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“No. I haven’t gone in weeks.” Months, if I calculate it properly. I hadn’t realised it’d been so long.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I guess. I was crap, but it was fun.” My shoulders fall. “I can’t go, though, because Lucas goes.”
“Will it really be that bad? You live with him, after all.”
“I don’t want to see him more than I have to.” Although, if I go, Lucas will probably maintain a distance of fifty meters from me. And it’s not like we play in the same groups. He’s in intermediate, and I’m in beginner.
“Just give it a try,” Jemima says. “Trust me. The best way to make yourself feel better isn’t to do stuff that’s simply fun. You need to do stuff that makes you feel good.”
“Feel good?” I echo. Like what, masturbating? I haven’t used my toys since before Cleo ghosted me. It’s as if I’ve totally lost my sex drive.
That’s another thing that should feel good: sex. Should I go out and hookup with someone random? That seems to be the course of action in movies. What’s the term again — rebounding?
But even the prospect of chatting up a random makes me feel exhausted. I have no desire to have sex with a random, and even if I did, I know it won’t feel as good as the time with Lucas —
I slam the brakes on that train of thought. No. Nope. Not going there.
“Things that make you feel good about yourself,” Jemima clarifies. “You need to remind yourself of how awesome you are.”
“That is so cheesy,” I say. And I’m not even remotely awesome.
“It may be cheesy, but it’s the truth. I’m older than you, which means I know everything in the universe.” Jemima finishes off the rest of her drink. “Speaking of doing good deeds, how ‘bout you go and pick up the cheque?”
I stare at her. “Are you kidding me?” I deadpan.
She laughs. “Sorry. I’m joking! Of course, I’m joking. Jeez.” She stands up and goes to the counter to pay.
*
I take Jemima’s advice and go to volleyball, even if part of my motivation is to prove Jemima wrong. Unfortunately, she’s right — I do have fun. Everyone in the beginner group cheerfully greets me, and I’m surprised they remember me. Afterwards, my thighs burn since it’s been so long since I’ve squatted down to receive, but beneath the ache is a satisfaction. Who would’ve guessed? Exercise actually does make you feel better.
It’s the end of the session, and I’m sitting on a plastic chair, sculling water, when the coach for the beginner’s group walks over. Chelsea’s a PhD student who towers above me, but she’s a really friendly and encouraging person. I’m glad our group has her, compared to the gigantic men with booming voices who coach the intermediate and advanced groups. Once, I saw the intermediate coach bellow at Lucas, “What are you doing? That was yours!” If I was on the receiving end of that, I’d turn bright red and possibly never come back again. But Lucas just smiled easily and said, “Sorry, my bad.”
Anyway, Chelsea tells me that the volleyball club’s holding a clinic for primary school kids over the weekend and they’re looking for volunteers to help out.
“But I’m not even good at volleyball,” I say.
“That’s fine,” Chelsea says. “I’ll be in charge of everything, I just need some extra hands in running drills. All you’ll need to do is set some balls and possibly ref some games at the end.”
“I’m happy to do it,” I say. “Really. But my setting isn’t that good.”
“I’ve seen you, and you’ll be perfectly fine. What do you say? If nothing else, you can put this on your resume. Hell, I’ll even be your referee if you need it.”
I can’t think of a good reason to protest, so I shrug. “Okay, yeah. I’ll do it.”
“Great!” Chelsea gives me a double thumbs up. “We’re holding it here on Saturday from four to seven. Bring what you usually bring. And thanks for agreeing, Charlie, I really appreciate it.”
*
Saturday comes, and as I walk from the tram stop to the stadium, I catch myself humming along to the music playing in my earphones. Am I actually excited to help kids play volleyball?
When I arrive at the stadium, I spot Chelsea setting up a net with two other volunteers — one girl is from the beginner group, and the other girl belongs to the intermediate group, I’m pretty sure.
“Hey Charlie! Thanks for making it,” Chelsea says, flashing me a smile as she adjusts the height of the net pole. The other two girls are adjusting the other one. “We’re just setting up — would you be able to go to the storeroom and grab another net? We’re going to have three courts in total.”
“Sure,” I say, dumping my bag and water bottle on one of the plastic seats by the sidelines, then head for the storeroom.
