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Ethan
Victor’s head snaps up. He almost falls.
Two women about our age in short, brightly-colored summer dresses stop behind the photographer, squinting at us. When the one on the right takes off her sunglasses, I realize the two of them look exactly the same. I never would have recognized them walking down the street, but seeing them next to Victor pulls everything together: Katrina and Rachel Garrel, the identical twins from Victor’s old swim team. They went to the Olympics without him, ignored in favor of non-stop news coverage of his scandal, and didn’t even medal. I always felt sorry for them.
“What the hell?” Victor climbs over the wall and pecks both of them on each cheek. “What are you doing here?” He shifts from one foot to the other, glancing up the promenade every few seconds and scratching at the back of his neck, which is starting to burn.
The one I’m pretty sure is Katrina pulls out a long, white cigarette. Victor cups his hand around the end and lights it for her in a gesture that tells me they’ve done this many times.
“I can’t believe this.” Rachel grabs Victor’s wrist, swinging it childishly. “Babe. I thought we’d never see you again.” She has a flat, strident Boston accent; their team lived and practiced at a compound in New Mexico, but their coach pulled a lot of members from old money families on the East Coast.
“Is—” Victor hesitates. “Are you—”
Katrina rolls her eyes and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re on a fucking bonding trip before Worlds,” she says past the cigarette. “And yeah, Alek is here. God, you’re still obsessed with each other.”
Thanks to Danny, I’m a walking encyclopedia on this team. Alek Simmons was Victor’s main rival, son of their world-renowned coach, Clint Simmons. Coach Simmons proved that he had no knowledge of Victor’s doping, allowing him and his team to carry on and try to put the pieces back together, but they’ve never escaped Victor’s shadow. Most of Victor's records were disqualified after the fact, but they’re still the stuff of legend, and the world has watched Alek try and fail to beat them many times.
Victor shrugs, like he doesn’t care, but it looks rehearsed. The photographer, sneaky bastard, lifts his camera to capture the moment for what would undoubtedly be a big headline, but Rachel swats at his lens like it’s a bug. “No, no. Shoo.”
He gives up and checks his phone. “I have enough for now, gentlemen.Buona sera.” Hoping this means I get to go to bed, I scramble over the wet rocks and join the others on the path.
“Who isthis?” Katrina tips down her sunglasses and scans me from head to toe. Her red lips turn up at the corners as she offers a languid hand.
Before I can respond, Victor steps between us and pushes her hand away with a warning smile. “That’s mine. Don’t touch it.”
Her mouth forms an O, then she throws back her head and laughs. “You’re a brave man,” she tells me over Victor’s shoulder.
“It’s fine,” I say stupidly.
“I can’t imagine being in a relationship with a professional cum dumpster.” Katrina blows smoke at me, the sour tang blending with the smell of drying seaweed.
Her sister slaps her arm. “Don’t be so gauche. Obviously they have an arrangement.” She puts her arm around his waist; instead of retreating, he rests his nose in her hair and grins dryly at her words. “You absolutely must join us tomorrow night, Vic. We miss you. The rest of them are no fun when they’re high. Besides,” Rachel adds, taking his free hand, “you have to say hello to Alek. He won’t believe this, of all the places in the world. It’s fate.”
I’m staring at their exchange in a kind of confused fog, trying to understand how Victor’s demeanor changed in the blink of an eye and why they’re allowed to touch him, when that word snaps me out of it.
Maybe fate is recursive—the mention of fate can, itself, be fate, signposting the steps our unlikely journeys take through the universe. Or maybe fate is a word people invoke to manipulate those who are desperate for meaning.
“I’ll think about it.” He keeps glancing over his shoulder uneasily.
“We’re looking for gelato.” Katrina wrinkles her nose. “Have you seen some?”
“Maybe down the way,” I cut in, pointing along the path and hoping they’ll leave. Rachel grabs my hand, startling me.
“Let’s all go.” She winks at Victor. “Victor’s treat.”
“So that’s why you want me to come.” His hoarse voice doesn’t match his laconic, teasing smile. No one bothers to contradict him.
A thick silence falls as we walk, punctuated only by the clicking of the girls’ heels, and I’m relieved when we spot a gelato stand surrounded by rusty tables and chairs.
Katrina insists on ordering for everyone, and comes to the table with four cones balanced between her fingers and napkins under her arm. My light green gelato has chocolate shavings mixed through.
Rachel shares a rickety chair with Victor, pressed up against him, and I think back on interviews with the team when they were clean-cut teenagers with eager, earnest faces. A few people made crazy claims, stories of parties, drugs, and sex—not with each other but just about anyone else. I always hid those rumors from Danny. Maybe that was a mistake.
Victor holds his vanilla cone like it’s a microphone and he’s being forced to give a speech he didn’t prepare. Rachel puts her finger on the bottom of the cone and pushes it towards his mouth. “Come on. It’s yummy.”
His nostrils flare. “If you want it so bad, you eat it.” In one quick movement, he grabs her cone and replaces it with his, then jumps up and dunks her ice cream into the nearest bin before walking away toward the sea wall with his hands behind his head.
She shoots me a sympathetic look. “He hasn’t gotten any less touchy, has he?” Licking his cone, she trots after him. I watch them stand side by side at the wall, talking.
