Sunday
Sunlight stings my eyelids as I blink into the glow. No matter how much I want to stave it off, the morning’s here. And with it, clarity. I may not know what answers are waiting for me, but I’m ready to hear them. I’m done running. I’m ready to face whatever is next.
So I lift my cheek from where it’s resting on Nox’s chest and look up, not at all surprised to find him staring back.
He tightens the arm slung across my hip, pulling me closer.
His gaze flits across my features, cataloging my flushed cheeks, my swollen mouth, my messy hair, as if saving the image for later.
A warm glow lights his eyes, but there’s no smile on his lips.
Because he knows, same as me, that it’s time.
“Why?” I ask, unable to manage more.
One word is all I need.
Understanding dims his gaze. A deep sigh spills through his lips as he wipes his free palm over his face, searching for the right words to explain—not what happened in the car, when he was sick and lost and hurting.
I, of all people, understand making a mistake and praying it won’t always define you.
I’ve forgiven him for that. The real betrayal was what happened later, when he asked me to wait but then never showed up when I did.
“I tried,” he starts, then stops, eyes burning into me.
Not hard enough.
I bite back the gut reaction, but he must read it across my face. He winces, holding his features scrunched for a second too long, turning slightly away as though he can’t bear to face the truth in my unspoken accusation.
“You might not believe me,” he continues softly, voice as raw and defenseless as I’ve ever heard it.
“But I did. I tried so many times, Clara. You have no idea how many times I sat in that stupid, overly cheerful room, staring at my phone, willing myself to press the button. Or how many letters I sat down to write without being able to put a single word on the page. Getting in the car that day was the worst thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, and I did it to you.
I didn’t know how to face it. How to apologize.
How to even begin. I told myself it would be better to do it in person, that when I saw you, I’d finally know what to say. But then I got to campus—”
“You came?” I interrupt, heart flipping in my chest.
“Of course I came,” he says, pain and regret palpable in the space between us.
“I made it all the way to your door, but I just couldn’t lift my hand to knock.
I was frozen. It’s a miracle no one saw me.
I got lucky it was J-term, I guess, because I must’ve been standing there for at least an hour, so torn I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know if I was strong enough to stay clean if you said you didn’t want me anymore, and I had to, for Nova, for myself.
But I also knew I wasn’t selfless enough to walk away if you did.
I wasn’t ready for my second chance yet.
I knew I was still too fucked up inside to deserve your forgiveness.
I wasn’t the person you needed me to be, the person I wanted to be. I needed more time to get there.”
“You could have told me that,” I interject. “I would’ve understood. It would’ve been better than being left completely in the dark.”
“I should have,” he agrees, regret tugging at his brows.
“But I was scared shitless. I knew if I opened that door, I wouldn’t be able to stop at a conversation.
I wasn’t strong enough. The moment I saw you, my resolve would crumble.
I would lie, keep doing what I’d been doing, keep pretending I was okay, anything to not have to leave you again.
Because that’s all I spent those six weeks thinking about, Clara—not healing, not fixing myself, but getting back to you.
So even though it was maybe the hardest decision I’ve ever made, I turned around and walked away.
I started wandering the campus, not entirely sure where I was going until I ended up at Coach Fleishman’s door.
I told him I needed real help. Not that fake Hollywood rehab crap designed like a long vacation to fix bad PR.
True medical help to figure out what was so broken inside of me.
He said he knew a place but he wasn’t sure if he could keep it under wraps.
I told him not to. I wanted to be held accountable.
I needed it. I just asked him to make sure they’d leave your name out of it.
So he made a few calls and told me to go to the pool to wait.
I got back in the water for the first time since the Olympics.
It felt so good, to work my body again, to sink into the reps, to clear my head.
I realized how much I needed it. How much I’d been missing it.
I felt just the tiniest bit like myself again, and I held on to that feeling as I made my way to the new facility, because I knew, deep down, that I had to find myself before I could afford to go looking for you. ”
“And did you find him?” I ask, the barest whisper, fear holding me back.
“I think so,” he answers, then takes a deep, unsteady breath.
I rise and fall with his chest. It’s clear how difficult it is for him to open up like this, to show me the worst parts of himself.
But that’s what love is, right? It’s not shiny and polished and sparkling.
It’s showing someone all the ugliness and the horror and the pain inside of you, and asking them to still see you regardless.
That’s what Nox did for me, once upon a time.
He saw me, even when I couldn’t see myself.
“I hope so,” he continues, qualifying his answer, not trying to sugarcoat the truth.
“Or else I wouldn’t be here. Turns out building your entire life around hate isn’t exactly the healthiest thing to do.
Alcohol wasn’t the problem. I’ll never touch it again.
I’m not worried about that. Giving it up was the easy part.
Figuring out why I was abusing it in the first place was what got hard. ”
“And what did you figure out?”
“I think I had this idea in my head for so long that if I just beat my dad at his own game, if I just took something he cared about away from him, all my problems would somehow disappear. That it would all magically get better. And then I won that race. I did exactly what I’d been working so hard for.
And I still felt like shit inside. He was still my father.
Our stories were still inextricably tied.
I’d given up so many things, sacrificed so much of my life, for him to still come out on top.
Because even though he lost something, he won something too—a piece of me.
My legacy is his legacy. There’s no outrunning that, no escaping that.
There’s no amount of alcohol in the world that can wash away my blood.
I was so consumed with being nothing like him, with maintaining my focus, I became like a machine.
And when that focus finally snapped, I did too.
The therapists helped me see that I couldn’t build my life around erasing him.
It’s just not possible. I have to build my own legacy apart from him, something all my own that he won’t be able to touch.
Not about gold medals or trophies, but about something more meaningful.
And that’s what I’ve been doing most of this past year.
Training. Getting back into shape, back into myself.
Going to therapy. And searching for a new purpose.
I’ve spoken with a few people about launching a charity to help young athletes struggling with mental health. I’m actually—”
He stops, suddenly self-conscious.
“What?” I lean closer, furrowing my brow.
“Well, I’m writing a book, which sounds ridiculous, I know—”
“It doesn’t.”
He plows on. “But I just spent so much of my life keeping everything inside, hiding the truth about my dad, about our relationship, about myself, I thought I should try something different. Plus, the paycheck doesn’t hurt.
Going to rehab put a dent in my sponsorships.
I know the publisher only signed me to exploit the most salacious aspects of my life, my family’s life, but it’s not about exposing my dad or my mom.
It’s not about payback or revenge. It’s about saying, this is me, this is what I struggle with, and that’s okay.
If I help normalize it for even one other person, I think I’ll have gotten what I want out of the whole experience, regardless of what the tabloids choose to focus on.
Besides, Nova supports it, so I figure it can’t be a completely terrible idea. ”
“Well, we both know Nova is the queen of good ideas…”
He arches his brow and we both crack.
When our laughter dies down, I sigh and drop my cheek back to his chest, tracing the line of his sternum with my fingers while I absorb everything he’s told me.
The book is a great idea. I think back to our time in that nonfiction class.
He was always a good writer. And I like that he’s comfortable enough to show his true self to the world, to share his faults, that he feels strong enough to do something so terrifying. But is it enough?
Everything he said makes perfect sense.
But do I trust him again?
Can I?
“Why—” I start, then stop, not sure if it’s even fair of me to ask. But there’s one little doubt still nagging at the back of my thoughts, one little doubt that could ruin everything.
“What?” Nox presses. He runs his fingers up the curve of my spine, drawing my gaze back to his face as he watches me, concern etched across his face. “You can ask me anything. What?”
“Why did you wait until now to tell me?” I force the words out, hasten to explain. “I get why you waited back then. Even though it broke my heart, I understand it. I get that you weren’t ready. But that was over a year ago. You’ve had months to explain, months to come find me. Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to,” he admits softly.