Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
I’m boarding a plane for Toronto the day after tomorrow, but I still haven’t responded to Adrian’s proposition.
He hasn’t pushed me for an answer, but I can feel the expectation, the hope, every time we broach the subject of our individual futures.
Meanwhile, every day, I weigh pros and cons.
I make list after list. I’ve tried to imagine my life in vivid detail both ways: saying goodbye to him permanently or saying yes and attempting long-distance for who knows how long. Either one sounds untenable.
At this point, all that’s keeping me from a complete meltdown is the promise of spending my second-to-last dinner with Adrian. He offered to take charge, but I thought it would give me some calm to plan things instead.
I’ll head to his apartment to make dinner: salmon with steamed greens and rice. Then, just for fun, I’m going to crush him at a game of Twister. A couple of weeks ago, I found an antique-looking copy while helping Mom organize her hall closet and I’ve been saving it as a surprise.
Getting dressed was a good distraction, too. Over FaceTime, Sofi coaxed me into a pair of jeans, a colorful top that’s fitted around my middle and flowy around my wide shoulders, and some heeled boots.
Now, I’m sitting on my bed, putting finishing touches on my final draft of the evaluation for Carla, which includes a cover letter that I’m editing on my phone.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings in a muffled sonata of chimes.
Rob, maybe? But, no, Mom already left for the evening. She didn’t say where she was going, but an hour ago, she flounced out of the front door with a jingle of bracelets and about three accompanying words.
The doorbell rings again, this time with the demanding urgency of someone who has held the button for longer than socially acceptable.
I guess it could be Adrian? I was supposed to meet him at his apartment, though. He wouldn’t ring like that—or get the time and place wrong—unless something has gone wrong. I cast aside my notes and jog down the stairs, taking them in twos.
When I pull open the door, my body goes cold.
Maxwell.
He’s wearing a polo shirt that makes him look like he belongs in a country club, not standing on a faded welcome mat surrounded by antique wind chimes and overgrown succulents. For a reason I can’t possibly fathom, he’s holding a bouquet of red roses.
His eyes are obscured by reflective sunglasses, but he flashes a set of impossibly white teeth. “Hey there. You look fit.”
I cross my arms, a half-protective measure to shield my lacy top from his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Maxwell moves forward expectantly, like he’s stepping in for a hug. Reflexively, I step back. He ends up just far enough into the threshold that he’s both crowding me and still blocking the door from closing.
“I brought these for you.” He tugs off his sunglasses and presses his bouquet of roses into my hands.
My fingers awkwardly close around the still-damp stems. I’m too stunned to do anything else with them.
“Can we sit?” he asks.
Cool evening air from the open door raises the hairs on my forearms. “Just tell me why you’re here.”
His eyebrows tighten. I have no idea why I once found those eyes attractive. Or really, any of him. His hair is too coiffed. His facial hair is too clean. He even has his collar upturned slightly, like it’s been accidentally ruffled. I’ve seen him spend a half hour pressing that shape into place.
“You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts,” he says, as though that explains why he flew five hundred miles to stand at the threshold of this living room.
“Because we broke up.”
“Right. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
I don’t say anything.
A flicker of doubt creases Maxwell’s expression. He forces a smile and rubs at the back of his neck. “Okay. I guess I deserve some of that reaction.”
He folds his arms, collects himself. Maxwell, if nothing else, has an excellent game face.
He can get himself psyched up for basically any challenge—it’s one of the many things that makes him such an accomplished athlete.
He’s gearing up like that now, with the quiet intensity of a champion golfer approaching their last hole.
“Katherine,” he says, back straighter so he’s nearly two inches taller. “I won’t sugarcoat it. I’m man enough to admit when I’ve made a mistake. And, with you, I did. You and I—we’re right for each other. We make sense. I shouldn’t have denied it.”
I think my mouth might be slightly agape, but I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to snap it back into place. “You…I’m sorry, what are you saying?”
“I’m here to pick up where we left off.” He turns up the corners of his mouth in the self-assured smile of a man who doesn’t feel any remorse. “I rented a car and I have my bags. We can fly to Pan Ams together.”
He rented a car? He’s going over logistics?
“You said—” I start. Shake my head. “I’m sorry, just so we’re clear. You want to get back together? With me?”
Maxwell takes another step toward me, like he’s misreading my confusion for excitement.
“I was wrong about you. About us, too. I’ve seen you in the videos.
It’s really impressive stuff.” He yanks a small notebook from his back pocket and riffles through the pages.
“And, I made some notes for you. Your times are great, but that chin tilt is still holding you back. I wrote down a bunch of new drill ideas to fix it. If you get them in daily before you race next week, I think it could make a big difference.”
He holds out the notebook and touches my upper arm, like he’s angling me toward it. “I’m willing to bet you can do this, Kath. You can win this thing next week. And I can help.”
As his words permeate the thin membrane of my mind created by sheer shock and disbelief, I’m struck with a sudden clarity about just how ridiculous this is.
No, not just ridiculous. Sad. Sad because, two months ago, this stunt probably would have worked.
I was so caught up in predictability and familiarity that I might have taken him back just to avoid the terrifying vastness of change.
That fact, more than anything else, throttles my disbelief into anger.
I twist to extricate my arm from his grasp.
“Maxwell,” I say, my voice cold as I squeeze the damp stems. “You broke up with me on the docks at my last World Cup final. Maybe that wasn’t the only reason I bombed that day, but it doesn’t matter. You hurt me.”
He frowns, thick eyebrows knitting together. “I know, but I was going through a tough time, Katherine. That week was especially hard. My coach had just announced he was retiring. Losing him was a huge deal.”
“I’m well aware of how difficult it is to lose your coach,” I snap.
He folds his arms. “It doesn’t sound like you are.”
“Let me assure you, Maxwell.” I spit out the word with enough venom that Sofi would be proud. “I absolutely am. Or maybe you forgot that I, too, lost my coach this summer.”
“Right, then you should also understand what a difficult situation I was in and why I might have made a mistake. I already told you I was wrong. I don’t know what more you want from me.”
“Let me be clear,” I counter. “I want nothing from you.”
And then, just because I can, I drop the bouquet and stamp my foot on the shower of petals. I am so fucking glad Sofi insisted I wear boots tonight because this would be far less gratifying in sneakers.
Maxwell’s placid expression morphs into incredulity. He takes in the detritus of petals littered at his feet. That, more than anything else, gives me a purr of satisfaction.
His eyes go dull and hard. Slowly, he flips his notebook closed and sheaths it back into his pocket. “Is this because of that guy?”
“The…What guy?”
He huffs. “The guy from TikTok. The high school coach.”
Involuntarily, I step back. Even though I’ve spent the last two months trying to convince Adrian he can do more, my stomach hardens at the casual way Maxwell just wielded his title like an insult.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Don’t pretend. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other.”
My heart is a painful drumbeat hammering against my rib cage. Maybe I should be worried about who else figured out the true nature of our relationship, but I can’t think beyond the sneering asshole who just insulted the best man I’ve ever known.
My hands close into fists, like I’m ready to throw a punch on Adrian’s behalf.
“I’m not pretending anything. Yes, the high school coach, Adrian is his name, and I have been—” I don’t know how to put this, so I settle on the easiest, vaguest, explanation that will still put Maxwell in his place. “We’re together.”
“Are you in love with him?”
I feel a telltale churn of my stomach. “What?”
Maxwell sneers. “And how is that going to work, exactly? You’re going to date across the state?
Fly up here on the weekends? Lose hours of sleep and training time so you can travel back and forth?
Or”—he lowers his chin and aims for the kill—“are you planning to stay in Berkeley and give up rowing to be with him?”
It’s like I have rocks in my lungs and I’m having trouble getting a full inhale around them. I suck in a breath as hard as I can, willing my body to calm, refusing to give Maxwell an inch in this conversation. He can’t have the upper hand. He can’t know how precisely his missiles are landing.
“That’s really none of your business,” I manage.
He shakes his head. “I thought I was wrong about you. I thought you were serious about training and racing. I thought you had what it takes to go all the way. I guess not.”
“It’s time for you to leave,” I say, my voice quivering. “Now.”
Maxwell’s eyes snap from the strewn petals to my face. “I’m already gone.”
The front door slams behind him.
I throw the lock closed and spin, landing with my back against the wood. A sob struggles against my throat. I slip down to a seat. Knees hugged into my chest, I squeeze my eyelids shut, trying to close out his words.
He isn’t worth a single more tear. Mom is right and Sofi is right and I am right—he’s a jerk and a conceited asshole. He also…
He also isn’t wrong.
Adrian and I can’t have a future. At least not one that doesn’t put my Olympic hopes in jeopardy.
Maybe it’s been okay while we’re both living in Berkeley.
But trying to be in a relationship across hundreds or thousands of miles is impossible.
It would mean putting dozens of cracks in my schedule.
Nights of missed sleep spent on the phone or on an airplane. Missed calls. Missed practices.
There’s an even darker possibility, too.
I could arrive in Toronto with hope for our relationship.
But that would be a disaster because there is a version of my future where Adrian and I don’t end up far away from each other.
That’s what will happen if I don’t perform my best in Canada.
I’ll lose my spot for good. I’ll be back in Berkeley forever.
I can’t race with that possibility in my mind. I can’t afford to preserve a shred of hope for that outcome and end up subconsciously sabotaging myself.
Mom was right when she said I was lying. Here I am, doing the same thing that she is doing with Rob. I’ve been committing the exact same crime that I lectured her about.
But I’m not her. I won’t choose a man over my dreams.