Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
Day of Pan Ams Final
On the starting line, I take a small stroke to touch up my bow, ensuring it’s aligned with the line of buoys dotting the water behind me. My heart hammers at my throat. I want nothing more than for the buzzer to release me from this breathless purgatory.
“Rowers ready?” The starter’s voice crackles through the air as he calls through each of the athletes on the line. “Canada.”
The Canadian’s eyes remain fixed, a silent assent for the race to start. Her gaze is glued on her feet like she’s made of focus. Like she already knows she’s unbeatable.
I close my eyes and flutter an oar, trying to stave off thoughts of Adrian. I should be focused on this moment. This race. Not the man I love.
His voice—soft as velvet—invades my mind anyway. Out of your head. Into your body.
Fighting thoughts of him is as fruitless as paddling to the edge of a waterfall and trying not to get sucked over.
So, instead, I let myself think of him. The way his eyes shine when he smiles.
The way he bellows out my name when I’m picking up speed.
The text I sent him last night—the one that he still hasn’t answered.
Thank you, I said, but if I do this tomorrow, it will be because of you.
It’s true whether he wants to admit it or not. Somehow, this is reassuring to me, too. Maybe because it makes me feel like I’m not alone on this starting line. It’s not just me and the boat and the pain. Somehow, Adrian is here with me, even if it’s just an echo of his voice.
Out of your head.
My lungs expand. My heart slows from an erratic gallop to a cool canter.
“Brazil.”
Camila takes deep breaths, so loud I can hear them over the rustle of wind.
Phantom fingers graze my chin.
I let my chin lift—the way it wants, whether or not I can change it. Like I’m looking to the sky for my power.
“United States of America.”
I open my eyes. Bring my knees up, seat forward. Poise my oars above the waterline.
“Attention.”
Wind whispers across my damp skin.
The starter buzzes.
I move.
My shell slices forward. Stroke after stroke, I launch off the balls of my feet and we pick up speed. My back muscles heave. Water rushes by my hull in jeweled ripples. My legs jam against the footplate, my body pushing and pulling. I’m lost in the symphony—the prayer—of this moment.
The boat has a life of its own. Together, we kick into a higher gear, speed climbing so effortlessly it’s like we’re weightless. A memory flashes through my mind: Adrian asking if I had a secret motor attached to the rudder. Even though I’m already breathing hard, my mouth twinges in a half laugh.
The crowd roars. Cowbells clang.
A thousand meters to go and I’m flying. I’m already in pain, I have been for some time, but I’m also tied for first place—cruising even with the Canadian.
I can hear her breathing, the skim of her oars across the waterline, the determination in each of her strokes.
She glances at me. I think I see her smile. Then she picks up the pace.
Her boat drives forward, suddenly leaping ahead by half a length. Her stroke rate is higher than mine now, a drumbeat of determination and strength.
And my pain starts transitioning to agony.
It began, as it always does, in my legs.
A flood of lactic acid descending both quads, setting them aflame.
Then it spread to my arms. At first it was as harmless as a heating pad, but it’s quickly growing to an inferno.
It’s like I’ve plunged my limbs in boiling water and I’m just trying to hold them under the surface as long as I can.
The Brazilian gains on me. She’s pulling like I saw in the video—like her stern is on fire. She’s picking up at the very moment that I’m falling. That I’m breaking.
Seven-fifty to go and the fire has breached my lungs. Every choking inhale only deepens it, like oxygen stoking the flames.
I risk glances to my sides. It’s not just Brazil and Canada. I’ve dropped into fourth, just behind the Chilean.
Hopeless. This is hopeless.
Adrian’s face surges into my mind. You don’t quit, Parker. You never quit.
All I want is to quit now. All I want is for it to stop. Nothing is worth this agony.
But Adrian screams at me to pick it up. He tells me that I only need to go a little farther, only need to push a little more. I believe in you enough for the both of us.
I keep pushing.
Take a breath.
I force in breath after breath. I make myself lean into the fire instead of shrinking from it.
Five hundred to go. I’m floating above my body now, pain so intense I’ve disconnected from it. My nerves unshackle from my muscles.
The Canadian is half a boat in front. The Brazilian is just behind her. My bow is nearly even with the Chilean’s oars. This is it. This is happening no matter what I do. In fewer than five hundred meters, this is going to end one way or another.
I have a choice. I can keep fighting, keep trying to muscle out each stroke, each breath. Or I can listen to him. I can let it go. I can find my flow.
And, the most revelatory thought of all: It’s my choice. It’s in my control.
Into your body.
The world goes quiet.
It’s like someone turned down the volume. The cheering crowd fades. Cowbells clang at the end of a long tunnel. Instead, the sounds I hear are my own. My labored breath. The slide of my seat. The rhythmic beats of my oars slicing water.
I pick up speed. Water runs faster past my hull.
I drive my legs harder, accelerate my strokes.
Wind rips over my face, throwing hair across my forehead.
The boat jumps forward, stern bouncing slightly against the subtle waves rocking the surface of the water.
We move together, in tandem, in symphony, in poem.
It hurts. Nothing could be more painful than this. But I’m not leaning into the flames anymore. I’ve become the fire.
My bow passes the Chilean.
A hundred meters to go. Maybe ten more strokes.
I start emptying the tank. I’m going to give this everything my body has left and so much more. I pour my entire being into this race, every fiber of my soul. It’s my determination, my lists. It’s calm in the chaos. Every ounce of passion and heart I have to give.
My lungs sear against my ribs. My triceps are mutilated agony. Every inch of my lower body burns, from my spent quads to the arches of my feet. But still I pull.
If this isn’t passion, then I don’t know what is.
Five more strokes.
I pass the Brazilian.
I pull because I believe in myself. I pull for my best friend. I pull because I love rowing. I pull for the man I love.
Three more crushing strokes. I’m nearly even with the Canadian.
My back muscles heave with every inch of strength that’s left.
Two more. This race is ending. This race will never end.
One. I wrench out the final stroke.
And let out a feral scream.
Horns blast in rapid succession as our bows cross the finish.
My forehead falls to my knees. I suck in air, gag on the vomit rising in my throat.
It’s the best race I’ve ever had. It’s the best time I’ve ever gotten. It’s better than I could have ever imagined two months ago.
It’s second place.
I still lost my spot.
. . .
Even after my cooldown, acid lingers in my veins. When I crossed the finish, I was in too much pain to wrap my head around what just happened. In the minutes since, the pain has ebbed and a tangle of emotions has taken its place.
I don’t want to process it all alone.
Sofi won’t be on the dock—she’s already starting her warm-up ahead of her own final. Anyway, as much as I’d like her support, there’s someone else I want more right now.
When I raced, Adrian’s voice was so vivid in my mind it was like he was sitting in the boat with me.
Like every moment we spent together this summer was just as bright and focused and light today as it was before our painful separation.
I want nothing more than to talk to him.
To share my joy over my success and to commiserate about the impending implosion of my entire life.
To tell him the truth of what I feel for him.
Before my boat has even touched the dock, while my arms and legs are still heavy with acid, I brace my oars so I can flip through the messages on my water-dappled phone, searching for our most recent exchange.
He never responded to my last message, but there’s so much more I want to say anyway.
I want to tell him what he means to me. I want to tell him how he’s changed me.
I click off Do Not Disturb. Before I can get to the exchange with Adrian, though, my phone pings with an unread email. Carla has responded to my recommendation.
When I click it open, I find only four sentences:
I appreciate the honesty, but the board decided to offer Adrian a job, anyway. He accepted.
What?
My ears start ringing with the whine of my mom’s antique tea kettle. In my haze, the side of my boat lunges toward the dock. I barely pull up my oar before I land against the wood.
He took the job?
Even as people flow around me, competitors shouting, coaches enveloping athletes in hugs, I sit, stunned, staring at the words still on my screen. How is this even possible? Less than a week ago, he was adamantly against it.
I force my eyes back down and read the rest.
You’re right about the deal, though. Come to my tent so we can talk after your race.
Adrian is moving to Florida.
I’m going back to Berkeley.
I pull up his contact page and consider calling him. But then I stop myself. There’s a reason he didn’t tell me himself and a reason he didn’t respond to my last text. He might have initiated contact, but that doesn’t mean everything is okay between us.
I still need an explanation. I have to understand what the hell just happened.