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I fish out a cigarette from the crumpled pack in my pocket, sparking it and taking a deep drag. The way the cigarette sits between my lips and the burn of the smoke on my throat settles me.

I need to train. I have a solo to practice, and I don’t need anyone.

I sure as fuck don’t need the judgement of the man I just walked away from.

It’s not quiet at night. Far from it. Insects buzz and whistle and scratch, and there’s a constant rustle of the wind through the dense trees surrounding the cabin.

It’s hot enough that I’m stripped down to boxer briefs, laying on my back and staring at the ceiling. Even when I stretch my arms wide on either side of me, my fingers barely touch the edges of the bed.

I need to sleep, but something about knowing Javier is below me has my senses sharper than they should be at this time of night. Through the open loft I hear the couch creak as Javier shifts his weight. He’s been moving since I turned the lights off and climbed up here. I can’t imagine he is comfortable.

I almost feel bad.

Rolling onto my side, I tug the thin sheet over me. I don’t need the warmth, but I struggle to sleep without the feeling of something tucked around me. At home, I sleep with the air turned up and a fleece blanket wrapped tightly around me, and without the pressure I feel like I’m going to float away.

I’m still wide awake when Javier’s voice slips through the darkness. “I am going to ask you a question,” he says, not bothering with a whisper.

I wet my lips. “Okay.”

He takes a moment before speaking. “Is it enough for you to have made it here, to the Clash, or do you want to win?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Would it be enough to be in the water in front of judges? To feel the rush and pressure of competition again?

“You being here is making history,” he continues. “Getting in the water in front of those judges is already sending a message to every person out there who has ever felt belittled or excluded because of who they are. Whatever you decide, your courage will touch the lives of strangers.”

I imagine my mother’s face. Even after eight years, I remember how it felt to have her gaze on me, her blue eyes somehow marking every single flaw and none of the truth. She was never warm, not when we were children, and certainly not when she began to coach us when we turned five years old. You look just like her, my aunts had said, as though being a mirror to such a cold, harsh face should have been a point of pride.

I think of the moment she saw my shaved head, the day I stopped hiding behind things that don’t matter. The long hair and the sundresses and strappy sandals didn’t reflect who I was, who I’d suspected I was before I knew there were others who had come before me and words to describe how I was feeling.

I never expected love from her. I sure as fuck didn’t delude myself into expecting understanding. But knowing all of that didn’t soften the hurt of seeing it all play out across her face.

What have you done? She’d asked, her face twisting with horror.

Through the manic hurt, I’d grinned back at her. My name is Aleks, and I’m your son.

Now, wrapped in the warm embrace of the darkness, I chew on the soft side of my thumb. “I want to win,” I whisper.

“Then let me do my job. Let me coach you.”

Not you, I want to snap back. Anyone but you. But the exhaustion is finally catching up with me.

“Why did you leave?” I ask.

It’s quiet for a long moment. “I cannot tell you that,” he finally says in the darkness. “But you need to know it was nothing you did. Nothing any of your teammates did.” I hear a huffed breath. “It was just time for me to go.”

“That’s a shitty answer,” I mutter.

He must have heard me, because he responds. “I know, and I am sorry.”

There’s nothing more to say, not after such a bullshit response.

“I am not going to leave, Aleks,” he goes on.

“Again,” I add, because I can’t help it.

“Again,” he echoes without hesitation. “I am not going to leave again.”

“I don’t believe you.” I’m left feeling empty, hollow, the stubborn optimism that has fueled me for the past year out of reach. My eyes are heavy, but I force them to stay open, trained on the shadowed white ceiling above me.