grin as I nod.
“Nine,” I repeat, leaning forward. “And…wear something nice, with comfortable shoes.”
“Right. Okay, great…I’ll…I’ll be here,” she says, adjusting the straps of her bag on her shoulder. I wait for her to take a few steps backward before I continue through the lobby door, my phone gripped in my palm.
Please say tonight is your night off.
By the time I get in my car, my phone dings with Holly’s response.
Define night off. I’m not working, but I have a paper due Monday, and I haven’t even started.
I turn the engine and push the volume control on my stereo down to zero. My head is noisy enough on its own; I can’t handle music right now.
I’ll write your paper.
This is a lie. Holly knows it, but I need to work my way up to begging her to drive two hours to help me sneak an underage swimmer—I wish I had never talked to now—into the club that led to the loss of my virginity.
You hate papers. You’ll just put it off until I’m desperate. This is a trick.
I laugh for a second, then lean back in my seat, my phone propped in my hand against the steering wheel. I need to get her here.
I sort of invited one of the new girls out for “initiation.”
She writes back quickly.
Well that was dumb.
I wait for more, but she ends it there. I need something that will make this irresistible for her. I need to up the stakes.
And Will is coming.
Lie, lie, lie! My words send before I’m able to think about what they really mean, and when I look at them, I gulp out loud.
What time?
My head falls to the side against my window and my eyes glance out to see everyone finding their way to their own vehicles. He won’t show up, and we’ll be gone from here before he sees us. I’ll just tell her he changed his mind.
I text her nine and tell her to meet me at the club, then toss my phone in the center console before clicking my belt and staring long and hard at the back of the black sedan parked in front of me. My stomach hurts like I’m guilty of something, and the more seconds that tick by, the more symptoms I seem to come down with—my head hurts, my eyelid twitches, palms are sweating.
I pull my phone out to confess, to tell Holly never mind before I chase after Amber and make up a different lie for why I have to cancel, when the tapping on my window makes me jump in my seat, clutching my phone and both palms against my chest. Will winces, squinting one eye in apology as I slowly roll down my window.
“I thought you saw me, sorry,” he says.
I shake my head no, my heart still pounding too hard for me to talk.
“I…” he stops, his eyes locked on mine while he sucks in his top lip. He shifts his weight and looks down, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. When the wet strands of his hair fall forward into his eyes, he pushes them back, leaving his hand on his head for a few seconds while his focus remains on his feet.
“It’s okay, Will,” I step in for him.
His head lifts and his eyes meet mine, his smile crooked. He nods slightly, then looks down again, a sad laugh escaping his throat.
“You know it’s not,” he says, only glancing up to me for a beat before looking down again.
I watch him wrestle with himself, with the demons in his own heart and mind. He shakes his head and draws his mouth in tight again before pulling his hands from his pockets and resting them on the edge of my window.
“I’m just sorry, Maddy. Last night…I wanted to tell you that,” he says, his fingers sliding from their grip and falling back to his sides as he takes a step backward.
This time, I’m the one who can’t look up all the way. My mouth works independent of my best judgment.
“I’m meeting Amber here at nine. In the lobby. I’m taking her to the Mill. You…” I swallow once, fast. “You should come.”
I peer up, somehow not surprised when my eyes meet the perfect blue of his. A second or two passes before he smiles faintly.
“Probably not a good idea,” he says, turning his wrist over and tapping along a small tattoo. From here it looks like a series of lines, almost like a sketch-drawn barcode. I don’t know what it means, but I understand enough from his tone that it’s probably a symbol that reminds him of his worst self, avoiding that self.
“Right,” I say. “Bars probably aren’t a great idea.”
His lip ticks up in a silent laugh.
“Like a sparkler at a gas station,” he says.
I laugh quietly with him, nothing about any of it really funny. It’s the sad kind of truthful laugh that fades away with regrets and weakness.
“I’ve got some things I need to do, anyway. I’m not su
re I’d make it back in time,” he says.
“More estate things?” I ask.
My question is innocuous but there’s something about the way his eyes snap to mine. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak right away. When he finally does, it’s strange, like he’s repeating some line he knows will work and not beg for questions. He sounds like he’s lying.
“Just more papers.”
He shrugs, his mouth shut tight. His eyes dare mine for a few seconds, a half smile plays out on his lips, and I feel questions swirling around my head. This estate should have been settled four years ago. Even things that could come up—the unexpected, like debts—would be dealt with by now. Four tax cycles have passed. Either something else has gone wrong with it, like maybe Will drained it all in a few short years, partying hard and driving fast, or he’s not dealing with his family’s estate at all. He’s dealing with—or doing—something else. And if his recent past is any indication, those other things aren’t going to be good for his swimming, and the risk is also there for my father and this club.
“Papers,” I repeat the word, “or…whatever.”
His eyes flair a touch, so I hold his stare long enough to force him to respond. He takes a deep breath and backs away a step from my car, a slight shake to his head, like he’s warning me not to dig too deep.
“You always shot straight with me, Will,” I say, a tightness taking over in my chest.
“I did,” he says, his eyes blinking twice, his mouth closed tight. I note the careful choice in words, the past tense.
“You shooting straight with me now?” I ask, my pulse now constant.
Will sucks in his top lip, his hands finding his pockets while he puffs air from his nose, his head down as he laughs silently. He cocks his head to one side, his eyes leveling me. I’m sick because I want to know, and I’m praying for him not to say anything.
