Chapter 9
THE REBOUND
SIMONE
The Olive Branch smells like fragrant tomato sauce, the air heavy with steam that fogs every mirror and bead of glass. Waiters scurry back and forth, dressed in formal black and white, and all around us, diners eat and chat in the glow of flattering candlelight.
Across from me, Dylan Tourneau is downright movie star material.
His hair is even better in this light: thick and glossy, styled into a crest that looks engineered to resist both water and gravity.
He wears a crisp white shirt that fits like he was poured into it, the sleeves just tight enough to threaten a bicep explosion if he so much as flexes to reach for his wine.
Three tables over, a cluster of Century College girls is already checking him out, their faces a parade of interest and jealousy, each one hoping their date will go to the bathroom so they can sneak a better look.
I check my phone—reflex, not need—and find nothing. Not even a notification from the student portal, much less a text from Liam. My heart drops. I jam the phone into my bag and turn back to my date.
“You look incredible,” Dylan says, and I believe him, because the way he’s staring at my chest is almost clinical in its intensity. I remember what Andie said about my boobs in this dress—criminal, she’d called it—and resist the urge to fold my arms or fidget with the neckline.
“Thanks,” I say. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs, not loud but enough for the neighboring table to notice. “Yeah, my mom would murder me if I didn’t iron my shirts. She thinks wrinkled shirts are a sign of moral decay. She’s kind of intense.” He leans in, eyes bright. “What about your parents? Do they care about stuff like that?”
The question is real, but I know he doesn’t want an actual answer. I give him the version that’s easiest to digest: “My mom’s more into making sure I don’t get kicked out of college. She texts me every Monday to remind me not to screw up.”
Dylan nods, like he gets it. “Yeah. Moms.” He pronounces it with a capital M.
A waiter materializes, decked out in black vest and a smile so brittle I worry he’ll snap. “Would you like to see the wine list, or start with a cocktail?” he asks, eyes briefly darting to me but then sliding right back to Dylan.
Dylan doesn’t even look at the menu. “I’m not drinking because of the swim season. So we’ll get Diet Cokes?” He glances at me for confirmation, and I nod. I would have taken a regular Coke, but it seems criminally lame to say that out loud.
The waiter vanishes.
“So,” Dylan says, and now his smile is softer, a little more for me.
“I don’t know if you know this, but you kind of broke the Internet in the Lit group chat last week.
After you answered that question about Hawthorne, all the guys in the team started arguing about whether you were, like, secretly a genius or just trying to show up Professor Thomas. I said it was probably both.”
I fake a laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as plastic as it feels. “It was a dumb answer. I was just guessing.”
Dylan nods. “Still, you had the balls to speak up. Most people just sit there and zone out. If you’re not talking, you’re not living. That’s what my coach always says.”
I nod, but my mind is a thousand miles away.
I can’t help but picture Professor Thomas at a table like this, one hand on a heavy glass of wine, the other tracing the rim, voice like dark honey as he reads something just for me.
I feel the pulse of old want in my chest, and try to drown it with a gulp of ice water.
The waiter returns with two Diet cokes, and two glasses filled with ice. I take a sip, feeling the burn bloom on my tongue as Dylan sips his soda as well. For a second, I wonder if this is a date or a parody, but Dylan doesn’t seem to notice the tension in my smile.
He launches into a story about the swim team’s recent meet: a relay gone wrong, some drama about a missed signal, the way he powered through the anchor lap and “dragged their sorry asses to victory.” He does the voices, even changes his face to mimic the angry coach, and for a second I almost believe he’s fun.
I nod and laugh at the right moments, but my hands keep drifting to my phone, tracing the outline through the faux leather of my bag. The conversation is all momentum, no gravity. I try to inject a little of myself into it.
“So, how do you even get into swimming? Is it, like, a family thing, or did you just fall in love with chlorine?”
Dylan grins, and I see the dimple for the first time.
It’s a nice dimple. “Started when I was four. I had a medical thing—my lungs were weak, and the doctor said it’d be good for me.
Turns out, I liked winning more than I liked breathing.
By the time I was ten, I wanted to be Michael Phelps. It’s all I ever really wanted.”
He flexes his hand, like he’s gripping the edge of a pool. “My dad said if I made the Olympic trials, he’d get a tattoo. Never thought he’d have to, but…this summer? He’s on the hook.”
I smile, this time for real. “That’s sweet. You gonna let him pick the design, or is it full creative control for you?”
He shrugs. “We’ll see. He says he wants the five rings, but if I qualify, I might make him get my face.”
We both laugh, and for a brief moment the whole world is just the table, the drinks, and the overlapping shadows of two people pretending to have a great time.
The waiter returns with menus. Dylan barely glances at his before ordering the seafood pasta; I ask for the chicken piccata and immediately feel self-conscious, like I should have gotten something less calorie-heavy.
As soon as the waiter leaves, Dylan’s back on his story grind, only now it’s about the team’s early morning training: wake up at 4:30, protein shake, three hours in the pool, then classes, then weights, then another two hours swimming, then study, then pass out.
I realize I know more about his average day than I know about most of my family’s birthdays.
He pauses for breath. “So, what’s your major?” he asks.
“English,” I say. “But, like, the creative writing side, not the journalism one.”
He makes a face—respectful, but with a hint of mock horror. “That sounds brutal. Isn’t there, like, a ton of reading?”
“Mostly,” I say. “But I like it.”
Dylan nods. “I’d be dead. I hate reading. I get my news from YouTube, and the only thing I read on purpose is the back of cereal boxes.” He laughs, clearly proud of this. “But, like, do you want to be a writer?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think about teaching. Maybe editing. Or law school, if I’m desperate.”
He grins. “You’d be good at that. You’ve got a lawyer vibe.”
I nearly choke on my soda. “Is that a compliment?”
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “It’s a major compliment. All the best swimmers go into law. It’s, like, a tradition.”
I nod, not sure how to answer.
He talks more about swimming, about what it feels like to glide through water, how the world is “quiet and alive at the same time.” There’s poetry in the way he says it, but he doesn’t realize.
He tells me about meets in California, about rivalries with other schools, about how he once set a pool record and celebrated by eating an entire extra-large pizza by himself.
Through all of it, he never asks about me. Not about my family, not about why I’m here on a Friday night, not about what I want to do with my life.
I count the ceiling tiles above his head.
I trace the condensation on my glass. I listen to the chatter from other tables, each fragment of conversation more animated than the one I’m trapped in.
I think about Liam, about what he’s doing right now.
If he’s out with someone, if he’s home alone, if he’s even thought about me once since I left his classroom with my panties balled in my fist.
Dylan asks if I want to split a dessert. I say yes, even though I’m not hungry.
We get the tiramisu. It comes on a plate dusted with cocoa and gold leaf, a little pyramid of decadence. Dylan slices off a chunk with his fork, then offers me the first bite.
“Go on,” he says, “I won’t judge.” His tone is light, but I catch the flicker of tolerance under the surface.
I lean in, take the bite, let the espresso and sugar coat my tongue. I close my eyes, pretending I’m somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t so loud or bright or full of people waiting for me to fail at pretending to be normal.
Dylan watches me eat. “It’s good, right?”
I nod, chewing slow. “Really good.”
We finish the dessert in silence, passing the plate back and forth like a peace treaty.
When the bill comes, Dylan pays without hesitation. He signs the receipt with a flourish, then stands, holding out his hand to help me up. I take it, and the heat of his palm surprises me. It’s the first time we’ve touched all night.
He leans in, face so close I can smell the aftershave and the faintest echo of pool chemicals. “You want to go for a walk, or…?”
I shake my head, fast. “I should get back. I’m exhausted.”
Dylan’s face falls, just a fraction, but he recovers. “Sure. I’ll get you back to your dorm.”
For the first time all night, I smile sincerely.
“Thanks, that would be great.”
We’re at the hostess stand waiting for the coat check, the air in the foyer syrup-thick with perfume.
Dylan is scrolling his phone, probably checking the team group chat, while I run mental laps around everything I’ll tell Andie about the date, all the while scraping at the memory of how little I actually cared.