Chapter 17 #2
She smiles, not a fake doctor smile but a real, human one.
“I’m not sure who told you that. Possible doesn’t always mean easy, but it’s not impossible.
You have options, Simone, and you’re lucky because medicine has developed minimally-invasive laparoscopic, robotic, or hysteroscopic technologies for addressing fibroids which preserve the uterus for future pregnancy. It’s a brave new world out there.”
She hands me the stack of pamphlets, each one brighter and more optimistic than the last. There’s a flyer for a support group, a card with her direct line, and a little post-it that just says “You’re not broken.”
I laugh, even though my eyes are burning. “Thank you,” I say. “Seriously.”
She stands, opens the door, and says, “Take care of yourself, okay?”
I walk out into the hallway on rubber legs. The nurse at the desk smiles and says, “All set?” I nod, voice gone, and drift back to the waiting room.
Andie’s still there, but her posture has changed—she’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, phone forgotten. When she sees me, she stands and rushes over.
“Well?” she says, searching my face.
“I’m not broken,” I whisper, and the words are so small I’m not sure she hears them. But she hugs me anyway, arms tight around my ribs, and for a second I almost believe it.
We leave together, the cold outside a relief. I clutch the pamphlets to my chest, feeling lighter and heavier all at once.
In the car, Andie puts a hand on my knee and says, “Want to get pancakes?” like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I nod, and we drive off, the engine rumbling under us, the sky bruised and beautiful.
For the first time in years, there’s something like hope in my chest.
But it’s still tangled up with everything else.
Especially him.
This is the last place I want to be right now.
The Grind is loud, even at the weird post-lunch, pre-dinner hour.
Maybe it’s the finals energy, maybe just everyone’s last-minute caffeine panic, but there are students jammed into every booth and camped out on the sagging armchairs like they own the place.
The espresso machine is going full throat, steaming and hissing in bursts, and the air smells like burnt sugar and overworked bodies.
I’m not sure why I’m here. No, that’s a lie—I know exactly why, and it’s the kind of reason that makes you question your own self-respect. Dylan sent four texts and a DM in the past 48 hours. They all said basically the same thing: Can we talk? I’m sorry. It’s important. Please.
I didn’t reply to the first three, but after the fourth text, I finally texted back okay.
Then I told Andie I was going to the library, which is only a half-lie, since the coffee shop is technically attached to the campus library.
But I don’t plan to read a single page today.
I plan to survive the next thirty minutes to see what this guy wants.
He was so rude in the library, and I can’t believe I’m even agreeing to meet him.
Dylan is already inside, as promised. He’s in the corner booth, back to the wall, staring down at a massive mug of something black and aggressive.
He looks different from last time—like someone’s scraped the cocky veneer off and left just the raw, pulpy inside.
His jaw is unshaven. His hands are knotted tight around the mug, big and bruised from a lifetime of chlorinated water and weights.
He sees me, stands, and waves me over. He’s wearing a swimmer’s hoodie that dwarfs his already huge shoulders. There are bags under his eyes, and the green of his irises is almost iridescent under the café’s string lights.
“Hey,” he says. There’s no swagger, no hint of the old, easy charm.
I slide into the seat across from him, hugging my elbows. “Hey.”
He sits, tries to smile, then gives up. “Thanks for coming, Simone. I wasn’t sure you would.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure why I’m here either.”
The words land flat, but he doesn’t take offense. He traces the rim of his mug with one finger, not looking at me.
There’s an awkward stretch. The couple at the next table are deep in a break-up fight, or maybe a pre-break-up rehearsal, so the word “commitment” is echoing at odd intervals.
Finally, Dylan looks up. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For the shit I pulled in the library. And for being a dick about Thomas.”
He says it so simply I don’t know what to do. “It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. “I was a mess, too.”
He nods, accepting the olive branch.
“I asked you to meet because…” He struggles, actually struggles, and for a second I see him as a person and not just a wall of muscle and predatory smiles. “Because I’m a wreck. And I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
I almost laugh. “What about the swim team? Don’t you guys travel in packs?”
He flinches. “They wouldn’t get it.”
I’m about to press, but then I see his hands—they’re shaking, just a little, the tremor barely visible unless you’re looking for it.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He lets out a breath that sags his whole body. “Not really.” His voice is soft, almost apologetic. “I’m not sleeping. I haven’t eaten in like two days. All I do is swim and think about how I keep fucking up.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just let him keep talking.
“My coach has been on my ass about the Olympic trials. He keeps saying if I drop two seconds on my split, I’m a lock for the team. But then he started pushing me to do more. Lift more. Take these—” He breaks off, voice shaking. “Supplements.”
I blink. “Supplements?”
He looks down at his hands, like he can’t even look me in the face. “Not the kind you buy at GNC. The kind you have to order from a guy who keeps them in a freezer behind his garage.”
There’s a silence. I’m not sure what to do with this. It’s so out of left field, I almost want to ask if he’s joking. But the look on his face is pure panic.
“Are you on them?” I say, quietly.
He nods, once. “Started last fall. At first it was just a cycle, like everyone does. But then I couldn’t stop, because if I did, I’d lose the time and the team and everything I ever worked for.” His lips twist, bitter. “I feel like a fucking fraud.”
His hands are shaking worse now. “And then I saw you with Thomas, and I just—” He stops, then looks me in the eyes. “I thought maybe if I could have you, it would make me less of a loser.”
There’s a sour taste in my mouth, but not anger. Just a weird, echoing empathy.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just needed to say it out loud.”
I stare at him, not sure what to do. I reach for my own cup and realize I haven’t ordered anything, that my hands are empty.
“You should quit swimming,” I say, finally.
He laughs, sharp and raw. “If I quit, I lose my scholarship. I lose everything.”
“Wouldn’t you rather keep your life?” I say. “I mean, all that hormonal stuff can fuck you up, right?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I’m broken, and the drugs keep me in one piece.”
For a second, the words “I’m broken” dangle between us, so heavy they might as well be tattooed on his forehead.
I reach across the table and grab his hand. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away. His palm is rough, the knuckles scarred. I squeeze.
“You’re not broken,” I say in a fierce tone. “You’re just scared. We all are.”
He looks at me like nobody’s ever said that before.
The moment hangs, awkward and a little too intimate, but I don’t let go. I just hold his hand until the shaking stops.
After a minute, he wipes his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Thanks,” he says, voice rough.
I let go, sit back, and realize I’m smiling.
“Let me buy you a sandwich,” he says, and the way he says it is so hopeful I can’t say no.
We sit there a while longer, talking about nothing—the new Netflix show, finals, the best bagels on campus. It’s almost normal. When I get up to leave, he hugs me, brief and hard, and for a second it feels like absolution.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
Dylan bends his head to stare at the table, the shadows under his eyes bluish-purple.
“I don’t know,” he says in a soft voice.
“But don’t they have random drug testing?” I ask. “What if you say you’re scared of being caught?”
Dylan turns grey, and suddenly looks about eighty-five.
“The coach has ways,” he says in a hollow voice. “They do cycles so the drugs flush out of your system before any checks. And he always seems to know where there’s going to be a random drug test. He has inside knowledge.”
“I see,” I say in a slow tone.
“See? The system’s broken,” Dylan says in a bitter voice.
I fix him with a look.
“The system may be broken, but you’re not, Dylan. You will be fine, no matter what you choose.”
Then, I give him a hug as a friend, and walk out of the cafe.
I stride out into the cold, feeling lighter, because it seems I’m not the only one who feels defeated.
We all suffer low points, and feel depressed, behind, and hopeless.
But that’s the human experience, and hearing Dylan speak his truth has helped me.
We’re not fixed. Not whole. But we’re something closer to human.
I’m on the sidewalk when suddenly, Dylan runs out.
“Simone you forgot this,” he says, holding out my wallet.
I stare up at the handsome boy, and my heart squeezes a bit. Dylan looks tired but resolute, and I reach up to give him a hug.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re a lifesaver.”
At that moment, I spot a car over the swimmer’s shoulder.
The street is packed with delivery vans, but weaving through them like a shark is a familiar shape: a black Porsche, windows tinted to the legal limit, prowling at barely more than walking speed.
The driver’s face is shadowed, but I’d know that profile anywhere.
Liam.
He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be in his office, or at home, or anywhere but orbiting my life like a satellite with a death wish. My stomach does a full flip, like I’ve just missed the last step on a staircase.
He pulls up to the curb and just stops. For a second, nothing happens.
Then the window slides down, slow as a threat, and I see his eyes.
They’re not blue from this distance, just two black holes, but the way they lock onto me is unmistakable.
Even in the chaos of the street, even with half the campus walking on the sidewalk, I know Liam’s looking directly at me.
I freeze. Dylan keeps talking, oblivious, about drug regimens, about the effects of steroids and HGH on the human body, and about how he may no longer be fertile from the shit he’s taken.
There’s a beat, and then the world speeds up again.
Liam’s gaze flickers from me to Dylan, then to our hands—still touching from the hug.
His jaw tenses, visible even from here. The Porsche lurches forward, wheels spinning for half a second on the slick road, before he guns it past the crosswalk.
For a breathless moment, the car fishtails, the tail-end almost clipping a delivery bike and a woman with a stroller.
The tires shriek. The woman shrieks. Dylan’s head snaps toward the sound.
I cover my mouth, but not fast enough to muffle the gasp.
Liam regains control, the Porsche jerking straight, and then it’s gone. I hear the engine echo against the library facade before it fades to nothing.
Nobody speaks. I stare wide-eyed, blinking in shock.
“What the fuck was that?” Dylan asks, voice shaky.
I shake my head, as if that could dislodge the image of Liam’s face, the cold, precise fury in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” I manage. “Just some crazy driver with a death wish, I guess.”
Dylan looks from me down the street, and then back. “Do you want me to walk you back to your dorm?”
I should say no, but I don’t. I just nod, and then we’re moving through the streets like ghosts.
I keep my head down. The air is cold, my breath coming in ragged clouds.
Dylan makes small talk about the swim team, the upcoming finals, but I barely hear it.
All I can see is the flash of black metal, the moment of almost-collision, the knowledge that Liam was there, watching, judging, maybe even warning.
We reach my dorm, and Dylan hesitates on the steps. “Are you okay, Simone?” he says. “Something seems off.”
I manage a smile.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You just focus on you, Dylan. Trials are coming up and you’re at an important turning point in life.”
“Yeah,” the boy says, looking down. “Thanks, Simone, for listening. I appreciate it.” Then, he turns and trudges off. I watch his silhouette disappear down the sidewalk, until he’s just another blur in the night.
Inside, the room is mostly dark. Andie’s already there, headphones on, typing away at something urgent. She looks up, scans my face, and gives me a look that says she wants to talk, but I shake my head. Not now.
I change into pajamas, crawl under the covers, and let the silence press in.
At 1:14 a.m., my phone vibrates.
Unknown number, but I know who it is.
Simone, it says.
I’m sorry for everything. For how I’ve acted. For today. No ultimatums this time. Can we talk tomorrow?
The message sits there, the screen burning blue into my retinas.
I type, then erase. Type, then erase.
Finally, I just set the phone face-down on the pillow and close my eyes.
Tomorrow, I’ll decide what to do.
Tonight, I just want to sleep, and dream a world where none of this ever happened.