Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

  • CHAPTER 16 •

  I used to count time in days: thirty days till the start of football season; fourteen days till the rent is due; three days till I run out of clean underwear and have to do laundry. But now it drags out in minutes, ticking by slowly in my head: I know how many minutes it’s been since Ryan’s last sweet good morning text, or the last kiss we stole in the supply closet, or the last time he came home with me after practice and we stayed up until 2 a.m., trading stories over a bottle of red wine. I had forgotten how sweet it is to let yourself fall for someone. I can’t help but replay our hookup when I’m washing my hair in the shower, and I snap to attention when I hear his name in the gym. I feel giddy whenever his texts pop up on my phone. On Tuesday night, I was so distracted that I forgot I had brussels sprouts in the oven until the smoke detector jarred me out of my daydreams.

  It’s nearly six thousand minutes later—four days—when Sara comes to Summit to give Hallie a private yoga lesson. Between Sara’s work schedule and Hallie’s training plans, Friday is the best day; it also happens to be Valentine’s Day, although I don’t dare fixate on that. It’s too soon into whatever this thing with Ryan is to celebrate the holiday in any real way.

  Sara was thrilled when I asked if she would work with Hallie. Without breaking Hallie’s trust in me, I told Sara as much as I could—that Hallie is having a tough time in the months leading up to the Olympic Trials, and now more than ever, she needs to reduce her stress and build her confidence. Sara said it would be an honor to help her. And once I told her about what happened with me and Ryan on Monday night, she was doubly excited to come to the gym. I made her promise to play it cool in front of him, especially when Hallie is around.

  “Since we’re not telling her about us,” I explained to Sara. “Because, you know, the whole point is to reduce stress, not add to it.”

  “Got it,” Sara said. “I promise not to gawk.”

  Of course, the moment she saw Ryan at Summit on Friday afternoon, she gawked.

  “He’s so cute,” she mouthed dramatically the first moment his back was turned.

  I take Sara, Hallie, and Ryan upstairs, where there’s a dance studio and a party room for children’s birthdays. I flick on the lights, illuminating the wooden floors and ballet barres installed against a mirrored wall. Sara sets out the two yoga mats and a pile of foam blocks. Hallie stands with her back to the mirror and one hip jutting out, her arms crossed skeptically over her chest.

  “Sara and I are roommates, and she’s a great teacher,” I tell Hallie, trying to warm her up to the idea.

  When I suggested yoga to Hallie, she had balked at the idea. Even after relenting to one private lesson, she still wasn’t thrilled to try it.

  “Have you ever done yoga before?” Sara asks Hallie.

  Her voice has an extra drop of honey in it. It’s clear that Sara recognizes this is not exactly Hallie’s idea.

  “Yeah, once, back in middle school gym class, before I got a tutor,” Hallie says flatly.

  I can practically read her mind: This is exercise?

  “I didn’t really like it,” Hallie adds, as if she can make this lesson disappear just with the sheer force of her surliest teenage attitude.

  “Well, this will be totally different,” Sara says cheerfully. “Look, I’m not some weirdo old gym teacher who wears basketball shorts with tube socks.”

  It’s a good point: Sara’s wearing matching leggings and a cropped tank top in a pink, orange, and purple ombré that reminds me of the sunset. She looks visibly, recognizably strong, and this seems to soften Hallie to her slightly.

  “I guess,” Hallie says, tilting her head.

  “Here, why don’t you do the honors of picking today’s playlist?” Sara offers, handing Hallie her phone.

  “Cool,” Hallie says swiftly, nodding.

  She starts to scroll through Sara’s Spotify.

  Sara gives me a bemused glance, as if to say, Look. We’ll be fine.

  “Um, guys? This is a private lesson,” Sara says to me and Ryan, pointing to the two mats on the floor. “I promise I’ll return her in one piece once the hour’s up.”

  “Right, right, we’ll be going,” Ryan says.

  “Yeah, we’ll go… somewhere,” I say, scrambling to temper my voice so I don’t sound too thrilled by the prospect of a free hour with Ryan in front of Hallie.

  “See you soon… and have fun,” Sara says.

  I follow Ryan down the stairs to the first floor, but when we reach the lobby, neither of us has anywhere to be. He looks blankly toward the gym, then the office.

  He steals a glance toward the parking lot. “We could get out of here.”

  “We can’t!”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and gives me an irresistibly flirty grin. “Who’d notice?”

  “What if Hallie needs us?” I point out.

  The dimple in his cheek winks at me, which I find makes it somehow harder to focus on making good decisions. “I bet you’ve never broken the rules here in your life,” he says.

  He’s right. The pressure of these four walls somehow makes me feel like a hardworking kid again, terrified to break a rule, lest Dimitri see me.

  “Okay, let’s get out of here,” I agree, pushing open the building’s front door, not bothering to even grab my coat.

  I bounce down the steps to the parking lot. The gym is on a mostly isolated stretch of road, neighbored by a nondescript office building on one side and thickets of pine trees on all others. Even if we wanted to walk into the town center, it would take longer than the journey would be worth. Ryan catches up to me, jangling his car keys.

  “I didn’t think you’d actually say yes,” he says.

  “I can break a rule or two,” I insist.

  “Reliving your LA wild-child days?” he teases.

  Ryan unlocks his car, and I get inside.

  “Where to?” he asks, flipping on my seat heater, then turning the radio to his favorite classic rock station.

  “Um…”

  Greenwood is small and boring. Growing up here, if I wasn’t at school or in the gym, my only real hobby was trawling CVS for Bonne Bell Lip Smackers and issues of Seventeen.

  “Come on, you grew up here, you must know somewhere,” he prods.

  “Let’s go to Lolly’s,” I decide.

  “I don’t know it,” he says.

  “You don’t know Lolly’s? Best chai latte in the world?”

  He shakes his head. “In the world? I mean, that’s a pretty high bar. I don’t know if you want to set my expectations there—”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I give him directions, and ten minutes later, we’re inside the tiny café. I haven’t been here in a decade, but the peeling floral wallpaper, chintzy armchairs by the brick fireplace, chalkboard menu, and gently piped-in soft rock songs from the easy-listening station are exactly how I remember them. Lolly herself is still behind the counter, though her once-dark hair is now mostly streaked with gray. She’s wearing a floral apron and does a double take when she sees me.

  “Avery, is that you?” she yelps, coming around the counter to give me a hug.

  “Hi!” I greet her, suddenly feeling squeezed by the surprising strength of her embrace.

  “I haven’t seen you in, gosh, what, a million years? Where’s Jasmine?” she asks.

  Ryan cocks his head.

  “This used to be my spot with Jasmine on cheat days,” I explain. “We’d ask for extra whipped cream on the chai lattes and sit here for hours in front of the fireplace.”

  “The best kids hogged the best seats in the house,” Lolly tells Ryan. “Not that I minded, of course.”

  “I didn’t know you were that close with Jasmine,” he says to me.

  “Those two? My god. Matching orders, matching outfits, all the way down to the matching scrunchies.” She turns to me. “How is she these days? I don’t see much of her, either.”

  “Oh, Jasmine?” I ask, stalling for time. Someho
w, telling Lolly that I don’t see much of her either feels like I’d be letting her down. I give her a big, plastered-on smile. “She’s great. Has a big job. Married. The whole nine yards, all great.”

  “And you two?” Lolly says, gesturing between me and Ryan.

  I try not to look too alarmed. “Oh, no, we’re not married!” I say, maybe a hair too loudly. “We, uh, work together.”

  “I see,” Lolly says coyly. “Well, you two look very nice together. What can I get you?”

  Ryan follows my lead and orders a chai latte with extra whipped cream. While he pays Lolly for the drinks, I examine the framed newspaper clippings hung by the door. They’re slightly yellowed with age, but I remember the thrill I got the day the first one was hung. Lolly saved the Boston Globe clippings announcing that two local girls were on their way to the Olympic Trials. Jasmine and I skipped the sugary drinks that day and asked for plain tea; Lolly, who had the round, soft body you’d expect from a woman who made baked goods for a living, had rolled her eyes and told us to live a little. “This is us living,” I remember telling her, pointing to the newspaper clipping.

  The story isn’t long, but it features a black-and-white photo of me and Jasmine, frozen at nineteen years old, with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders. The date on the framed article feels so far away—a lifetime ago. Next to it, there’s a bigger framed article, the paper’s front-page story from the day Jasmine returned home from London. There’s a larger, color photo of her by herself with a pile of Olympic medals splayed out across her chest. I wonder what the younger version of myself would say if she saw me here now, lying to Lolly about Jasmine, Ryan trailing behind me, out on a furtive break from Summit. I don’t think she’d understand how I got into this situation at all.

  Ryan sets down the chai lattes on the table between the armchairs, then comes up behind me. He’s quiet for a moment, reading the two framed clippings.

  “Ah, I see,” he says. “You took me here just so I don’t forget you’re a hometown hero.”

  “I brought you to a place I loved,” I correct him. Sass floods my voice. “And, uh, was a hometown hero. Once upon a time. Not so much anymore.”

  Jasmine’s photo floats in my peripheral vision, and I try to block it out.

  “Your hometown must be the same way, no?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Men’s gymnastics isn’t so much of a big thing. People at home thought it was cool I made the Olympics, but they didn’t… I don’t know, ‘crown’ me, the way they crowned the women’s gymnastics team.”

  He makes air quotes around the word, and I understand exactly what he means. I wonder if he felt bitter about it, too.

  “So it’s not just me?” I say, almost embarrassed that I want him to agree and confirm how I feel.

  There are times I’ve wondered if Jasmine’s success only looms so large for me because of how tight we were and how close I came to having it, too. I can’t see her clearly because of who she is, who we were together. I’m fairly sure she’s still a household name. But time makes fame evaporate; maybe her star has cooled long enough that now she’s just a regular person again, the kind of former athlete who can make it through her hometown’s grocery store without being stopped in aisles four and seven for autographs. But somehow I doubt that.

  “Look,” Ryan sighs, kissing my forehead. “Forget about Jasmine for now. Let’s drink these lattes you love so much.”

  We sink into the armchairs by the fireplace. There’s something different about the steaming beverages in the ceramic mugs, but it takes me a moment to figure it out. A heavy sprinkle of cinnamon forms a pristine heart on top of the whipped cream, and there’s a heart-shaped chocolate bonbon on the side of my saucer. I spin around; Lolly is watching us.

  “I may have whipped up a little something,” she says.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day?” he says hopefully, like he’s waiting for my approval.

  I’ve felt like the most gooey, starry-eyed version of myself all week, but this pushes me even further over the edge. The gesture is just sweet enough without feeling too serious.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I say, beaming.

  He exhales, relieved, and leans across the table to give me a kiss. I feel warm and golden, and I know that has nothing to do with the glow of the fireplace.

  “I know this is probably the tiniest Valentine’s Day gesture ever, but I didn’t want to go too overboard,” he explains.

  “No, no, anything else would’ve been too much,” I agree. “This is perfect.”

  “Okay, cool. A lot of the guys I know complain about Valentine’s Day, like it’s such a hassle to do something nice for the person you’re with, or like it’s somehow less special to do flowers or dinner on a holiday. But that seems so backward to me.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “If someone makes you happy, why not celebrate that?” he asks, blushing like he’s just realized how vulnerable he sounds. He clears his throat and looks away from me. “Anyway, this is just a tiny way for me to say that this week has been amazing. That’s all.”

  I try not to fixate on his words: Happy. Amazing. They make my stomach flutter in the best way.

  “Just so you know, I didn’t get you anything,” I say apologetically. “And now I feel bad.”

  “Come on, don’t feel bad,” he says, taking my hand in his. “I came up with this on the spot, and it took two seconds. And anyway, your gift to me is introducing me to this place.”

  He sips slowly from his latte, considering it. I taste mine carefully, letting the beverage dribble out from under the cloud of whipped cream so as not to disturb the cinnamon heart. It’s fragrant and flavorful.

  “Yeah, it’s official,” he says. “You’re right. This is delicious.”

  “I told you! I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

  “Now I finally trust you.”

  “What, like months of working together didn’t earn that?”

  “This sealed the deal.”

  Chatting in front of the crackling fireplace, nestled into the coziest spot in town, I feel at home in a way I never did in LA. It’s not hard to imagine endless winter afternoons curled up in these armchairs with Ryan. It would be so easy, so satisfying, so comfortable. I’ve learned my lesson already: I know it’s not smart to get lost in giddy feelings, daydreaming about a future with a man who might someday break my heart. I don’t want to repeat that mistake. But for whatever reason, things with Ryan feel different. I don’t worry about losing my spark around him.

  Ryan glances at the clock hanging above the cash register. His face falls.

  “We probably have to get going,” he says.

  We drain the last of the lattes, and I savor the sweet, spicy dregs at the bottom of the mug. I hug Lolly goodbye, and she makes us promise to come back before another ten years slip by.

  “Because let’s face it, honey, I’m not getting any younger,” she says, sighing. “And anyway, I like him. Keep him around.”

  Ryan laughs lightly and reassures Lolly he’ll come by for another latte soon.

  On the ride back to Summit, I point out landmarks—not Greenwood’s most notable spots, necessarily, but the places that marked my childhood here: my elementary school, the sushi spot my family likes to go for birthdays and anniversaries, the house where I attended my first and last boy-girl party growing up. The town looks extra sleepy in the winter. White and gray Colonial homes match the pale sky and dingy snowbanks; the trees are bare and skeletal. Inside the car, though, it feels like summer. Ryan drives one-handed with his fingers laced through mine in my lap as a Bruce Springsteen song blares from the radio.

  We slip into the gym with three minutes to spare. Ryan heads into the office, while I sit at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Sara to finish Hallie’s lesson. I hear the Tibetan singing bowl, then silence, and finally, a few murmured words. I can’t make out what Hallie and Sara are saying, but when they appear in the staircase a minute later, Hallie h
as a pleasantly dazed look on her face.

  “How’d it go?” I ask.

  She passes me on the staircase, and I notice that her typically excellent posture has a new ease to it, like she’s gliding.

  “That was actually pretty chill,” she says.

  “Huh, imagine that,” I say, resisting the urge to gloat further.

  “Thanks for having me in,” Sara says, more to me than to Hallie.

  “Maybe you’ll come back again next week?” Hallie asks.

  Sara and I exchange glances.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” I say.

  • CHAPTER 17 •

  I do dumb things when I’m falling in love. That’s what I think for the entirety of the forty-five minutes I spend in the front seat of Ryan’s car on Saturday night, nearly nauseous with nerves, as he drives us to Dimitri and Jasmine’s house for a cocktail party in honor of my former coach’s fiftieth birthday. When Ryan asked me earlier that week if I’d be his date for the night, he told me that if it was too awkward given my strained relationship with Jasmine, I could skip it. But oh, no. I told him it’d be fine. I think I might have even said it’d be fun. It was like my brain had entirely evacuated my body: I wanted to spend a night out with Ryan, so I said yes. It was that simple. Even though I haven’t seen Jasmine since her twentieth birthday or Dimitri since the 2012 Olympic Trials.

  Their house is in a tony suburb, tucked away from the street at the end of a long driveway that winds through looming clusters of pine trees. We park at the end of a row of cars adorned with bumper stickers of gymnasts performing handstands and splits. I smooth down the front of the dress I borrowed from Mom last night when I realized that nothing in my closet could magically make me look three sizes smaller and eight times more confident than I currently am. The dress is rich purple, with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a skirt that skims easily over my hips and thighs. If it were any other night, I’d feel pretty in it.

  My heart races as we make our way to the front door. I wonder if Dimitri and Jasmine know that I’m Ryan’s date. I wonder if they think about me at all anymore. I mentally review what I’m going to say to them, which boils down to polite but not overly enthusiastic compliments about their home and a few casual comments about how my life is amazing, my job is fantastic, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and everything is actually perfect, thank you very much. My palms are slick and clammy. I pull my hand away from Ryan’s to wipe it on my dress.