22. Lennox #2
I practically ran to the lake, dove in without testing the temperature, and immediately regretted it.
The water was fucking freezing, mountain runoff that shocked every nerve ending into hyperawareness.
I surfaced gasping, treading water in the middle of the lake, surrounded by pristine wilderness that should have felt like freedom.
Instead, I felt trapped.
The cold was supposed to numb me, was supposed to wash away the constant ache in my chest. But it just made everything sharper, more present.
I could feel every part of my body, every sensation amplified, and all I could think about was how Oliver would have loved this.
How he would have powered through the shock of cold water like he powered through everything else, sleek and efficient and beautiful.
I swam hard toward the far shore, trying to outrun my own thoughts.
Freestyle, the way he’d taught me that one afternoon when I’d complained about my terrible technique.
His hands on my hips, adjusting my body position.
His voice in my ear, patient and encouraging, like he actually wanted me to get better.
“You’re fighting the water. Stop fighting it. Let it carry you.”
But the water wasn’t carrying me now. It was just cold and vast and empty, like everything else in my life since I’d walked out of his apartment.
I made it maybe a quarter mile before I gave up, floating on my back and staring at the cloudless sky. The sun was starting to sink lower, painting everything in shades of gold that should have been beautiful. It would have been beautiful if I’d had someone to share it with.
If I’d had him to share it with.
The thought hit me like a fresh wave of grief.
We should have been here together. Should have been skinny-dipping in this exact spot, probably, laughing about how fucking cold it was and warming each other up afterward.
We should have been hiking those trails, taking ridiculous photos, making new memories to add to our collection.
I swam back to shore with mechanical strokes, each one carrying me further from any hope of feeling normal again.
By the time I reached the dock, my lips were blue, and my entire body was shaking.
I wrapped myself in the towel I’d brought and trudged back to the cabin, leaving wet footprints on the wooden deck.
The shower was scalding, exactly what I needed to chase away the cold. But even the heat couldn’t reach the ice that had settled in my chest, the frozen weight of everything I’d lost.
I should go running.
The idea formed as I dried off, desperate and manic.
If swimming hadn’t worked, maybe I could exhaust myself on the hiking trails.
Run until my lungs burned and my legs gave out and I was too tired to think about Oliver’s hands in my hair, Oliver’s mouth on my throat, Oliver’s body moving against mine in the exact bed I was going to sleep in tonight.
I pulled on running shorts and trail shoes, laced them tight enough to cut off circulation. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows through the forest, but I didn’t care. I had a headlamp if it got dark. I had water. I had nothing but time and the desperate need to move.
The trail started gently, winding through dense pine forest that smelled like Christmas and childhood and every good thing I’d ever associated with winter.
But I pushed the pace harder than the terrain demanded, feet pounding against packed earth and scattered pine needles, lungs working to keep up with my punishing rhythm.
This is stupid.
The rational part of my brain tried to intervene, tried to point out that I was slightly drunk and definitely not in the right headspace for a solo trail run in unfamiliar mountains.
But I ignored it and pushed deeper into the forest, chasing some impossible finish line where Oliver wouldn’t exist in every breath I took.
I ran until my chest burned and my legs shook and sweat poured down my back despite the cooling air.
I ran until the trail forked and I had to choose a direction, until I realized I had no idea how far I’d come or how to get back.
I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, until I collapsed against a massive pine tree and finally admitted the truth I’d been avoiding all day.
None of it was working. Not the drinking, not the flirting, not the swimming, not the running. I couldn’t outrun these feelings any more than I could drink them away or fuck them out of my system with strangers who weren’t him, especially if I couldn’t even get a spark of lust for those strangers.
I’m not going to get over this.
The realization settled in my chest like a stone. This wasn’t a phase or a rebound or a temporary setback. This was my new reality: loving someone who’d chosen his career over us, missing someone who probably wasn’t missing me back, wanting something I’d thrown away in a moment of hurt pride.
God, I’d made such a fucking mistake. Walking out like that, dramatic and wounded and righteous. Making the choice for both of us because I was too scared to have a real conversation about what we both wanted. Too scared to fight for something that mattered more than anything else in my life.
But even knowing that, even sitting here in the middle of the woods with tears stinging my eyes and my heart cracked wide open, I couldn’t shake the hurt. The knowledge that when push came to shove, when he’d been forced to choose between his dreams and our relationship, he’d hesitated.
He would have chosen the Nationals.
Maybe not immediately. Maybe he would have agonized over it, would have tried to find some impossible middle ground. But in the end, he would have chosen the pool over me. The gold medal over us. His future over our present.
And maybe that was the right choice. Maybe his career was more important than whatever we’d built together. Maybe I was selfish for wanting to matter as much as his dreams.
But it still hurt like hell.