Twenty-two years old
Kath
Ican’t stop myself from intermittently checking the television whilst we cook. I keep seeing flickers of the European Acquatics Championships, but not quite enough to work out where in the swimming schedule we are. I might have muted the sound when Theo got back, but I still want to watch.
I’ve always loved watching the swimming, and I refuse to let my emotions surrounding Sam get in the way of me enjoying the sport. Given how superstitious he is, I still text him before big events, but nothing more than those four words ‘You got this, Champ’.
I know he won’t reply. I text anyway.
Some things you do because of who you are, not because of who they are.
I keep having to crane past Theo’s head to see the screen. His dark curly hair is annoyingly in the way. I shouldn’t be irritated at him in his own house, but right now part of me wishes I was back at mine, curled up on a sofa with my housemate, Flo, able to watch the race with no distractions.
Theo and I stand side by side in the kitchen, divvying up the recipes.
A few of our friends are coming over to celebrate the last weekend of freedom before term restarts.
Theo loves hosting people, he’s always inviting groups over and making sure everyone’s included.
It’s lovely how much he cares about his friends.
“Do you still want to visit your nan next weekend?” Theo asks as he lines up the peppers on the chopping board.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “She’ll be really happy to see you again.”
He smiles. “Good. I found a walk near hers. I remember you said her knees aren’t great at the moment so I looked for one that’s mainly flat. And there’s a pub at the end that does a decent roast.”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, and I mean it. Nan will love that he’s thought about her knees.
Theo nudges my hip with his. “We could make a proper day of it, maybe stay the night if that’s alright with her? It means we don’t have to rush back.”
“Mm,” I hum, chopping carrots. “She’ll try to feed you nonstop. Even after filling up on a roast.”
“I’m prepared,” he says solemnly. “I’ll wear my stretchiest jeans.”
We drift into talk about upcoming placements, Josh’s planned visit next month and what we think the final year of medical school will be like. But half of me is still desperately trying to watch the television, and fighting the urge to turn the sound back on.
The qualifying heats for the relay are about to start.
Sam isn’t swimming in them; instead, he’s in the individual medley later.
When I saw Josh on my last visit to London, he said Sam had been acting strangely.
Or at least that he seemed tired and more obsessed with training than usual.
I know Josh’s worried about him. He even suggested I speak to Sam.
But it’s complicated. How much effort do you put into a relationship with someone who hurt you due to his own insecurities?
Equally at the same time, when your oldest friend seems like they’re struggling, how do you not try?
I don’t know what the right thing to do is. I’m not sure there even is a right thing.
The television’s still playing in the background when our friends start to arrive. I leave it on, tactically drifting past with a drink just before the 400m IM is about to start. I talk to one of Theo’s friends as the swimmers take to their blocks, watching the race out of the corner of my eye.
“Sorry, can we watch this?” I ask him. “The commentators earlier were saying that a record might be broken.”
He turns to watch it with me. This is Sam’s favourite event.
The one where he set the Olympic record, though he still doesn’t have the world record he’s always craved.
It’s hard not to groan when they’re midway through the breaststroke leg and he loses his lead.
For all his worries about breaststroke, he’s become good at it.
All those doubts used to be just in his head. But today he’s really flagging.
Sam finishes second. It’s not bad, but I can see that it was far slower than he swam in the Olympics just two years ago. I know he’ll be disappointed with that time. He smiles and congratulates the person who won, but he looks exhausted.
Someone turns off the TV behind me just as the official times are about to come up and I stifle a grunt of annoyance.
“Sorry, were you still watching that?” Theo holds the remote guiltily.
“Oh no, not really.” I give what I hope is a reassuring smile. I make a mental note to check the official times later this evening, and almost immediately curse myself for that instinct, the habit that refuses to die.
“Kath was telling me about a world record that she thought was going to get broken,” Arjun says next to me. “Didn’t look like it was a record though.”
“The medley one?” Jack asks. He’s one of Theo’s friends who’s doing a PhD.
I think he swam for his old university during his undergrad degree.
“Don’t we have that swimmer who everyone thinks is going to break it?
Sam Fletcher. He won medals at Paris and Rio, but seems to have peaked a bit, I doubt he’ll be breaking any records now.
” I flinch, but he doesn’t notice. “The record is just over four minutes or something crazy like that.”
“Four minutes, three seconds, eighty-four milliseconds,” I say quietly.
It’s a number I know too well.
“Sorry, did you say something?” asks Theo. Maybe my muttering wasn’t as quiet as I thought.
“Nothing, just in my own world.”
The conversation devolves into a discussion of people’s summer holiday destinations, and I take a seat on the sofa, giving the TV one last wistful look.
My phone buzzes.
Josh: Don’t think he’ll be happy with that time.
It makes me want to laugh and cry. Only Josh would know that I’d be watching the European Championships on my Saturday afternoon.
Me: Nope, definitely not. What was the final time? I didn’t see.
Josh: A lot slower than his one at the Olympics.
Me: Shame.
I put my phone away and focus on the party around me. A burst of laughter ripples from the kitchen, and I follow the noise to find someone cutting slices of a huge chocolate cake. Soon I have a giant portion perched precariously on my plate, thoughts of swimming pools forgotten.