Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
“You don’t look tired,” Sofi says. Via FaceTime, she’s been circling me like a vulture stalking a wounded hamster. She can definitely tell something happened between me and Adrian last night. And she’s trying to bleed it out of me, drop by painful drop. “You look all…ruddy.”
“What do you mean, ruddy?”
“I don’t know. Dewy. Like you’ve been wearing eye masks or something. Have you finally started moisturizing?”
“No,” I say. “But I did drink about a gallon of water this morning.”
I’ve been trying to drown out the regret.
That, and make up for last night’s lost recovery time.
I’m sure it hasn’t been enough, though. Not only did I stay up past my bedtime by a full half hour, but I also missed at least twelve ounces of water from my hydration log.
Maybe what I should do is recreate the epic smoothie I have in the training center on my make-or-break recovery days.
Sofi snaps her fingers as I pad down the stairs toward the kitchen. “It’s your eyes,” she says. “Usually they’re puffy in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, today they’re not.”
“Do you want to just come out and ask instead of this prying thing you’re doing?”
Sofi snorts with mock indignation. “Prying. You are my best friend, you are contractually obligated to answer my questions. And I’m contractually obligated to ask you the questions everyone else is too intimidated to broach.”
The screen bounces as Sofi turns a corner.
She’s walking the perimeter—the trail that laps the circumference of the training center.
It’s one of my favorite morning jogs. I miss that place.
I miss her. I’d give nearly anything to be jostling elbows with her right now instead of trying to carve out a corner of this kitchen to make a smoothie—one, by the way, that will be lacking at least six different ingredients I couldn’t afford to buy for the summer.
Still, there’s no point in giving up before I’ve even gotten started. So, I extract my mom’s ancient blender from the perch I assigned it and root around for the almond butter.
“You are going to have to tell me what happened, though,” Sofi says. “And don’t you dare insult us both with another vagary about your string of Skee-Ball victories.”
Despite myself, a smile flickers onto my lips.
“I SAW THAT!” Sofi pounces. “You tell me all about it right now, Katherine Parker, or you will sorely regret the consequences of my wrath.”
“You’re, like, five three.”
“I’m five four and a half and I could drop you like a pool noodle.”
That’s probably true. Even though I have four inches on her, Sofi has an Olympic bronze medal. And she’s scrappy.
“All right,” I say as I break a banana in half and drop the pieces into the blender.
“So, we made this bet about the training program and raced for it on the ergs. I lost and, well, you know how I’d feel about that.
” I’m still pissed, obviously, though the sting seems to have softened.
“But there’s this really great game room in the basement.
So, we played Skee-Ball, which I destroyed, obviously.
He walked me home and—I’m talking about Adrian, by the way. Maybe I should have started there.”
“I CLEARLY KNOW WHO YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.” Sofi pinches the bridge of her nose. “Rowing gods, give me strength. What happened?”
“We kissed.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We kissed. Now it’s over.”
“I knew that already on the basis of the fact that your lips are not currently attached to his. What was it like?”
“It was…nice.” That damn smile is back.
“I knew it.” The phone jerks and suddenly all I can see is blue sky and Sofi’s pumping fists. “I FREAKING KNEW IT.”
She hovers back into the screen and triumph blazes in her eyes. It’s the exact expression she had right after her boat crossed the finish line in Tokyo. Head back, eyes pointed skyward. I know because she has a picture of it framed above her bed.
Sofi raises the phone so her eyes nearly fill the screen. “I knew you and Citrus Dreamboat were perfect for each other. I literally made a bet with myself that you two would fall in love.”
“First of all, you can’t make a bet with yourself. And second, we are not falling in love. In fact, there will be no more kissing. This was strictly a one-time-only situation.”
“What? Why?”
I have about a trillion reasons, some of which I’m not even allowed to mention to Sofi.
He’s my temporary coach. I’m supposed to be evaluating him for a job.
And that’s not to mention how a relationship would negatively impact my performance.
It was literally a relationship—and a breakup—that landed me in this mess in the first place.
With as much casual indifference as I can muster, I tip a scoop of protein powder into the blender. “I have to get second at Pan Ams.”
“So?”
Without my permission, my mind leaps back to the docks at World Cups. Maxwell’s patient face. My emotions spiraling out of control. My crushing defeat. “I lost control last night. I knew it was a bad idea and I kept going anyway. And now look what’s happened.”
“What’s happened?”
“I lost valuable recovery time.”
Sofi makes a noise that sounds a bit like a skeptical goat.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“So am I,” she retorts.
“You didn’t even say anything.”
“You knew what I meant.”
I did, actually. “Well, your skepticism aside, I know what I need. And it definitely does not involve evening walks, Skee-Ball, or any sort of kissing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“No more kissing,” I say, more confidently now. “I might be attracted to Adrian or whatever, but that’s all it is. And I can ignore attraction no problem. I have excellent self-control.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Both. “Neither.”
I slap the lid on the blender and press start. The machine’s high-pitched whir puts a violent end to the conversation. Sofi glares at me over the din, mouth working like she’s warming up to launch back in as soon as I turn it off.
Fortunately, just as I do, footsteps sound behind me.
I spin to find Mom hovering in the doorway.
She’s wearing an all-white ensemble, complete with billowing pants and an airy, just barely sheer top.
She even has her hair gathered in a white headband.
Her eyes ping to my phone and she motions like she’s going to leave, but I wave her into the kitchen.
“Can we finish this later?” I ask Sofi.
After last night, I’ve realized I need to rectify the fact that I haven’t been to my mom’s yoga studio yet. And possibly apologize for being a neglectful daughter.
“Fine,” she says. “But don’t think for a moment you’re off the hook.”
She ends the call.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as I pour my smoothie into a glass. “Can we talk about something?”
“Of course,” she says as she lowers herself to the kitchen table, as elegant as a white butterfly perching on a stick. “I wanted to talk to you about something also.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Please, you first.”
I lean against the counter and sip my smoothie. “I want to apologize for not visiting your studio yet. I know it’s important to you.”
A smile lights up her face like she’s on a dimmer that’s just been turned to full blast. “That’s sweet of you, my darling.”
“Does that mean you accept?”
She tilts her head and her salt-and-pepper curls cascade from her headband onto her shoulders. “I will if you come to my Elevate and Radiate class in thirty minutes. I know today is one of your recovery days and it’ll be perfect to help rebalance your mental state before a week of tough workouts.”
I’m about to protest that my mental state doesn’t need any rebalancing when I remember what Adrian said about the science-backed benefits of my mom’s yoga. Then I promptly shove that memory out of my mind. I’m officially on Adrian abstinence.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
“Wonderful!” She springs up from the chair in a billowing cloud of white.
“Did you want to talk to me about something, too?”
Her eyes crinkle as her smile widens. “We can after class.”
. . .
I knew, from the way Mom has talked about the studio, that it’s been positive for her.
Still, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite like this.
Wood-paneled walls frame floor-to-ceiling windows, which look out on a courtyard garden brimming with green plants.
Himalayan salt lamps droop from the vaulted ceiling.
The faintest scent of lavender hangs in the room.
As I sit cross-legged on my cool rubber mat, waiting for the class to start, I watch my mom.
She flits from student to student, inquiring about health issues and asking for requests.
She seems to remember everyone’s name and their lingering aches and pains.
When she passes, the students tip toward her like flowers searching for the sun.
I can’t help but smile with them. Mom is radiant. In her element. Completely in control, but brimming with energy and love. She struggled for so many years that I always hoped—but never believed—she’d find passion in life again. And now, look what she has.
The soft chords of a flute float around us. Mom takes up a spot in the center of the room, ready to start the class. I’m grinning at her like a maniac, probably just as I did as a very young child, watching her begin a dance performance.
It’s wonderful—the distraction I needed to stave off the memories of last night.
Just then, the door creaks open.
“Room for one more?” a familiar voice asks.
I spin.
Adrian’s broad shoulders hover into the entrance.
“Of course!” Mom exclaims. “You can put your mat right here. In front of my daughter.”