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Plus, it helped to distract me. My parents weren’t trying to pretend nothing had happened. They weren’t glossing over my pain and distress, nor were they telling me everything would be fine.
“Yup, you’re in a muddle,” my father had agreed, patting me on the shoulder.
“It’s a shame.” My mother shook her head. But neither of them would let me lay around moping.
“It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining. You’re young and healthy.” My mother would barge into my room, throw open the curtains, bustle around straightening up any clutter she saw.
I might grumble, especially in the early morning hours, but it was their turf, their rules. I was working on finding another apartment and had discovered a couple good leads, but they didn’t open up until October first. Until then, if I was living under their roof, wallowing in self-pity wasn’t on the agenda.
I liked helping with the swim lessons more than I’d thought. I’d belonged to a recreational swim team as a kid, and I’d taught swim lessons as a camp counselor. It felt fun to get back in the water with kids again.
It was good to get back to work, too, but the swim lessons were more of an escape. Physical therapy reminded me of Chase, especially since our center now had a damn framed, signed photo of him in the lobby. When my boss first showed it to me, delighted, I’d felt so shocked. At the sight of his smiling face, I’d backed up into a wall, bumping against it and smacking my head. That was helpful, though, as it gave a plausible excuse for why my eyes filled with tears.
“You all right there? Looks like you really whacked your head,” my boss had asked.
“Fine, I’m fine,” I’d assured her, looking away from the framed photo, the real source of distress. Chase looked so damn handsome and proud and happy. When had he sent it? It must have been before he found out about the blogging.
“He must have loved working with you. Great job, Emma.”
Great job, Emma. Her words seemed to echo around me, mocking, and I excused myself to go have a little cry in the bathroom.
At the senior center? No framed photos of Chase. The little ones in the swim classes hadn’t even heard of Chase Carter.
On Wednesdays, I helped out in a class with infants. Babies, in the water? Come on, now. They were so plump and adorable. The parents got in the water with them, too, so I was mostly just there as an extra set of eyes for safety. But sometimes I’d get to hold babies and swoosh them around in the warm water, making silly noises and smiling at their delight. Most really little ones had an instinctive love of their natural habitat, maybe reminding them of their footloose and fancy-free days in the womb with none of the daily hassles like diaper changes or dropping your pacifier. Just moving, kicking, buoyant and relaxed, in the water.
When did we lose that unselfconscious joy? It was probably during the teenage years. We stopped simply enjoying things and started worrying. What did we look like in those jeans? What did that girl really mean when she said “sure”? Was that guy looking over because he thought you were cute or because you had something caught in your teeth?
The good news was I saw unfettered joy bubbling up again in some of the seniors. Not all of them. Unfortunately, some seniors at the center seemed trapped in clinical depression, isolated, not engaging with the world around them. But there were some at the other end of the spectrum, too. There was one elderly woman I especially enjoyed seeing. She came down to the pool every day in a bright, flowered bathing cap and a skirted suit she called her “swimming costume.” She was always smiling, sometimes humming a little tune. She took absolute delight in the water, floating, sometimes paddling around, sometimes kicking with a board, always enjoying herself.
I hoped I’d be like her when I grew older. Because at the moment, I was nothing like her. I kept it together relatively well during the day. But at night, dinner done, physical therapy sessions and swim lessons finished, the hours stretched and I had too much time for memories.
It had felt so good with Chase, so real and right. We’d clicked, like you read about in books, that elusive feeling when you didn’t even have to wonder if it was right, was he the one? You just knew. I felt an almost physical pain away from him. Our connection had been so intimate and intense, making me feel so vulnerable and cared for at the same time. I’d been able to let myself go in ways I never had before, reaching deeper pleasure than I’d ever thought possible.
And then I’d fucked it up royally. There were a lot of things I felt awful about, but the worst of it was that I really had done something wrong. I had been dishonest. What I’d done wasn’t as bad as that article had claimed. I hadn’t faked my credentials. And I hadn’t actually run a smear story on him.
But I had taken the job with a hidden agenda. I’d known he wouldn’t want his full story told, and I’d gone in with the intent to open him up, get him sharing and talking. I hadn’t thought about the consequences on his end. I’d worried about my side of things, first how many blog followers I’d get, and then as my feelings grew, would I get hurt?
I liked to think of myself as a thoughtful, considerate, caring person. But I felt like a large, unforgiving mirror in harsh lighting was being held right in front of my face, showing me the opposite. It made me question everything. Maybe I’d dated such jerks in the past because they made me look good next to them? I could be the saint to their sinner. Maybe I’d liked using my friendship with Tori as an excuse to do things I knew I shouldn’t, partying all night, blogging about gossip? She gave me an excuse to be naughty. While I might tsk and shake my head, all the while I was actually enjoying the ride.
I guessed that’s what sucked about being a grown up. You couldn’t hide in adolescent angst anymore. There was no pretense that people just didn’t understand you, you’d been dealt a raw hand, couldn’t I get a do-over please? You had to take responsibility for your actions. Bleck.
My notebook was filled with letters I started but didn’t send to Chase. I kept starting, then stopping. I’d find myself writing five pages about the background of my friendship with Tori, then snap the notebook closed in frustration. I’d start trying to tell him how I felt about him, how I’d never felt that way about anyone before in my life. Then I’d look at the words and find them so inadequate, so lacking and clichéd, there was no way I could rely on them.
But, the thing was, I hadn’t given up hope. He’d told me he needed time, but hadn’t told me forever. Hard as it was, I understood and respected his request. Not only had things between us gone up in flames, he’d just finished years of backbreaking work, all culminating in the Olympics. Wherever he was now, he had to be facing a large helping of “now what?” I wished I were by his side, that we were somehow figuring out things together. But with each passing day, I had to acknowledge that didn’t look too likely.
I finally sent him an email:
Dear Chase,
I’m sorry I got to know you without telling you everything.
I’m sorry I wanted to learn your secrets and share them.
I’m in love with you. Please forgive me.
Love, Emma
It felt inadequate. It felt stupid. But at least it was something. Maybe eventually he’d want to talk to me, and maybe eventually listen, and maybe, just maybe, we could work our way out of the mess. I had to hope we could.
§
It was a Thursday afternoon in mid-September and I was down at the senior center, giving a one-on-one learn-to-swim lesson to a four-year-old. She wore a Tinkerbell swimsuit with ruffles and rhinestones. I used it as a distraction while I eased her into the water, her white-knuckled fingers gripping my arms instead of the side of the pool.
“Do you like sparkly things?” I asked her, holding her in the water, gently bobbing up and down. See, nothing to be afraid of here. She warmed to the topic, telling me about a new pair of sandals with not just flowers, but glittery flowers.
“Did you know we have a prize box?” I asked her and her eyes got wide. “When you do six lessons, you get a
certificate showing what you’ve learned. And you get to choose a prize from the treasure chest. Some of them are sparkly.”
That got her attention and before long, she was putting her face right in the water and blowing bubbles like a champion.
“Mind if I give her some pointers?” asked a deep masculine voice I instantly recognized but didn’t dare believe I was actually hearing. Crouching down at the edge of the pool was none other than Chase.
“What—?!” I nearly dropped my poor student, who looked up at the giant man like he might be a space alien.
“Are you Chase Carter?” The little girl’s mother appeared by his side, all a-twitter. “You won gold in Rio! We watched you!”
“Hi, ma’am.” He stood up and shook her hand. She didn’t want to let go. “You’ve got a good little swimmer here.” He gave a smile to my student, who now looked awestruck.
“You think so?” I could see the gears spinning in the mother’s mind. Was Olympic gold in her daughter’s future? “How much do you charge for a lesson? I didn’t know you were teaching here!”
“Sorry, I’m just visiting a friend.”
A friend who could not close her mouth she was so shocked. But apparently I was the only one who felt that way. The rest of the facility erupted in excitement, circling around him, wanting autographs, asking questions. Giving me a sheepish look, he started shaking hands and signing things like a flier offering a community soccer clinic, or a card advertising a local business.
The lesson over, I climbed out, wrapped myself in a towel, and waited outside the throng, still unable to believe he was there in Vero Beach, at the senior center pool, standing in regular old baggy shorts and a T-shirt but still looking every inch the elite athlete with his long, powerful build. Why was he there? It was probably a good thing, right? He wouldn’t have come to see me to tell me he didn’t want to see me. Or would he?
It took him a while to disengage himself. An especially persistent elderly woman was clearly enjoying the freedom that came from old age to do exactly what she wanted.
“One more!” she kept gleefully declaring, throwing her arms around him and pressing her cheek against him.
“OK,” he laughingly agreed. The woman, who had to be in her 80s, barely came up to the middle of his chest.
Free at last, he came over to me, suddenly looking shy. “That didn’t go how I’d planned.”
“It didn’t?” I asked, heart in my throat.
