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“I like you,” he declares.
Zoey
After a delicious and entertaining breakfast with Morris’s brothers, we continue our tour of Balsam Ridge.
It’s such a little gem, tucked into the mountains of Tennessee. So close to the bigger cities of Knoxville and Gatlinburg, but far enough away to feel like an escape.
“It must have been awesome, growing up in this valley,” I say as we stroll down the sidewalk of Main Street.
“It was. Especially with my parents and grandparents. Pop and Granddad kept us boys busy. We were either fishing, swimming, or in a boat or kayak on the river; hiking or riding bikes or four-wheelers on the mountain; or camping or playing ball.”
“I didn’t really get much of a childhood. I felt disconnected from the world. It seems like from the time I could walk, I’ve been working toward a career. I’ve always been a square peg, trying to fit in a round hole. God, that sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud,” I say.
“No, it doesn’t. That’s what it takes to be a true athlete. Especially an Olympic athlete,” he says.
“Almost Olympic athlete,” I correct.
“Right.”
I missed a lot. All of the normal rites of passage for girls—friendships, sleepovers, school football games, and dances. Even my brother had to miss out on a lot of things because of my training. It wasn’t fair. I felt this enormous pressure to succeed at all costs because of those sacrifices.
“It was nice of you to give up your Saturday to show me around. I feel like I’ve slipped through a wormhole back in time. This place is more than a small town; it’s a time capsule. A girl could get lost here,” I tell him.
“Is that why you’re here? To get lost?” he asks. “Or maybe to hide?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not hiding. I’m here to heal.”
“Heal?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I admit.
“Can I ask you a serious question?” he asks.
I turn my head to him as we fall into step together.
“You can, but I don’t know if I can answer it,” I respond.
“Did you do it on purpose?”
“Do what?” I ask.
“Fall. At the trials, when you tore up your knee. I watched the footage last night, and you were on point. When you went airborne, it looked like you turned in on the jump. Which doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why are you watching a nine-year-old video?” I ask.
“Because I couldn’t sleep last night and I was curious, so I Googled your name, and it was the first thing that popped up,” he explains.
I raise a suspicious eyebrow. “Morris Tuttle, are you admitting to cyberstalking me like a sixteen-year-old girl with a crush?” I tease.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” he quips.
I sigh. “What do you want me to say? Sometimes, you make mistakes,” I start.
“Not you. Not that mistake,” he pushes.
I turn forward and decide how much I want to admit.
“Ever heard of a Freudian slip?” I ask.
