Chapter 13
Kate has twelve days on the island to rest, with the sole purpose of doing physical therapy every morning, a specific and gentle training session with Diane, and clearing her head.
She's already spent three of those days doing fine on the first part and failing miserably at the last. She barely sleeps.
She can't fall asleep because her mind keeps drifting through a pile of memories with Leire that mostly boil down to hotel rooms and the occasional stolen kiss in locker rooms. She misses her—as always—but now it stirs something strange in her, an anger that tightens behind her chest and leaves her with an unbearable pressure all day long.
They text each other, they say good morning, Leire asks how her back is doing and she says it's fine, but the redhead doesn't want to be asked about the injury—she wants Leire to care about how she's doing emotionally, to want to know how she feels about the idea that her career is ending.
She wants her to say she misses her, that she can't wait to see her, that she's sick of hiding her—but Leire only says part of that.
"I can't wait for Cincinnati so I can see you"
She sent that this morning, and Kate exhaled with a quiet ache, because to her it's the same as saying she wants to see her in a hotel room to fuck.
"Sweetheart, lunch is ready," Diane announces.
Kate turns and sees her walking toward the pool, where she's been sitting on the edge with her feet in the water, staring at the blue line where the chlorinated pool ends and the ocean begins in the distance.
She gets up carefully because, even though her back doesn't hurt right now, she woke up this morning with her left side seized up and it took her several seconds to straighten herself out.
She follows Diane in silence, thinking about how grateful she is to have her here, because her coach is the one making sure she eats and leaves the house. She's so apathetic that if it were up to her, she wouldn't get out of bed.
"A woman is coming this afternoon," Diane says, serving food onto Kate's plate like it's nothing.
Kate snaps her head up so fast she hurts her neck.
"What woman?"
"Her name is Rachel Collins. She was an Olympic swimmer back in the day—you might know her."
The redhead doesn't even bother thinking about it. Swimming isn't a sport that interests her, and the only thing she cares about is why this woman is coming to her house while she's on vacation.
"What's she coming for?"
"She retired at thirty because of an injury.
" Diane ignores her question, fills her own plate, and sits down.
"She didn't handle retirement well—suffered anxiety attacks for months.
But she recovered, went back to school, and found a new calling helping elite athletes who went through the same thing she did.
She guides them, supports them, and answers all the questions you've probably been carrying around in your head. "
"I don't need a goddamn shrink, Diane," Kate snaps, pushing back from the table.
Diane slams her hand on the table hard enough to make everything rattle, and Kate freezes halfway out of her chair.
"Damn it, Kate, you need someone to help you! You've been walking around here like a ghost, and if I can't help you with the Leire situation, I'll help you with this. So Rachel is coming, and you're going to sit down with her and listen. That's how it's going to be until we leave."
"What? Every day?"
"Yes." Her coach's fury surprises her. "Actually, she'll be staying in one of the guest rooms. Don't worry—you won't have to see her for more than a couple of hours in the afternoon."
Kate is rattled, not even sure what to ask, but she's never seen Diane this angry before—and after everything this woman does for her, the least she owes her is to try.
"Okay."
"That's what I want to hear. Now eat, please."
Diane points at Kate's plate and she scoots her chair back to the table. They finish the rest of the meal in silence until they're in the kitchen washing dishes and Diane comes to stand beside her.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart—I didn't want to talk to you like that, but I'm worried about you and I'm losing my mind."
"I'm sorry for worrying you." Kate wraps her arms around her, and Diane holds her tight, the way you hold someone who might as well be the daughter you never had.
"You'll get through this, Kate—this and whatever comes next. Okay?"
Kate nods, unable to answer.
Rachel Collins arrives at six o'clock sharp, brought directly from the port by a driver.
Kate is standing in the entryway, watching Diane walk over to greet her as she gets out of the car.
The woman isn't what Kate expected. She'd pictured someone older, bitter, enduring her own frustration by listening to everyone else's—but Collins seems like neither of those things.
Kate puts her at around forty. Dark-haired, tall, with a swimmer's broad shoulders and an easygoing presence that throws Kate completely off.
She doesn't look like a psychologist or a mentor or whatever she is.
She looks like someone you'd sit down with and crack open a beer, the kind of friend you tell your day to.
The redhead watches her walk alongside Diane.
She has a bag over her shoulder and a carry-on that Diane has taken from her.
She's wearing jeans and a blouse, her dark hair cut just above her shoulders.
There's something quietly attractive about her—something that makes you look.
And when Rachel is standing right in front of her, Kate realizes what it is: the woman is warm.
The kind of person who makes you feel at ease before they've said a word.
"Hi, Katherine, it's great to meet you," the woman says, extending her hand.
"Just Kate," she replies, and hugs herself once she lets go of Rachel's hand.
"Here, give me that," Diane says, reaching for the bag on Rachel's shoulder. "I'll take these to your room and show you around—I'll leave you two to it."
Diane disappears into the house so fast that Kate feels like a five-year-old who's just been dropped off in a classroom with a new teacher she doesn't want to be with.
"Diane told me you don't want to do this," Rachel says, no preamble, like it doesn't bother her—or like she's used to it. Or both.
"That's not it." The redhead takes a step back, crossing her arms tighter around herself.
It's too sudden. She hasn't had time to process the fact that she has to talk to a stranger about what she's feeling when she can barely name it herself.
"Then what is it, Kate?"
She shrugs, uneasy.
"We could go inside if you want," she says instead of answering, gesturing toward the house.
"This isn't about me—it's about you. We don't have to do this indoors if that feels like too much. We could walk, get some air. I saw paths and trails on the way here. Does that work better?"
Anything is better than sitting inside staring at this woman, so Kate doesn't have to think about it. They walk along the edge of the property toward the cliffs, where the Atlantic wind moves freely with nothing to stop it.
"How are you holding up?" Rachel asks after a while.
"Fine, I guess."
The swimmer tilts her head and gives her a warm smile that leaves Kate off-balance.
"I was a mess," Rachel begins. "When they told me I could keep swimming but couldn't compete anymore, all I could think was that my life was over. I'd just turned thirty, I was in peak shape and in a position to win—but my shoulder made the decision for me."
Kate listens without saying anything. She's shoved her hands in her pockets and isn't even looking ahead, just watching where she puts her feet.
"I turned bitter. For months I was insufferable—wallowing in my misery instead of looking forward."
"I'm not doing that." Kate glances at her. "I know what's coming. I've already accepted it."
"That's not what Diane told me. Or what your eyes say."
"My eyes?" She stops and turns toward her. "What do they say?" she asks, somewhere between curious and guarded.
"Sadness."
Kate laughs and kicks a stone.
"I'm not sad about that—I told you, I have it under control." Her tone comes out sharper than she means it to, and Rachel walks on.
"So what's really weighing on you, then?"
Kate lets out a resigned sigh.
"How did you get through it?" she asks, sidestepping the question.
"I set goals. One day I woke up on my couch, hungover after a night of drowning my sorrows in alcohol even though I didn't even like drinking—but I'd watched a lot of people turn to that to go numb, so I figured maybe it would help."
"Did it?"
"Sure did. It gave me a splitting headache for hours and left my mouth so dry it felt like I'd been chewing cardboard in my sleep."
Kate lets out a real laugh, and Rachel nods toward a fairly flat rock at the cliff's edge.
"Want to sit for a bit? Or does the drop bother you?"
Kate doesn't answer—she just walks to the rock and sits down beside Rachel.
"You said you set goals," she starts. "What kind?"
"When the headache wore off and I felt a little clearer, I sat down on the floor of my patio with a notebook and a pen.
I didn't even have a plan when I picked it up, but when I opened it and saw the blank page, I pictured my life looking like that—empty, nothing filling it—and I understood that no one was going to fill it for me. I had to do it myself."
Rachel pauses and watches Kate, reading her focused expression as she stares straight ahead, where so much water stretches out that the ocean looks a deep blue close to the color of Rachel's eyes.