Chapter Twelve. Reid
CHAPTER TWELVE
REID
NOW
ONE DAY UNTIL LEGACY BANQUET
@haikuforyou
She is like a breeze
I can feel her but I can’t
hold her close to me
I DON’T SLEEP. ALL night. Again.
I had the same problem when I was a kid. Right after Mom left. It’s why my dad signed me up for every sport he could think of—to run me ragged until I collapsed into sleep. To help with the way I would have these mental dips that would last for weeks. Sometimes months.
Over time, it worked. Things settled, Dad started seeing Julianne, I got a brother out of the deal, and I forgot that falling asleep used to be the hardest part of the day.
Then everything with Clara imploded, and I moved away to school and it was nothing like I expected. After my injury, the insomnia returned full force. No matter how much I long for just a few hours of oblivion—a break from my endless thoughts—I rarely get it.
I roll onto my back and stare up at my bedroom ceiling. Watch as it slowly shifts from the darkest, dimmest blue to a bright, perky white as the sun rises. It’s going to be a gorgeous day on the mountain. You can always tell by the light.
Clara taught me that.
Jesus, my mind swarms with her. I can still feel the warm weight of her wrist in my palm. The way her pulse flew against my fingertips out on the deck. A complicated surge of hope rushes through me, but for what, I have no idea.
Could it mean something that she isn’t seeing anyone? Am I even allowed to care?
Why do I still care?
I push my hands in my hair, letting out an aggravated groan. I have to see her again today and pretend like it doesn’t shred me.
I have to pretend like I can run today.
A knock at my door. My dad’s familiar rap. “Reid? You up? We have to be at the starting line in an hour.”
“Yeah, okay.” My voice is gravelly. Hopefully I can play it off as groggy instead of so fucking tired my hair hurts.
At least with the chill in the air I can wear my knee brace underneath my running pants. I make it extra tight, and other than tweaking the hair on my leg, it feels good. Secure.
I meet my family out in the kitchen. It’s a familiar scene.
Mitchell hunched over the table, still half asleep; Julianne at the stove making something that smells incredible; and Dad running in and out as he loads the car with race-day extras.
Giant crates of water bottles, tape, granola bars, and Band-Aids.
He’s wearing running gear himself and sweating like he’s just worked out.
It’s likely from having already ridden and measured the course with a Jones Counter on his bike.
He always did that before my races when he could get away with it to ensure the distance was accurate and the course was fair.
He could prepare me for anything and help me visualize every turn and bump that way.
If only he’d been there the day I fell to warn me how sharp the final turn was, how slick the course had gotten from the rain the night before. Then maybe I would still be okay. At least physically.
But I wish he’d take it easy. He’s pushing too hard.
I noticed a pile of mail on the counter last night when I came home. The color of the envelopes varying shades of pink and red. The bills changing colors the longer they’re past due.
Dad’s mentioned this a few times recently. How stretched thin we are after his heart procedure last year. Though he has to be careful about stress, he’s fully recovered, thankfully. But our finances aren’t. “It’s not for you to worry about,” he told me the last time I asked.
As if that would work.
“There he is,” Julianne says when she notices me hovering. She pulls me into a tight hug. She’s a lot shorter than me, but the hug is almost more comforting because of that.
“Hungry?” she asks as she assesses me. “Made your favorite.”
Julianne never pries. It’s one of the things I like best about her. But she must be able to tell I’m not doing great because she got up early after working late to make me French toast with black cherries and a pile of thick-sliced bacon.
Tightness constricts my throat. I didn’t realize how homesick I’d been.
“Starving. Thanks.”
She squeezes my shoulder, a Band-Aid across her freckled hand, likely from a random burn she barely noticed but that Dad fussed over, and sends me with a heaping plate to the worn wooden table next to Mitchell.
“Where’s mine?” Mitch asks.
She puts a hand to her ear. “What was that? ‘Oh, Mother dearest, thank you for making this gourmet meal for me when I, a strong lad of seventeen, am perfectly capable of feeding and serving myself’?”
Syrup catches on my chin as I let out a creaky laugh, rusty from disuse. Mitchell grumbles to standing and fills his own plate, but he swings an appreciative arm around her on his walk back. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Mm-hmm.” She pats his arm fondly.
I blink down at my plate. I know she loves me, too. But it’s different.
As we’re wolfing down our food, Dad taps his watch at us. “Guys, let’s go.”
“Peter, relax. It’s a fun run,” Julianne reminds him. “Less stress, remember?”
Dad’s shoulders release a little, but I can tell it’s for her benefit alone. “Reid, I hear it’s going to be a solid crowd today. You’ll give them a show?”
My chewing slows, but I nod. “Of course.”
Mitchell kicks me under the table. I kick him back.
“Good. West drummed up a lot of potential donors this weekend, and I think some of them may be interested in investing in your Olympic journey.”
My stomach plummets. “What?”
His expression turns apologetic at my tone. “I might have let it out of the bag that we met with Coach Andrews back in April. His roster fills up fast, and it’s not cheap. Until you get a brand deal, all we’d need is a sponsor, and seems like as good a time as any to do some networking.”
I’m not even cleared for regionals and Dad thinks I’m ready for the Olympics? I look up, and Julianne is watching me closely, a furrow of concern between her eyes. This is not good. Maybe it’s time to tell them.
“‘Today I will do…,’” Dad prompts.
“‘What others won’t,’” I recite automatically.
“‘So tomorrow I can do…’”
“‘What others can’t.’”
Dad grins. “Mentality of a champion!”
I can’t remember when we started reciting this quote. I’m not even sure where it came from. But as a former runner himself, Dad knows training my mind has been as crucial as my body.
But now it’s adding to the pressure instead of relieving it.
“Okay.” Dad claps his hands together. “Let’s get moving. Legacy traffic is a nightmare, and I want to be sure you’re warm. Oh, and do something with your hair. Principal West wants you there for some pre-run interview.”
Interview.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
But Dad’s already out the door.
“You know you shouldn’t run today,” Mitchell says quietly.
Despite the rising panic in my chest, I remind myself that Jason said I was close to being able to jog anyway. I have a brace on. Could one run be so bad?
When I notice the date on my phone, I realize I forgot to turn in a humanities assignment. I log in to my student portal to send a quick message to my professor. That’s when I see the notice at the top. I tap on it, and I lose the last of my appetite.
Academic probation.
Fuck. Now? Already? This isn’t my first notice or warning, but I could’ve sworn I had more time to salvage things.
To turn that one bio assignment in that was a quarter of my grade, and to retake the art history midterm I slept through.
Didn’t the first notice say by … I check the date again. Oh, it is today.
Even though they said I couldn’t lose my scholarship for getting hurt, I could absolutely lose it for this. The Legacy scholarship has the same stipulations. You have to stay in good academic standing.
I could lose everything.
How am I going to keep this from Dad? The stress alone is more than he should face right now. If I lose my scholarships, it would then be up to my parents to pay for two college tuitions along with the medical bills next year.
It would sink us.
I can’t focus on this now. So I distract myself by clearing the plates, and then we all hustle to the car. I say low to Mitch, “Do you know if this interview is with Clara?”
“Ask her yourself. This is me”—he takes a large, exaggerated step ahead of me—“officially out of the middle.”
I roll my eyes and spend the short drive finger-combing my hair, but I don’t think it makes much of a difference. When we arrive fifteen minutes later, there is a crowd of people at the starting line.
“What the hell?”
The Fun Run is usually the least-attended Legacy event. Shakespeare in the Vines and the banquet are the two big draws of the weekend. Not the Fun Run. But the group is massive. From the bookstore to the Lodge, they’ve completely taken over the town square.
“They’re here to see you, kid,” Dad says proudly. He’s fully beaming as he scans the rows and rows of cars. “Our future Olympian.”
My stomach sours further.
We park, and I walk through the town square, the energy electric in the air. People start waving at me, taking my picture.
Two kids, about eight years old, hover near the starting line. They’re wearing shirts that read, Future Legacy, and they keep shoving each other excitedly. They remind me of when Mitch and I first became friends. Then one turns, and I see it: The name Rousseau is on the back of his shirt.
What?
“Principal West had them made as a fundraiser for the school,” Dad says, following my line of sight. “Apparently they’re selling well.”
I close my eyes and inhale through my nose, releasing the breath from my mouth as if through a straw.
When I open them again, I see her. Clara’s in black leggings and an oversize sage-green sweatshirt.
Her long hair is up in a ponytail, and her cheeks are pink with morning cold.
She has her camera bag slung across her body and her camera with the mic attached to the top in her hands.
She’s talking with someone on the Channel Nine news crew who has set up a camera as well.
Jesus. It’s a circus.