Chapter 25 #2
Trust me. The people who seem to have their shit together on the outside are usually the most fucked up behind closed doors. I grew up in Hollywood. I know.
So it’s better to just project my paranoia out into the world?
Exactly.
I did get my first snorkel adventure out of the way.
Yeah? How’d it go?
It was amazing. The reef here is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The coral diversity is incredible, not to mention the wildlife. In one trip we saw sea turtles, reef sharks, so many fish I can’t even name them all. And this was just for fun! I can’t wait to get up close and personal with it all.
Any flashbacks?
Not to the accident.
I hold my breath waiting for his response. When it comes, it’s just one word.
Good.
Good.
Good?!
That’s all he has to say? Really? While I’m lying here in bed, my skin hot, my cheeks flushed, a tingle deep in my gut at the memory of the wood biting into my shoulder blades as he held my wrist above my head, my thighs clenching around his waist while he kissed his way down my throat.
Fucking good?
An ellipsis pops onto the screen, then goes away, then returns. I stare so hard I don’t think I blink. Then finally—
Gotta go. Coach is here.
I yank my pillow on top of my face and scream into the foam, resisting the urge to chuck my phone across the room.
He would leave me like this, the arrogant ass.
I can almost see the self-satisfied smirk on his lips.
If I were a pettier person, I would text him a selfie of Michael and me right now just to see how he reacts.
But I don’t.
I wait until he’s done at Worlds and won all but two of his races and sent me proof of his food tour around Budapest before I send a photo of Michael and me to Nova instead.
The next day, an overnight FedEx arrives at my dorm.
Any particular reason you sent me a 24x36in poster of you in a Speedo?
My publicist said I should do more fan outreach.
He must hear my snort all the way in New York.
Come on. You know you miss the view.
If you want me to fall asleep every night to the sight of your washboard abs, you can just say it.
Sleep isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
Electricity zips up my throat, forming a knot as my whole body flashes with heat.
I don’t need a poster for that.
Good to know I’m not the only one with a vivid imagination. I was worried you might need a reminder of what’s waiting for you back home.
And here I was thinking you just wanted to loom intimidatingly over my bed.
Added bonus.
I barely made it through one biology guy. I’m not sure I’d survive another.
You didn’t even like me then.
Says who?
I didn’t want to like you. But that’s been out of my control from the very beginning.
Mine, too.
Well, just so you know, there are no biology guys. Or girls, for that matter. I just want to focus on my studies this year.
There’s no one else for me either.
I suck in a breath and force myself to type these next words. He’s a public figure. He’s unbelievably hot. It’d be naive for me to think women aren’t constantly throwing themselves at his feet. And I’m ten thousand miles away. I get it.
But there can be, if that’s what you want. If that’s what you need. That’s what this whole year was about. No stakes. No pressure. No rules.
I already told you, I don’t want to be “free.”
He types something. Deletes it. Types something again. Deletes it. Then—
Did you bring my sweatshirt to Australia?
I look down at myself and laugh.
I may or may not be wearing it right now.
Can I see?
I pull my arm back to snap a full-body selfie, showing my knees curled into my chest, cocooned by his evergreen hoodie. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, that subtle hint of chlorine, but it still feels like home when I wear it.
You look good in my clothes.
What a coincidence. I think you look pretty good out of them.
Already got that poster on the wall, then, huh?
My roommate just about died when I told her we’re friends. Said she’s still mad that you beat some British guy at the last Olympics.
Fred Williams. Great swimmer. Just not quite as good as me.
The entire country was pretty pissed. He got silver twice at the prior Olympics. Lost by a few milliseconds each time. It was supposed to be his big year, until some hotshot American teenager came out of nowhere and upended everything.
Are you allowed to describe yourself as a hotshot?
I didn’t. The LA Times did.
Oh.
Sometimes I forget you’re like famous, famous.
I know. I like it. You make me forget, too.
I need to go to bed. But for the record, just so we’re clear, if a guy comes into your room and asks why my poster is on your wall, it is one hundred percent not because we’re friends.
What are we then?
I don’t know, Clara. I’m waiting for you to tell me.
The next day, another package arrives. It’s a new sweatshirt, but unlike my old one, it’s not a generic Swiftmore hoodie.
The name Monroe blazes across the shoulder blades, like a warning or a brand.
I toss it over my head immediately and draw the fabric to my nose.
He wore it before sending it. I know he did.
It smells like the pool and fresh Ocean Breeze shampoo, like him.
I don’t take it off for the rest of the day.
For the next three weeks, we text almost constantly.
Sometimes it takes a few hours for one of us to respond, between the time difference and his training and my classes.
But if we catch each other right, it’s pure magic.
Time passes in a blink. The physical distance has unlocked something within me, allowed me to lower my guard.
I don’t have to worry about saying too much.
I don’t have to wonder what signals I’m sending.
Even if Nox wanted to cross our invisible line in the sand, he can’t.
It’s not as simple as a five-minute walk across campus.
In an odd way, it’s as if being ten thousand miles apart has somehow brought us closer than ever.
I never expected it.
But as my first month in Australia draws to a close, a frustrating truth becomes clear—it’s completely unsustainable.
I fell asleep twice during class this week.
I almost missed the bus to the marina last Saturday.
Nova sent me a photo of Nox passed out in a half-eaten plate of spaghetti two nights ago.
It’s exactly what I was afraid would happen.
We can’t keep doing this.
I know.
I haven’t asked how his training has been going, but his quick agreement is as clear an indication as I’ll ever get that it’s not going well.
I knew it. His body needs a reliable schedule, with reliable rest, and reliable time to refuel—not a Clara Hayes–sized wrecking ball.
And my body does, too. I don’t want to keep sitting through lectures in a haze.
This is the most incredible opportunity of my life.
I want to be present for it. Alert. Absorbing every iota of information I can.
Turns out I’m an idiot. Being without you is a shit-ton more distracting than being with you ever was.
He frames it as a joke, but I see the raw truth lurking under that glittery facade.
Nox.
Cutting ties isn’t an option, so don’t even say it.
Don’t even think it.
I wasn’t. We just need some guidelines. Some rules.
Like what?
I don’t know. A way to talk without it taking over our lives. I can’t keep waking up exhausted. You can’t either.
So we won’t text when it’s the other person’s bedtime. Done.
That’s what we said last week. And then I kept you up until four in the morning.
I’m testing out a new schedule. Didn’t I tell you?
Be serious.
I hear his sigh from across the Pacific.
Fine.
I have an idea. One email per day. No more than that. On our own time. On our own schedule.
I don’t love it.
But it’s better than nothing, I guess.