She takes her position under the high bar. Ryan grabs her by her waist, and she jumps; he helps her reach the bar. She does a move called a kip to swing up so the wooden equipment is flush against her hips, then screws up her face in a look of pure concentration before launching into a handstand, giant, and finally, a Tkatchev followed swiftly by a Pak Salto. Her compact body flings over one bar, then between the two, and it’s magnificent. Once the final move is complete, her knees bend, and her shoulders sag into a relaxed swing. She knows she’s nailed it. She drops down and jogs over to my spot on the mat to watch the playback.
“I look pretty good, right?” she muses.
“You do,” I admit. “I’ll text this to you.”
“Thanks!” she says. “Okay, now I can head out. I just wanted to nail it once.”
She strips off her grips and heads across the gym to pack up for the night. Ryan jumps up to the high bar himself, swings back and forth, and drops back down to the mat.
“You leaving, too?” he asks.
I shrug. “I mean, I guess? My new roommate, Sara, invited me to another yoga class tonight, but I told her practice might run late.”
“We never run late,” he points out.
“Yoga seems boring. But I can’t tell her that,” I say.
He laughs. “Gotcha.”
Ryan meanders around the bars and leans against one of the silver poles holding up the apparatus.
“So, if you’re not doing anything, then, would you want to get dinner?” he asks. He clears his throat and hastily adds, “As friends.”
If only he knew how I regret saying that I only wanted friendship.
“Yeah, let’s do that,” I say. “It’ll be cool to catch up outside the gym again.”
“Yeah? Awesome. Maybe a bite at Stonehearth Pizza?”
I know the place. Wood-fired pizza with surprisingly healthy toppings, which is a plus, but brightly lit and full of kids—less than ideal.
“I was actually planning to cook tonight. I could make us dinner?”
Too late, I realize that inviting Ryan over might feel too intimate.
“You love to cook, I love to eat,” he says, like the decision has been made.
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
“Perfect.”
“Cool, I’m just gonna go grab my coat from the office, then,” he says.
As we walk together from the bars to the door, I try to pretend that everything is fine and normal, and that I haven’t spent the past two weeks wishing for another opportunity to spend time alone with him. When I duck into the changing room to pick up my parka and purse, I spend an extra thirty seconds fixing my ponytail and putting on a coat of mascara from the tube I find in the bottom of my bag. This is not a date, I remind myself as I lacquer up my eyelashes.
I find Ryan in the lobby, leaning against the wall and looking at his phone. There’s something casually intimate about the way he waits for me; it’s something Tyler did when I met him after football practice. But I can’t let myself think that way.
“Hey,” he says, straightening up when he sees me. “I was thinking I can follow you in my car?”
“Sure thing. Let’s go.”
He tails me across town, and I try not to look back at his reflection in my rearview mirror too often. I also refrain from turning on the radio, in case he gets an embarrassing glimpse of me bopping my head along to the music. I try to remember exactly how messy the apartment was when I left this morning. I don’t think there are any random bras tossed over the arm of the couch, but I could be wrong.
I meet him in my driveway, and we climb the stairs to my apartment together. This is not a date, I remind myself, as I unlock my front door and usher a handsome, funny gentleman inside. This is my first time inviting a guest over to my new apartment, and it’s a little nerve-wracking. I distract myself by babbling to Ryan about the tortellini soup recipe I was planning to try out tonight.
“So, it’s actually a good thing you’re here, because it was so much soup to make for just one person,” I explain.
“Glad to hear I’m good for something,” he says.
I sift through my fridge and cabinets, picking out the right ingredients to make the dinner. Cooking will keep me busy in front of Ryan, which is a relief because it’s jarring to see him sit on one of the yellow bar stools in my kitchen, watching me work.
“Hey, do you want some wine?” I ask.
I hope he’ll say yes, so I can have some, too. It’ll take the edge off.
“Yeah, I could do a glass,” he says.
I find a bottle of red wine in the cabinet and give us each a generous pour. The first sip is so flavorful, that alone calms me down a notch.
There’s a lull in the conversation as I start to peel and chop an onion. The apartment feels quiet without Sara here.
“Can I help?” he asks. “I’m no chef, but I can follow instructions if you tell me what to do.”
I consider the recipe. “Do you think you’re up for the challenge of chopping celery?”
He nods. I hand one to him along with a knife and a cutting board, and we get to work side by side at the kitchen table. Our knives thwack rhythmically into our respective vegetables, and I realize again that I don’t know what to say that will strike the right balance between friendly and polite.
Ryan clears his throat. “Hallie was great today,” he says. “Clean, on point.”
I’m both relieved and disappointed that he brought up work. It’s easy, safe territory—I don’t have to worry about accidentally saying anything unprofessional or inappropriately personal. But on the other hand, well, it’s work. I don’t want to be just his coworker.
“Cheers to that,” I say, raising my wineglass.
He clinks his to mine. “Cheers. Seriously. Let’s just hope she keeps up the good work,” he says, sighing.
“I’m sure she will,” I say. “You’re a great coach.”
“I do all right,” he says, shrugging. “But you had Dimitri. The best. I’m jealous.”
“You’re jealous I had him?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice full of awe. “He’s a legend. I tried for years to get him to take me on, but he only coaches women’s gymnastics. What was he like?”
“Tough,” I say honestly, moving on to mince a clove of garlic. “Really brutally tough. I like your style better.”
“Really?” He looks skeptical.
“Oh, one hundred percent. Hallie loves you. Dimitri was… intense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Eh, I don’t want to get into it. Let’s just put it this way: he had insanely high expectations, and it was impossible to meet them all.”
“Huh. I’m sorry to hear you had a hard time with him.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say again, using a tone that I hope will shut down the subject. I stand up to start cooking the veggies in a pot on the stove. “I’m fine.”
Luckily, Ryan doesn’t keep digging.
“Coaching’s really the only thing I’m qualified for at this point, so I better make the most of it.”
“You went to college, though—what did you study?” I ask.
“I majored in business so I could always have the option of starting my own gym, if I wanted to,” he explains. “But I don’t think I was the most dedicated student. I went to school on a gymnastics scholarship, and that was mostly what I cared about.”
“Would you really open your own gym?” I ask.
“Maybe far in the future. But for now, I’ve realized I’d be happier coaching than doing anything else, and you don’t need a degree to do that—just experience, and obviously, these incredible muscles.”
“Modest,” I observe dryly.
“It’s one of my best qualities,” he jokes. “How long were you in college for?”
“Only a year and a half.”
He snaps his fingers. “That expla
ins it all, then.”
“What?”
“Why you’re so terrible at beer pong,” he says, eyes sparkling with pure delight at delivering a playful burn. “Most people get a full four years to practice.”
“Oh, very funny,” I say, pursing my lips and pretending to be annoyed. “As I recall, we won that game. Mostly because of you, but still. We won.”
“True, true. So, why’d you leave school?”
My answer tumbles out before I can second-guess myself. “I was completely, totally, and majorly depressed. And also, I partied too much to ever make it to class.”
He lets out a low whistle. “That got dark fast.”
I wince. “Too dark?”
“Nah, it’s good to be honest,” he says. “Sorry you went through that.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say.
I shrug and turn my attention to the pot on the stove so I don’t have to see what I assume is a look of pity. But when I look back at Ryan, he doesn’t look like he pities me at all. He nods in a way that makes me think he understands.
“You spend all this time obsessively focused on this one thing, and it becomes your whole identity, and then it’s gone,” he says quietly. “And then it’s like, well, what now?”
“Exactly,” I say, relishing in the fact that he gets it.
“But you’re doing all right now?” he asks.
“Kind of the best I’ve been in a long time, actually,” I say, suddenly realizing just how true that is. “You?”
“Yeah, it’s all good,” he says.
This time, Ryan raises his glass and clinks it against mine.
“Well, cheers to that,” I say.
I want to say something more, to come up with a clever idea to toast to, but I get tongue-tied when he makes eye contact over our drinks. Instead, I finish making the soup and ladle it into two bowls. I’m pleased with how it turned out—savory, hearty, bursting with flavor. It’s a simple meal, but Ryan seems impressed.
“This beats Stonehearth, hands down,” he says appreciatively, scooping up a tortellini with his spoon.
Over dinner, Ryan regales me with stories from his travels. Years of competing across states and countries sparked his love of seeing new places, and now he saves up for as many trips as he can.
“Next up, obviously, I’m saving to do a trip around Asia after Tokyo—if Hallie makes it to Tokyo, of course,” he explains. “You ever been?”
“No, I haven’t,” I admit. “What’s been your favorite trip so far?”
He thinks for a moment. “Traveling for gymnastics is always cool, but you don’t get tons of time to actually explore or indulge in great food, so… hmm. I guess my favorite would be the summer that Goose and I backpacked across Europe together.”
I wish I had done something like that.
“And obviously, we saw some of the best beaches in the world,” he says.
“Why obviously?” I ask. “I’d think that would be, like, the Caribbean.”
He leans in closer and stage-whispers, “Nude beaches.”
“You perv!” I squeal. The wine has definitely started to go to my head.
He holds up his hands in protest. “Hey, I’m just a man.”
“I don’t know if I could ever do that,” I muse.
“What, go to a nude beach?” he asks.
“Yeah. I mean, maybe years ago, when I was in shape, but certainly not now.”
He raises an eyebrow, then looks down in intense concentration at his bowl.
“What?” I ask.
He sips his soup. “You could go,” he says, coyly glancing up at me.
“Did you strip down?” I ask.
“When in Rome…” he replies.
I feel precariously close to the edge of saying something stupidly flirty, so I shove a tortellini into my mouth to keep myself from speaking. Discussing nude beaches makes me wonder what Ryan looks like naked, which is absolutely the very last thing I should be doing.
We linger after we finish eating. He tells stories about what Hallie was like when he first met her (apparently, “tiny, furiously hardworking, adorably wholesome, and too energetic”—or in other words, exactly like she is today). We go off on tangents about gymnasts we competed alongside a decade ago, musing about the few in the public eye today and the majority who faded into quiet lives. We try to gauge where we fall on the spectrum, and jokingly agree to not let the fame go to our heads.
Ryan runs a finger around the rim of his empty wineglass, and his mouth screws up to the side.
“What?” I ask.
“I was going to suggest another glass, but that’s probably not the wisest idea if I have to drive out of here,” he says.
“True,” I say.
“But this was fun,” he says, suddenly serious. “I mean it. I’m glad we did this.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“Let me pay you for half the groceries and wine,” he says, reaching for his wallet.
“Oh, no, no,” I protest. “I was going to make all this, anyway.”
“Avery, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” he says.
“No, really, I can’t let you pay for this,” I insist.
“Fine,” he says heavily. “But next time, I’ll win.”
“Oh, next time?” I retort. “We’ll see about that.”
I like that we can match each other in competitive spirit.
“And in the meantime, let me help you clean this up,” he offers.
“Now, that, I can accept.”
We spend a few minutes clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. He takes the most annoying task, hand-washing the pots, of his own volition. For a split second, the rhythm of cooking and cleaning together reminds me of living with Tyler, and I forget that Ryan isn’t my boyfriend. I feel a dull sense of loneliness, thinking ahead to the rest of the night, once he’s gone. It only gets worse once the kitchen is clean and he grabs his coat from the hook by the door.
“I’ll walk you to your car?” I offer, lingering by the couch, suddenly feeling shy.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “It’s cold.”
“I don’t mind,” I insist.
It’s January in New England, which means that getting ready to head out the door requires serious effort: jackets zipped, scarves wound, gloves tugged on. Outside, it’s pitch-black. The driveway is only partly lit by the golden glow of a street lamp. By the time we reach Ryan’s car, parked behind mine, I’m not ready for the night to end. There’s an easy comfort between us—a type of intimacy that only grows between two people who have lived the same kind of life. Ryan reaches for his car door. I don’t overthink what comes next; it just happens.
I lean forward and I kiss him. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. He kisses me back, slipping an arm around my waist, and bracing us both with a hand against the car window. His lips are soft, and his embrace is sturdy and strong. There’s a warmth radiating from him, even on this frigid night, and I like the way I fit in his arms. I could stay here happily forever, even if it’s freezing, even if we shouldn’t be doing this.
And then, suddenly, he pulls back. He pushes off the car and shoves his hands into his pockets. Even his eyes flicker away from mine. Without him hovering over me, I feel cold and exposed.
“Avery,” he says softly. “We’ve talked about this. We know it’s not a good idea.”
I’m shocked by how much his rejection hurts. It’s embarrassing to have to be reminded that my past self made a responsible decision that my present self is too emotional or tipsy or lonely to adhere to.
“I… I’m sorry, I just…” I stammer.
The easy banter over dinner, the fuss over paying for groceries, the comfort of cleaning up side by side—maybe this wasn’t technically supposed to be a date, but it sure felt like one. And what happened next was simply a natural extension of the night. Wasn’t it? I sigh, and in the cold, my breath becomes a visible cloud.
“I just thought that maybe you wan
ted this, too,” I say.
He gives me a sad look that makes my entire body feel weighed down with two-ton anchors.
“So you don’t want this,” I clarify.
It’s mortifying to say that out loud, but he has to understand how he made me feel tonight. I want him to recognize that he made me feel like there was possibility blooming between us again.
“I’ve really thought this through since New Year’s Eve, and as much as I wanted this to work between us, you were right—it’s just not a smart idea for us to jump into anything,” he says.
I hate that he’s using my own words against me. I’m afraid if I protest, my voice will come out thin and whiny, like I’m begging for his affection.
“Oh,” I manage to squeak out, feeling very small.
He sighs. “I don’t want to push you away.”
“Right. I know we talked about being just friends,” I admit. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line, then.”
He looks down at his feet and doesn’t say anything. I can feel whatever sliver of a chance of us being together evaporating, and it makes me feel frantic with desperation.
“Do you feel like there’s something between us?” I blurt out. “Because I do. I’d be lying if I pretended otherwise.”
“I…” He trails off and rubs his jaw. I’m overcome by a desire to kiss that spot, but I refrain. “I do. Of course I do, Avery. Come on. You’re beautiful, and so unbelievably strong, and I feel so at home talking to you. I like that we’re cut from the same cloth: competitive, hardworking, goal-oriented. It’s rare to find someone like that who also has room in their life for someone else.”
Against my better judgment, a thrill runs through my body. My brain feels like a jumble of confetti and trumpets and parades. And then I notice the way his voice lilts downward at the end, like there’s a “but” coming. My heart races and then skids to a stop.
Sure enough, he starts with, “But—”
I have to cut him off. “Here’s the thing, Ryan. Whether or not it’s convenient, or whether or not it’s a good idea, I can’t just walk away from the fact that being around you makes me happier than I’ve felt in a long time.”
I sound ten times braver than I feel. It’s terrifying to be so honest with him, but I’m in too deep now to turn around. I have to keep going—I owe it to myself to at least try to win Ryan over. I take a deep breath and barrel on.
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