Chapter 34 Twenty years old
Twenty years old
Sam
Today is the anniversary of my mum’s death.
Three years.
Three years since I was able to laugh at one of her jokes. Three years since I got to hold her hand or give her a hug. Three years of wishing I could talk to her and remembering all over again that I can’t.
Sometimes I dream that she’s still alive, and I wake up excited to go down to breakfast. Then I look at the ceiling and realise it’s the white ceiling of my room here in Florida, not the cream of my childhood bedroom.
And that even if I was at home, I still wouldn’t be able to talk to Mum over my porridge because she’s gone.
Dad called me early this morning, and while it was comforting to hear his voice I wasn’t really in the mood for a conversation. So now I’m sitting at a desk doing schoolwork, and I just feel incredibly alone.
Looking at my essay I massage my temples.
I promised myself I’d get this done before practice but my brain doesn’t feel like it’s in the right gear.
Everything’s slow, and everything’s distracting me.
I check my phone compulsively, a habit born of many Kath-less months.
There’s never a message from her but that doesn’t stop my heart from aching at the sight of the blank screen.
It’s been two months since Rio. Two months of berating myself over the loss of my best friend, and knowing that it was all my fault. Pushing her away felt—no, feels—like the right thing to do, but hurts like I’ve sawn off my own arm and called it first-aid.
I keep replaying the fight in my head—not the shouting, but the look on her face when I said I’d resent her.
Why couldn’t I figure out the right way to say it before I opened my mouth?
Maybe because there isn’t a right way to say it.
It’s all a jumble. The pressure I feel, to perform, to make my mum proud, to give Kath all she deserves.
And the resentment at knowing I can’t have it all, and knowing that if we were together she’d realise I was holding her back, and that she’s entitled to more than always coming second to something else.
It was the right thing to do. I know it was.
She deserves more than I can give her, and if fighting with her was the only way for her to realise that then so be it.
I just have to keep reminding myself of that.
Especially on the days when it feels hard.
Days like today, when I just wish I had my friend.
I rub my eyes and force myself to read the same paragraph of my textbook again, but the words slide off my brain.
Suddenly all I can picture is her. Kath in our hotel room, packing her suitcase with shaking hands.
Kath telling me she loved me, and the way I was desperate to say it back.
Kath leaving the room, and the way I had to forcibly stop myself from following her.
I deserve her not replying. I just wish she would talk to me.
I read the paragraph again.
And again.
And again.
But it doesn’t help.
My phone buzzes and my traitorous heart leaps, stupidly hopeful, but it’s just a reminder for practice.
That’s what I wanted. Swimming. No distractions.
Right?
I flip the phone back over.
Ten minutes later I give up on my essay and get ready for practice.
Austin’s in the kitchen filling his water bottle when I get downstairs. He frowns at me. “You look tired.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, heading to the cupboard to grab some protein bars.
Austin screws the lid on his water bottle. “Have you spoken to Kath?”
“No.”
“… Are you going to?”
“No.”
He hesitates. “Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not even a little.”
Austin nods quietly and follows me out.
My friends here don’t know why today is so hard for me. In fairness I haven’t really been myself since we got back from Rio, so they probably can’t even tell anything’s different.
Kath always used to do something for me on this date. Even when I moved away she’d always call, or make sure we had a movie to watch separately and then discuss later together. Not this year though.
The Florida weather is mocking my mood. It’s beautiful, sunlight bouncing off palm trees and green grass, a warm wind brushing my skin.
Austin keeps pace beside me as we walk to the aquatic centre, the white building looming against the skyline.
I open the door and the comfort of the chlorine-scented air reminds me that I made the right choice.
But then I remember that today’s practice is breaststroke. My weakest stroke. The one that’s keeping me from getting that record.
When we leave the aquatics centre two hours later my mood still hasn’t improved.
In fact it’s worse, which I wouldn’t have believed possible.
I was dismal today. Every stroke felt like a struggle.
I take a sip from my water bottle and try to reset.
I wish I could talk to my mum about this.
She always had such a good perspective. Even if she didn’t really understand some of the intricacies of technique she was great at finding ways to encourage me.
I wonder if Kath would pick up if I called?
When Austin and I get back to the house, AJ’s there, sprawled on the sofa finishing a film. He glances over when the front door shuts.
“Well, look who survived breaststroke day.” He stretches like he’s been the one doing laps. “You two look like extras from The Walking Dead.”
Austin groans. “Don’t even start.”
AJ sits up a little, eyes narrowing at me. “You look especially tragic. On a scale of one to ten, how emotionally compromised are we today?”
I drop my bag by the stairs. “Twelve.”
“Ah.” AJ nods sagely.
I grunt in response. The twelve isn’t just from the breaststroke. It’s from everything else.
“Come take a break?” AJ suggests.
“I actually said I’d meet Seb in the library,” Austin mutters.
I give him a questioning look.
“We’re in the same Econ class remember? We’re doing a project.”
Right.
"Sam?" AJ asks.
“Another time,” I tell him.
I don’t really feel like people today. Well, that’s a lie. If Kath were here I would spend my afternoon with her in a heartbeat, even if we just sat in silence.
As AJ cues the next film I grab my bag to take it upstairs, before pausing as I recognise the music.
I turn back to see the opening of Pirates of the Caribbean filling the screen, and almost immediately I can imagine Kath sat there on the sofa aged eleven, laughing at an intensely eyelinered Johnny Depp swinging off a mast and waving a bottle of rum.
The sight hits me like a gut punch.
I take the stairs two at a time, rushing to my room and sinking onto my bed with a rattling breath. Everything looks blurred. My heart’s pounding, and my chest hurts. I feel like I can’t breathe. The walls seem closer and closer and closer.
Shaking hands grab my phone, and I dial Kath’s number without thinking. Please pick up. Please pick up.
“Hello?” her voice comes through the line.
“Hi. Sorry, I shouldn’t have called you,” I choke out, voice shaking.
There’s a pause, and then I hear her sigh softly. “Sam, you can always call me.”
My throat tightens.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks.
Almost immediately my chest loosens and I suck in a breath. The relief is instant, and that’s the worst part—I don’t deserve how easy she makes it.