Thirty-Two
brEAKFAST IS UNDERLINED THREE TIMES TODAY.
GET some fresh air, the same. The word project, just once.
A reminder to do my physiotherapist-approved exercises is unembellished and entirely unnecessary – Heath doesn’t usually bother to write it down, considering they’re the first thing I do every morning, usually when he’s still in bed beside me, watching me, but he was out the door at the crack of dawn this morning.
Because he has a meet today. A meet that we didn’t discuss beyond me quietly, tentatively wishing him luck on his way out.
A meet just like the one I should be swimming today.
I don’t quite know how I feel about it – at least not in any kind of intelligible specifics.
I just . . . feel. A lot. Mixed emotions.
I’m okay and I’m not and I’m kind of, and that’s okay too.
I’m not pressuring myself to figure it out.
I’m putting one foot in front of the other, and those feet bring me to the kitchen, to the fridge where I peel off today’s Post-it.
My fingers itch to flip the note over and reveal the postscript I know is scribbled on the back, but I force myself to take in the rest of my to-do list first. I sigh at the word ‘ASSIGNMENTS’ in all block letters, followed by an exclamation mark, and hurriedly move on from the unintentional reminder that my professors will only email me my course work for so long; I have to start going to class again eventually.
The last item makes me tense. Not something I need to do, but another unwelcome reminder.
Coach Michaels called.
Resentment bubbles up again, fiercer and a whole lot angrier, because seriously? I dedicate two and a half years of my life to the man, and it takes him fucking weeks to reach out? Just a single phone call, no voicemail, not even a follow-up message?
About the same amount of concern my stepmother has shown, I compare bitterly.
The sound of paper crinkling has me swearing. Unclenching my fist, I smooth out the Post-it almost apologetically before flipping it over.
All of that resentment leaves me in a single, fluttering exhale. There it is. Messy handwriting, lovely words.
You said my name in your sleep, you called me and my alarm a bitch, and it took me ten minutes to peel you off of me this morning.
It took days before I realized what he was doing. Listing things he loves about me that have nothing to do with swimming. Things I probably wouldn’t hear if said aloud or that I’d convince myself I misheard, so he immortalizes them for me.
Cheeks warm, I skim my thumb over the writing a few times as I absorb the words, then stick it back on the fridge.
Later, before I go to bed, I’ll carefully fold it up and slip it into my bedside drawer where a handful of others live.
For now, I focus on ticking off the first thing on the list – I carry my fruit and a glass Tupperware of overnight oats to the island, where I find number three on the list.
At first, I thought the little projects he’s been leaving me were just to distract my mind, to stop it from going down that doomed, pessimistic path. When they quickly got very specific, I started thinking otherwise.
Yesterday, it was a cookbook, and a written demand to have a three-course meal ready by the time he came home that he made sure I knew was in jest, but I did it anyway. Today, it’s a pile of those beginner watercolor paint pads.
By the time Heath walks in the door, the counter is covered in ripped-out, painted pages, watercolor smudges, the curve of my thumb is covered in watercolor smudges, and my eyes are a bit askew from concentrating on keeping within the lines so hard.
And I’m smiling. Wider, when my eyes land on him.
I’m murmuring Welcome home without a trace of sarcasm, as if this is actually his home, and he’s twirling my spare key around his finger as if it’s actually his key.
He comes up behind me, kissing the back of my head.
He doesn’t ask how my day was. He just checks the Post-it – I get another peck for the things I crossed off, a quietly grunted reprimand for what I didn’t.
Sighing, I pinch the back of the hand sifting through my completed paintings. ‘I’ll go for a walk later.’
Another grunt. Marginally satisfied, a little threatening. Yeah, you will, because I’ll take you on a damn walk, because I’m convinced if you don’t get at least ten minutes of fresh air a day, you’ll disintegrate. ‘Did you call your coach?’
I shake my head.
‘Are you going to?’
‘No. I don’t really ever wanna see him again.’ I look down, watching myself pick at my fingernails. ‘Don’t really wanna see any of them ever again.’
Heath waits a moment before gently pressing. ‘Finish that thought, honey.’
Easier said than done; I’ve barely finished it in my head, let alone aloud. ‘I was thinking I, uh, might try to transfer.’
‘To Cove College?’
I nod slightly. My forehead aches with how hard I frown, that familiar upset turning my stomach. I lift a hand to ease the burgeoning itch plaguing my chest only for Heath to catch me, lace our fingers together, squeeze gently.
‘Not a single person from HCU has reached out to me,’ I quietly admit, and his grip tightens. ‘No one on my team, no one in any of my classes, none of them care. But your coach emailed me. Your team sent me flowers, and a bunch of them texted. Your friends—’
Heath grunts. ‘Your friends.’
‘Our friends,’ I amend. ‘They come over at least once a day. I just . . . I didn’t realize how bad it was at HCU, y’know?
How isolated I was. Or maybe I did and I didn’t care, or I just worked really hard at not caring.
And I know it was my own doing, just like I know you and Imani and Kai are graduating, so it’s not like you’ll be on campus, but the twins will be there.
And, uh, I looked it up and I’m pretty sure I can transfer my scholarship. ’
‘I think that’s a really good idea.’
Yet he’s frowning. Just short of fierce.
I drag my thumb over the creases in his brow, trying to smooth them out. ‘Mad you didn’t think of it first?’
‘Oh, I did. Dreamed it. Just should’ve opened my mouth sooner.’
I blink at him, silent. He stares at me, intense in a way I’m slowly getting used to, because he looks at me like that a lot lately, like he’s trying to tell me something through freaking osmosis, so we can avoid the conversation we’ve been skirting around all week.
He loves me, we’re practically living together, but neither of us can bear to ask the other what it actually means.
Proving my point, he flows around my kitchen like he’s lived here as long as I have, decimating the pantry in his post-race hunger. ‘You wanna go out for dinner?’
‘No.’
‘Let me rephrase that – where do you wanna go for dinner? Because we are going out.’
‘Why?’ I ask slowly, tentatively, not entirely sure if I want the answer. ‘We celebrating a big win today?’
The cocky tilt to his head abruptly straightens. Putting down a half-eaten tub of peanut butter pretzels, he pushes off the counter and moves to stand in front of me again. One hand on my thigh, the other twirls my hair. ‘We don’t have to talk about it.’
‘I want to,’ I choke out, and I almost manage to sound like I mean it. ‘How was it?’
Heath coughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Good.’
‘You were the best?’
‘Yeah, honey.’
‘Good,’ I say, and that, I mean. I really do. I hate that he thinks I don’t, that it pains him to admit he did well. I want nothing more than to alleviate all of that burdening concern, so I joke, ‘If I can’t be the best, might as well date him.’
I only realize what I’ve said, that I’ve basically kicked the elephant in the room, after the fact. Date. Heath stiffens, those light brows hopping a mile. Rigid too, I try to backtrack. ‘I didn’ t—’
‘I know.’ He pats my thigh lightly. ‘It’s okay. Don’t have to talk about that either.’
‘Talk about what, Heath? What are we doing?’
‘You’re recovering. I’m helping.’
‘That’s it?’
‘What do you want it to be, Daniela?’
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out – just a sigh when his brows inch a little higher, twist a little more expectantly, and he teases, ‘Hard question, honey?’
‘Yes.’ I cluck my tongue. Jesus, he has to know that it is. A hard, tangled, thorned question that I need more than a damn moment to contemplate. ‘Gimme a sec.’
‘Working up the nerve to break my heart?’
The back of my hand smacks his chest. He catches my by the wrist and brings my hand up to his face, kisses the curve of my thumb and repeats, ‘It’s okay. We don’t—’
‘I have a proposal for you,’ I blurt, as quickly as I can, the sentence practically becoming a single word in my haste. Ineloquent and rushed and not entirely thought through, but that’s my problem. I think too much. I need to just . . . do.
Humoured curiosity sparks those pretty eyes. ‘How big is the ring?’
‘About as big as your ego.’
‘Then it’s a yes.’
God, I hope so. ‘There’s this guy,’ I continue slowly, and the mirth slips from his face.
He clears his throat, yet a soft ‘Oh?’ still comes out a rasp.
‘I wanna get him back.’
‘And you heard I know how to egg a house, huh?’
‘No.’ Tentatively, I take both of his hands in mine. Play with his fingers, trace the tattooed lines, not quite ready to see his face yet, to see whatever expression it wears, whatever thoughts he’s doing a shit job at hiding. ‘Not revenge.’
‘Oh,’ he says again. Barely audible. No less confused.
‘I think we should date.’
Those beautiful eyes narrow – like he’s bracing for something, almost. ‘Pretend?’
‘Really fucking real, actually.’
‘What’s in it for me, exactly?’
‘You get to date me.’
He doesn’t even pretend to think about it. ‘Sold.’
‘Heath.’
‘I’m being serious.’
I know he is. I wasn’t admonishing him; just making sure I have his attention. Making sure he really hears me when I say: ‘I love you.’
He short circuits. Like, he literally freezes, and I swear I see the light go out in his eyes for a second. ‘What?’
‘I know I don’t show it—’
‘Honey—’