Chapter Thirty
Thirty
With my stomach climbing into my throat, I knock on the door to Adrian’s apartment.
“One second!” he calls.
When I glance at my watch, I realize I’m on time for our date. He’s expecting me. That, somehow, makes all of this even harder. Like giving someone bad news on their birthday.
The door flies open like Adrian couldn’t get to it fast enough.
His hair is still slightly damp and curly from the shower.
He’s wearing my favorite button-down, soft baby blue, and he has the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up.
Did I tell him I like it when he wears his shirt that way? I don’t remember.
I don’t remember anything, actually. Because Adrian has pinned me with his green eyes and the flecks of gold deep in their surface are nearly glowing. Because Adrian is looking at me like he’s thirsty and I’m made of nothing but water.
He reaches out and twines his long fingers through mine.
“You look beautiful,” he says softly.
A sharp ache lodges into my chest. I should have changed before I came over. I should have wiped off this stupid makeup and gotten back into my spandex. I was in too much of a rush to get this over with.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Adrian’s fingers tighten. “What’s wrong?”
“I—I need to talk to you about something.”
He tugs at my hand, like he’s trying to pull me inside. I stay rooted to the spot, keeping to the safety of the doorway. If I go into that apartment, there is a good chance I won’t be able to do what I came here to do.
“What’s going on?” he asks. “Is someone hurt?”
I shake my head. That sudden, traitorous tickle settles behind my nose, but I force the tears away.
“I need to—” I have no idea how to say this. How to say anything.
“Whatever it is, we can figure it out.”
“I can’t do it,” I blurt out.
Adrian blinks. “Can’t do what?”
“I’ve thought about what you said, about us making it work long-distance. And it won’t. It can’t. I’m sorry.”
He releases my fingers and my hand goes unnaturally cold in the place he was just touching. He’s still staring at me, expression frozen somewhere between confusion and hurt. “Why?”
I clear my throat. “Because I need to train and travel and race. Berkeley might be my hometown, but I’m hardly ever here. Between coaching and recruiting, you take a day off every two weeks. We can’t build a relationship on twenty-four-hour visits twice a month.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but I put up a hand.
“But also, I’m worried that if we try, I’ll only end up undermining myself. Long distance is stressful, it’s hard. The emotional toll will be bad enough, let alone the physical one when I come to visit you. I’ll lose recovery time. I’ll miss practices. It will put everything back in jeopardy.”
“I can come to you,” Adrian says. He’s trying to hide it, but I can hear the emotion in his voice. It nearly breaks me in half. “You don’t have to fly up here.”
I close my eyes, shake my head. “It wouldn’t be fair to put all of it on you. And that’s not even to mention the expense—how can you afford to buy a plane ticket every month?”
“So, you just want to quit? You don’t even want to try?”
“In this case, trying could mean failing, not just with you, but also in the rest of my life. I could lose everything I’ve wanted. Everything I’ve worked for.”
“Kath.” His eyes search mine with a desperation that nearly pushes me off-balance. “Don’t do this, please. You never quit. Never. You soldier on, despite the hurdles. When you get knocked down, you always pick yourself back up. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”
I swallow a gasp.
The lights of the hall brighten, the world coming in and out of focus.
“You…love me?”
Adrian runs his hand through his mop of brown hair. “Damn. This wasn’t what I had in mind for saying that to you, but fuck it.” He steps forward, coming so close I’m wrapped in his familiar smell.
“Of course I love you.” His voice is low and insistent.
“I love your passion for rowing, for life. I love how you lift other people up, encourage them to be the best versions of themselves. I love your quiet confidence, your focused inspiration, your honesty. I love how you’ve made me feel, even for a short time, like I’m not alone anymore.
Like we’re a team. Like we can take on anything. Together. We can take this on, too.”
Everything is splitting, splintering. My body is a rock that’s shearing off, piece by piece, and exploding into an abyss below. I’m breaking apart and all I can think—all I can do—is flatten my arms against my body and try to hold myself together.
Adrian can’t love me. Because I can’t love him back. I can’t afford to. I can’t race with a broken heart.
“It wouldn’t work,” I insist.
Adrian slowly closes his eyes.
“I’m not saying that because I don’t care about you,” I say, desperate to make him understand. “But the logistics are insurmountable. And that’s not even to mention if you move to Florida. Instead of two hours, you’ll be a six-hour flight away.”
Adrian blinks open his eyes, and there’s a hardness in them that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I’m not moving to Florida.”
“You keep saying that. I don’t understand why. Is it because of the kids?”
“The kids?”
I had been hoping I got through to Rohan, that maybe he would talk to Adrian, too. So far though I’m not seeing any evidence of that. “Because you don’t want to leave the kids?”
“No,” he says quietly.
It’s so direct I know it’s the truth. This is about much more than the kids.
“Is it because you’re afraid?” I whisper.
He jerks back. “Why would you say that?”
His expression is twisted like I’ve rammed him in the chest with an oar and it’s all the confirmation I need. I understand now.
It took me two months to see because he hides it so well. In some ways, Adrian is an extremely confident man. With his team. With me. But when it comes to taking a new step, moving forward in life and pushing beyond the bounds where he is comfortable and confident? That’s where Adrian shuts down.
Instead, he approaches his life with the same strategy he uses in a game of Skee-Ball. He shoots right down the middle, always aiming for the hole that he feels most comfortable sinking. He’s scared to want the job because he’s scared of aiming for the fifty and hitting the ten instead.
It’s no way to win at Skee-Ball. More important, it’s no way to live a life.
“Why did you want the lemon bar in Italy?” I ask gently.
“I don’t—Why is that relevant?”
“When we met. You said you didn’t want to just give it to me because you needed it, too. To cheer yourself up.”
“I don’t know what you’re driving at.”
“It was for the interview, wasn’t it? The interview with Carla and the rest of the board. Tell me, when was it?”
He pauses, jaw working. “The day you raced in the final.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “So, you bought the lemon bar to cheer yourself up because of an interview that hadn’t happened yet. You weren’t just expecting to fail. You were planning on it.”
Adrian swallows so hard his throat dips with the motion.
The rest of his body language hasn’t changed—his arms are still crossed, creasing his forearm muscles, and his jaw is so tight I can see the muscle working by his ear.
I’m probably overstepping a boundary here because this isn’t my place to push, but I don’t think I can stop.
“Remember when I told you that you’re one of the best coaches I’ve ever worked with?
” I say. “It’s true, but it seems like you don’t see it, too.
Even though you’re also a person who does nothing but believe in the people around you.
So, why can’t you turn that around? Why can’t you believe in yourself? ”
“That’s not true,” he says quickly.
“That you can’t believe in yourself?”
“That I’m better than most of the coaches you’ve worked with.”
“Right.” I lift my shoulders. “You’re right. Because you’re better than all of them.”
He swallows, shaking his head like my compliment was some kind of insult.
“Look at how much progress I’ve made this summer,” I argue. “Look at all the ways you’ve helped me improve. The open water challenge. All the changes in my routine. You even convinced me to let my chin tilt.”
It happened a few weeks ago—one day after our trip to Angel Island when we were messing around in the erg room after practice.
“Stop fighting your instincts,” Adrian said.
Just like that first day on the ergs, he pressed my chin higher with his index finger, pinned me in place with his eyes, and raised my face to his.
My heart practically erupted under his touch, his confident gaze.
And finally I tried. I let go of the steady stream of textbook advice and coaching cues, and I let my chin lift the way my body has always wanted.
And it felt amazing. Like letting go. Like being set free.
Right now, though, my words do nothing to dissipate his tension. In fact, he clenches and unclenches his jaw, fixing me with a leaden stare. “You said you wouldn’t push, Kath. You said you didn’t care about how successful I am or what job title I have.”
“And I still don’t. I’m not pushing you because I care about you achieving some status.
If you want to coach high school for the rest of your life that is absolutely valid and worthy.
And you know what? I’m not even pushing because I want you to be happy, although I do want that with every fiber of my being.
“I’m pushing because you won’t even let yourself consider it. I’m not telling you what choice to make—I’m telling you that you have a choice. That if you want this junior national team job, you should go for it. Instead of shutting down the idea, you should consider how excellent you already are.