Ryan heaves the golden knocker—of course it’s gold—against the door. Jasmine opens the door and trills an eager “Hello!” She beams at Ryan first. When she registers who I am, her face freezes. For a terrifying moment, she falls silent. But then, just as she was trained to do, she snaps back into action.
“Avery?!” she squeals. “Come here, oh my god. It’s been, what, how many years?”
She delivers an enthusiastic air-kiss and half a hug while balancing a precariously full cocktail.
“Hi,” I manage. “It’s so good to see you again.”
She steps back, ushering us into her home. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, and it sounds like the truth. “This is amazing.”
The house reminds me of my parents’ place. It’s not decorated in the same style—Jasmine and Dimitri’s tastes seem more modern and eclectic—but it’s full of the kinds of odds and ends that older people accumulate over a lifetime. There’s an expensive-looking credenza in the foyer that holds a single orchid in a hand-thrown pot and an unusual, abstract painting illuminated by a pair of matching silver sconces.
Jasmine shuts the door behind her. Clad in a figure-hugging black sheath, snakeskin stilettos, and the perfect hair and makeup she wears on TV, she looks foreign to me, like my old best friend is acting out a role in a play. She takes our coats and leads us into the kitchen, where a cluster of Dimitri’s friends congregate around the marble island set up as a bar. I can hear Jasmine explaining the three custom cocktails they’re serving that night, but I can’t focus on listening to their ingredients at all, because the crowd of guests shifts, and that’s when I see Dimitri.
It’s unnerving to see him dressed up in a charcoal-gray sports jacket and tie. He looks older, too, with more pronounced lines settling into his forehead and a cleanly shaven head. His dark, beady eyes and bristling mustache are exactly the same as I remember. He’s talking and laughing with a man about his own age while measuring a shot of vodka he pours into a shiny silver martini shaker. His voice booms above the chatter of the party, or maybe my ear is still tuned to listen for it, even all these years later.
“Dimitri,” Jasmine calls across the kitchen.
He doesn’t hear her.
She rises ever so slightly on her toes and lifts her chin, as if to repeat herself, but thinks better of it and settles back down. It’s almost as if she’s nervous—like he’s still the coach and we’re his athletes. She winds her way around the kitchen, stilettos clicking against the hardwood floor, and touches him softly on the arm.
“Look who’s here, babe,” she says, gesturing at us.
He looks up, and then I see it: a grimace, a glint of disgust. He presses his lips into a tight line, and that’s almost scarier. I’m a split second away from grabbing Ryan’s hand and whispering that this was all a mistake, that we should just go home, when Ryan waves enthusiastically.
“Hey, happy birthday!” he says, leaving my side to go shake Dimitri’s hand. “Thanks for having us. I really appreciate the invitation.”
Dimitri sets down the martini shaker, wipes his hands on a dish towel, and smoothly meets Ryan halfway. He shakes his hand slowly.
“This is your date?” he says.
His Russian accent has faded slightly.
Ryan nods and looks pleased, like he’s proud to have brought me. “Yes, sir.”
“I know her well,” Dimitri says. He turns to me and holds out his hand. “Come.”
My body’s first response is to start moving, and I loathe how very deeply his training has been ingrained in me. I do my best to stand tall and not break eye contact. I don’t want to look like a little girl that he can order around anymore. I lift my chin and give Dimitri my firmest handshake.
“Happy birthday. It’s great to see you again,” I say, straining to offer him a polite smile.
He steps back and lifts my hand, as if he expects me to twirl, and looks me up and down.
“Great to see you,” he echoes. “There’s so much more of you to see now.”
He shoots Ryan a mocking wink, as if he expects Ryan to comment on my weight. I drop Dimitri’s hand, but resist the urge to shrink from him. I don’t dare glance back at Ryan for support. I can stand up for myself.
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I say.
I pull myself up to my fullest height. In heeled leather boots, I’m an inch taller than he is, and I want him to remember it.
“And you haven’t lost your sass,” he retorts. He turns to Ryan and adds, “You must have your hands full with her, no?”
“Avery’s an amazing coach,” Ryan says.
“Wait, you work together?” Jasmine interjects, glancing from me to Ryan. “I thought Avery was your date?”
“Uh…” Ryan stalls and turns to me for guidance.
“We, um, yes,” I fumble. “I’m Ryan’s assistant coach at Summit, and I’m also here as his date.”
Jasmine wraps her arm around Dimitri’s midsection and leans her head on his shoulder. “Aw, another gymnastics power couple, just like me and my babe,” she coos.
She looks at him adoringly and presses a kiss to his cheek. I look away; to me, that relationship will always seem wrong.
“Power? How many gold medals between the two of you?” Dimitri asks. He gestures to the living room, and when I turn, I see a wall studded with medals and trophies. “Let’s count them up and compare, and then we can talk.”
He’s not joking. He’s keeping score.
The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension in the room.
“I’ll get it,” Dimitri says quietly. “Jasmine, make sure our guests have drinks.”
As he passes us, he ignores me and gives Ryan a respectful nod.
Jasmine takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her hips. “Drinks?” she asks.
“Please,” I say.
I glance at the cocktail menu she must have printed up. The names could not be more painstakingly chosen: there’s a whiskey-based drink named the Olympia, a wine spritzer garnished with a sprig of jasmine called the Jasmine Fizz, and a twist on the Moscow Mule dubbed the Moscow Man. I choose the Jasmine Fizz by process of elimination—it’s the least humiliating option to order. Ryan opts for the Moscow Man, and I wonder if he chose it out of deference to our host. Jasmine steps back to the kitchen island to mix our drinks, leaving us alone.
“That was intense,” Ryan mutters to me.
“That’s Dimitri for you,” I respond.
He raises his eyebrows and nods heavily. “I can’t believe I’m actually here at his house.”
“Their house,” I correct, glancing at Jasmine.
I’ve known about their relationship for six years now, ever since they started dating, but that hasn’t made seeing them together any less jarring.
“Are things… weird? Between you and Dimitri?” Ryan asks quietly.
I don’t respond right away. I look carefully at Ryan, taking in his hopeful expression, his serious, dark eyes, and the tense way his shoulders are set. Despite Dimitri’s behavior, I know Ryan idolizes him. I could spoil his impression of him in just a few words, but it seems cruel.
“He was disappointed in me,” I say finally. “He wanted me to be an Olympic champion, and when I didn’t make it…”
The memory comes flooding back. I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head, as if I can dislodge the reminder of that painful summer.
“He was done with me,” I say. “He didn’t check in on me. He took Jasmine to the Olympics and never turned back to see if I was okay.”
I can’t bring myself to tell Ryan about his abusive coaching style, or the way I still hear his taunts about my body every time I look in the mirror, or the fear I felt just now, trying not to flinch in front of this man who used to make me quiver. Not here. Not now.
But Ryan grimaces anyway. The way Dimitri dismissed me is enough to cause him to furrow his brow and sympathetically squeeze my shoulder. He knows how close a gymnast and coach
can be; I’m sure he can imagine how awful that rejection felt.
Jasmine sidles up to us with the two drinks.
“Cheers!” she declares, clinking her own Jasmine Fizz to mine.
Ryan joins in the toast, and she peppers him with questions about his work, gushes about how much she misses Summit, and joyfully accepts his invitation to come by sometime. I linger by his side, feeling suddenly like the third wheel. I try to snap out of this tense, dark mood and match her level of enthusiasm, but it seems impossible. Jasmine wears her peppy persona like a second skin. I know she’s not really like this. The megawatt smile, the relentlessly upbeat energy—back when we were close, she turned it on for the judges; now, she does it on TV. I’m curious if she lives fully like this now, hiding her sensitive soul, her nervous side, and her darkly funny jokes from Dimitri, smoothing out her quirks until she’s a flat reflection of whatever he wants her to be. She always did know how to perform.
“I don’t mean to keep you, Ryan,” she says, touching him lightly on the arm. “I know you’re here to socialize with the other coaches. Why don’t you go off and enjoy? Avery and I can catch up.”
My stomach drops. Ryan glances at me inquisitively, and I have no choice but to grin back at him.
“Go,” I say.
He looks uncertain, but leaves my side to join in on a nearby conversation with three stocky men. Jasmine and I each take a long sip of our drinks. I don’t think either one of us knows what to say.
“So,” she says.
“So,” I respond, searching for the right words.
I have seven years of burning questions for Jasmine, and none of them are appropriate cocktail party fodder. Do you realize that you got everything I ever wanted? How did you end up married to that monster? Are you even happy?
“I don’t mean to stare, I’m sorry,” she says, blinking, embarrassed. “It’s just, wow. It’s still so surreal that you’re here.”
“I only moved back a few months ago,” I explain.
“From LA, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, LA,” I confirm. “I came back for this coaching opportunity. It was just too good to pass up.”
She never has to know the truth.
“So, are you two, like, a thing now?” Her eyes dart in his direction.
I wish I had thought to hammer out a joint answer to this question with Ryan before we walked in the door. I don’t want to say yes, only to have him find out and think I’m overestimating his feelings for me. It’s not like we’ve had the What are we? talk yet. But downplaying my situation with Ryan doesn’t feel right, either. I settle for a purposefully coy sip of my drink.
“Oh my god,” she says, dropping her voice down to a whispered squeal and clutching my arm. “This is nuts, isn’t it? After all these years? We always thought he was so cute.”
For a split second, I forget everything, and we’re just teenagers again, best friends, teammates. We were so close, we were each other’s designated Butt Glue Girl—we’d take turns applying the roll-on adhesive just under the edges of our leotards before competitions so we wouldn’t get uncomfortably distracting wedgies in the middle of routines. I’ve never really understood flashbacks before, but this one comes roaring back with full clarity. And then the moment is over, and I get the ice-cold sensation that Dimitri is watching me, and I duck my head down. I remember to speak quietly and control myself.
“It’s very sweet how this has all come full circle,” I manage to say. “And you? You and Dimitri? I still can’t believe it.”
The enthusiasm on her face flickers before she catches herself. “I know. Isn’t it funny how life works out?”
“I had no idea you were even into him back then,” I admit.
I feel bold saying it, daring her to acknowledge how bizarre her relationship appears to be.
“Oh,” she says, blushing. “Well, nothing happened until I was a little bit older, obviously. You had already moved by then. And it just…”
Her gaze drifts over my shoulder toward her husband, and she loses focus.
“Made sense,” she says finally.
There’s another flicker of emotion on her face, but then it disappears without a trace. I think about the way we used to play Fuck, Marry, Kill while stretching at practice, and how Dimitri was too old and weird to be put on the list, even as a joke. We seriously weighed the pros and cons of Kevin Federline, and Tom, the gym’s janitor, and even Alexei, a gymnast with a gross rattail we saw at competitions. But Dimitri? Not even once. I cannot fathom one single thing about Dimitri and Jasmine that makes sense.
She looks at me brightly again. “Do you want a tour of the house?”
As she leads me through the home she shares with a man old enough to register for an AARP card, the man who once—when she was twelve years old—poked the side of her bottom left exposed by her leotard, observed it jiggling, and told her to “watch it with the cookies,” I feel increasingly disturbed. She shows off the new velvet throw pillows meticulously arranged on the white bed in the master bedroom, and the monogrammed towels hanging in the en suite bathroom. She chirps about the gorgeous natural sunlight in the home office, though I realize neither of them works from home, and tosses a wink when we enter the guest room, or as she calls it, “someday, a baby’s room.” She does this all while traipsing three or four steps in front of me, far enough away that we never have to face each other. The tour is so tightly packed with minuscule details about where she purchased this rug, or why she deliberated over that paint color, that there is simply no room for me to interject and ask what the fuck is going on.
When the tour concludes on the first floor, Jasmine offers to refresh my drink, which I accept. The minute the glass is full, I find Ryan on the couch in the living room. He lights up when he sees me, scooting to the left and patting the space next to him so that I’ll take a seat. He drops away from the conversation with the other two men in the living room.
“You’ll never guess what Dimitri said to me while you were with Jasmine,” he says, excitement straining through his hushed tone.
I rack my brain and feel a slow sinking feeling in my gut; nothing good could come of this conversation.
“He offered me a job,” he says, beaming.
“At Powerhouse?” I ask.
“It would start this fall, after the Olympics. I could bring Hallie—she’s young enough that she could train for 2024, and Dimitri and I could train her together,” he explains. “I mean, think about it: more resources, better facilities, working with Dimitri Federov.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” I say.
Ryan’s face falls slightly.
“I mean, wow. That’s a lot,” I continue, rushing to switch to a more congratulatory tone.
“I’m really excited,” he says. “I can’t believe he wants to work with me.”
“What would Hallie’s parents think?” I ask, trying to find a hole to poke in this plan.
“I don’t know exactly, I’d have to talk to them,” he says. The lilt in his voice makes me realize he hasn’t thought through this part yet at all. “I can’t see why they’d turn down Dimitri. True, Powerhouse is slightly more expensive than Summit, but not by much, and it’s literally the best training center in the world. So.”
He smiles as if to say, That’s that.
“If you leave Summit, who else would train her?” I wonder out loud.
He shrugs. “Well, you’d still be at Summit, wouldn’t you?”
Training her on floor is already intense—I’m not sure if I’d be confident enough to tack on beam, bars, and vault, too. And anyway, the Conways probably wouldn’t trust me to pull that off. So if Ryan leaves and Hallie really does want to train for 2024, the Conways would probably follow him. And that means I’d be left behind.
Ryan sips from his drink and stares off into the distance. It’s clear that mentally, he’s no longer here at this party—he’s in Tokyo, watching Hallie climb the podium; he’s at Powerhouse, working as his idol’s
right-hand man; he’s fast-forwarding decades ahead to when he’s the most respected coach in the entire sport, just like Dimitri is now.
I have to tell him the truth.
“I just…” I say, lowering my voice to a notch above a whisper. “I think you should really consider this before you say yes. I don’t think working with Dimitri is the right move—not for you, and definitely not for Hallie.”
I wish he would understand without making me say it.
“Let’s head out?” I suggest.
He kisses my temple and rises to stand. “We’ve barely been here an hour. Let’s stay for a little while longer, cool?”
I hesitate. I don’t know what else to say. “Cool.”
* * *
We mill around. An older couple asks if I “used to be Dimitri’s girl,” and I have no choice but to nod—Yep, that’s me. Dimitri’s girl. I get a third drink, just to have something to do instead of watch Ryan laugh at Dimitri’s jokes. Finally, he comes to find me in the kitchen.
“You wanna get going?” he asks, touching my arm.
“Yeah,” I say, tamping down the instinct to add, Let’s get out of here.
I rustle up fake warmth to say goodbye to Jasmine and Dimitri. Jasmine insists that we must get together for drinks soon. Dimitri nods silently and stoically at me, then shakes Ryan’s hand.
“We’ll talk,” Dimitri says smoothly.
Ryan looks beatific.
In the car ride back to Greenwood, Ryan invites me to stay over at his place, but I ask him to drop me off at my apartment instead. I turn on the radio, but he turns it off a few seconds later. It’s quiet, with just the hum of the engine to keep us company.
“You don’t seem all that happy about Dimitri’s job offer,” he observes.
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