Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

  Now, in his hotel room, I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to produce any explanation that makes sense. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I join him reluctantly. My heart pounds. I just want this conversation to be over with.

  “I think this is a mistake,” I tell him plainly. “Dimitri would crush Hallie. You see how rudely he treats me, don’t you? He’ll be ten times worse to her, day in, day out. He’ll yell at her if she doesn’t perform up to his insanely high standards of perfection, and then he’ll scream at her if she dares to cry or fight back. He’ll call her cruel names. He’ll make her keep a diary of everything she eats and he’ll review it once a week while she stands on a scale in a leotard. He’ll punish her for gaining half a pound. He’ll isolate her from her friends. Ryan, I know you think he’s a legend, but he’s a nightmare.”

  Ryan bites his lip and shakes his head. I can’t tell if it’s in disbelief or disagreement.

  “I’m sorry that you grew up like that,” he says in a strained voice. “I really, really am. Please don’t get me wrong. He must have changed—he’s not like that anymore.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I say firmly. “And anyway, it’s not worth the risk. Girls who train with him don’t grow up to have healthy, normal lives.”

  “Well, look at you,” Ryan says, shrugging. “You turned out fine.”

  “Exactly! Look at me,” I say. “It’s been a long road to feeling remotely okay.”

  It’s increasingly impossible not to shout. It feels like a match just caught fire in my chest. I ignite with anger. I’ve seethed silently about this in the past, but I’ve never let it all out before.

  “Since I moved back to Greenwood, I’ve finally, slowly, just barely started to cobble together a real, adult life that I’m proud of,” I explain. “A lot of that has to do with working with you. But I am twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven! It took me the better part of a decade to get here. I was reeling. I had no education, no ambition, no goals, no full-time job. That’s not me. That’s not who I was supposed to be. For years, my life just… stalled. And I couldn’t get back on track.”

  “You can’t blame that all on Dimitri,” Ryan says softly.

  “He’s certainly not innocent. He pushes people down so they can’t get up,” I fire back. “And look at Jasmine. He broke her down so hard, she never left. He’s despicable.”

  “Kaminsky’s despicable. Dimitri’s just tough,” Ryan says.

  “I’m telling you, what you’re doing is just plain wrong,” I argue. “No decent person would do this.”

  “I’m not feeding Hallie to the wolves, Avery,” Ryan says. “I’ll be there with her. I’ll protect her.”

  “Does Hallie know you’re doing this? Do her parents?” I ask.

  He sighs. His face contorts, but I can’t tell if it’s with guilt or exasperation.

  “We’ve been talking about it for weeks,” he admits. “I didn’t include you in the discussions because I knew you would never work with Dimitri.”

  My anger blooms into rage, then betrayal.

  “And when did you think you’d tell me?” I ask. My voice breaks. “I’m not just your coworker. This isn’t about you ditching your job. I’m your girlfriend, Ryan. You’re supposed to tell me things, not go behind my back.”

  He sighs. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my plans sooner.”

  I shake my head. I’m too overwhelmed to speak. What is there to say? I don’t recognize the person I’m arguing with.

  “I feel so stupid,” I say finally.

  “Why?” he asks.

  I shudder and the words slip out before I can register what I’m saying.

  “Because this whole time that I’ve been falling in love with you, you’ve been keeping secrets from me.”

  Ryan bites his lip. His eyes search mine for a long time.

  “I… I didn’t know,” he says. “That you felt that way,” he clarifies.

  I look away, cheeks burning hot. There’s a painful, stretched-out silence. I wait for him to say those words back to me. If he loves me back, he won’t take the job. He’ll make things right. But he doesn’t say a word. I feel tears threatening to well up and a painful lump building in my throat, but I know I won’t cry. It’s a skill I learned long ago, honed so Dimitri would never see me more vulnerable than I could handle. The irony of it all feels bitter. I clear my throat.

  “Please don’t take the job,” I say. “That’s all I can say. That’s the only thing left to say.”

  I rise from the bed. I can’t stand being close to him right now.

  “Avery, I’m sorry,” he says. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t really believe Dimitri’s changed. He’s a legend. He’s going to make Hallie a star.”

  “Do you want her to be star? Or do you want him to make you a star coach? You’ll leave me and Summit behind in the dust.”

  “I’d take you with me, if you wanted to come,” he offers.

  “Right, sure, because that’s ideal: working alongside an emotionally abusive asshole and the guy who doesn’t love me,” I snap. “Sounds great.”

  He leaps up from the bed. “I didn’t say I didn’t love you,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. “Do you?” I ask. “Do you love me?”

  He wavers for a moment, like he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t.

  “We’re done,” I say, walking quickly to the door so he can’t see the tears springing to my eyes for real this time. “We’re over.”

  I turn the door handle hard and storm out, hurrying toward my room at the opposite end. I wait for the sound of him chasing after me, begging me to change my mind. But there’s nothing except the cool hiss of Ryan’s door as it eases shut behind me.

  • CHAPTER 22 •

  The day after I get home from the National Championships, needing a distraction, I text Sara and entice her to be home at seven for one of the most exquisite meals I have under my belt: seared scallops on a bed of fresh corn and roasted hazelnuts, swirled in a creamy, paprika-infused brown butter sauce. Scallops cost a breathtaking twenty-four dollars per pound at the grocery store, and their soft, delicate white bellies make them tricky to cook without charring the skin and leaving the insides raw. In other words, don’t bother attempting to make them unless you know what you’re doing and have a reason to splurge. I’m making a pound and a half of them tonight because I want to feel talented and productive and like myself again as I recount the story of my breakup to Sara. I lost sight of who I am over the course of my relationship with Tyler; I need to prove to myself that I haven’t forgotten that again while dating Ryan.

  I’ve unloaded the groceries and preheated the oven when Sara walks in and drops her yoga mat by the door. She taught a class tonight, so wisps of blond hair frizz up from her topknot, and her cheeks glow pink. It’s true that teaching yoga isn’t as physically taxing as doing it, or so she tells me, but she’s still one of those girls who never sweats. As a person who spent a good chunk of her teenage years sweating on national television, I’m jealous.

  “You’re officially my favorite person, do you know that?” she says, taking in the paper-wrapped scallops and the ears of corn. “This looks amazing.”

  “Thanks, but save your compliments for when you taste it,” I say. “Hey, do me a favor? Will you shuck the corn?”

  “Sure thing. Looks fancy. What’s the occasion?” she asks.

  I look up carefully from the paprika I’m measuring. “Ryan and I broke up,” I say.

  Sara gasps and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry,” she says, hugging me.

  “Well, technically, I broke up with him,” I add. “We had a fight, and…”

  I press my lips together into a tight smile so they don’t tremble. I can’t let myself cry again—not now, not after I’ve spent the better part of the last two nights crying myself to sleep. It feels important to add the technicality that I was the one to break off the relationship. I can’t stomach being the girl who get
s dumped twice in six months.

  Sara sinks into the kitchen chair next to mine, and while I slide the chopped hazelnuts into the oven and pat each scallop dry with a paper towel, I recount what happened. I don’t have to litigate Dimitri’s wrongdoings for her; I say he was emotionally and verbally abusive, and she understands.

  “The most embarrassing part is that when we were arguing, I accidentally told Ryan I was falling in love with him,” I say.

  As mortifying as that was in the moment, I discover the humiliation feels just as fresh recounting it the next day. Sara visibly cringes.

  “Did he say it back?” she asks.

  “Nope,” I reply. “If he had, maybe things would’ve gone pretty differently.”

  “Do you really love him?” she asks.

  I sigh. The question sounds deceptively simple—yes or no. But there are too many other emotions swirling through my head right now to make sense of the situation: sadness, anger, embarrassment, shame, regret.

  “I guess I’m just confused,” I say, puzzling through the thoughts out loud. “I thought I loved him. But the way he’s acting? Going behind my back, taking that job, not listening to what I’m saying about it? That makes me question who he really is.”

  The realization stings.

  “I’m really sorry he let you down,” Sara says softly. “He should’ve believed you.”

  “That’s what’s so weird about it, though! He was devastated over what Hallie went through. He believes all the other gymnasts who have come forward about Kaminsky—it’s not that he’s one of those men’s rights activists who’s all about guys being innocent until proven guilty. He’s always cared. Just not now.”

  “Maybe because now, this issue is personal for him? It’s about his career, which means he’s not thinking as clearly as he should?” Sara guesses.

  I groan at how infuriating the situation is and drizzle olive oil into a hot skillet. I gently place the scallops one by one, listening to the sizzle as they bathe in oil. Cooking scallops looks intimidating, but it really all comes down to precise timing and skill—just like gymnastics. Not that I ever really want to think about gymnastics ever again, especially not right now.

  “And then, ugh, the next day, we had to fly back from Miami together,” I say. “Me, Ryan, and Hallie, all in one row.”

  “That really blows.”

  “Yeah, sitting between my secret ex and a kid who’s mourning the potential end of her athletic career for three hours was a real treat.”

  “How’s Hallie doing?” Sara asks.

  I shrug and flip the scallops. “Not great,” I say. “Her confidence is shot, she’s stressed beyond belief, she’s frantic that she’ll fail at Trials.”

  “Yikes,” Sara says.

  I finish the recipe, mixing bright yellow kernels of corn with the rich, slippery sauce, and plating it carefully all together so it looks like a real gourmet treat. I turn around and I’m just about to set Sara’s plate in front of her, when she makes a sour face.

  “What?” I ask.

  She bites her lip and slides her phone across the table toward me.

  “I hate to show you this, but this just popped up on my feed, and I think you should see it,” she says, wincing.

  The screen is filled with Ryan’s most recent Instagram, a photo of him I must have missed. His arms are slung around Dimitri and Jasmine’s shoulders, and his satisfied smile gives me goose bumps. Dimitri looks the same as always—gruff, like he’s only posing to humor them. I search Jasmine’s face for clues, but she’s wearing that blankly beautiful newscaster look again. It’s impossible to tell what thoughts are running through her head. The background of the photo looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it until I spot the glint of medals against the wall behind them—it’s Dimitri and Jasmine’s house. They’re cozy enough to do dinner at home together now, I guess.

  “I can’t believe I have to work with him for months,” I say, groaning.

  It’s late March; Trials are at the tail end of June, with the Olympics stretching from late July through early August.

  “You gotta focus on Hallie? Forget about him?” Sara says. I think she means it like a statement, but the absurdity of working on a three-person team with your ex for months is too much, even for her. “Channel your energy into the right places, block out the distractions, all that kind of stuff.”

  I try not to grimace, but right now, I need something a little stronger than yoga. There’s half a bottle of red wine left corked on the counter, although it feels like a bad omen to pour a glass from it: Ryan and I opened it together last week. But the only other drink with a buzz to it is Sara’s home-brewed kombucha, so wine it is. Fittingly, the flavor has turned bitter. I drink it anyway.

  “It’s just not fair,” I say, pushing away my plate of scallops.

  Tears prick at my eyes. I inhale deeply to calm myself down, but it doesn’t really work.

  “I want to be strong about this,” I say. “I don’t want to let this drama with Ryan get to me. I h-h-hate that I’m the kind of person who gets so thrown off course by stupid, dumb feelings.”

  My shoulders start to shake with gentle sobs, and I wish I could disappear into a black hole. I don’t want Sara to see me like this. It’s embarrassing to lose your shit over a guy you’ve only dated for a handful of months, especially when Sara met me shortly after a breakup with a different guy. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s a duck, right? And if I look like a boy-crazy mess, well…

  “Avery, you’ve got to give yourself a break,” Sara says, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “It’s okay to feel sad. Breakups are sad! That doesn’t make you weak.”

  “Ryan’s not sad. He’s ‘networking,’ ” I say, making vicious air quotes.

  “He posted one picture,” Sara says gently. “That doesn’t tell you what he’s really feeling on the inside.”

  I nudge a scallop with my fork. I wish I could know what he was thinking: if he believes what I said about Dimitri; if he regrets not chasing after me; if he’s wondering how I’m doing right now, the same way I’m wondering about him. I miss him, even though I know I shouldn’t. He crossed a line, and he was wrong—I feel this on a cellular level—but the only comfort I crave is a hug in his sturdy arms. It strikes me as heartbreakingly unfair that the one person who would lift my spirits best is also the person who crushed them.

  I want Ryan to stroke my hair and whisper apologies into my ear and promise me he’ll take my word more seriously next time. I need him to tell me he cares as deeply for Hallie as I do, and that he wants to protect her and girls like her, no matter what the cost, even if it means his career doesn’t zoom up the ladder as quickly as he’d hope. I took it for granted that I could trust him. Now I realize I shouldn’t have.

  “Sweetie, it’s going to be okay,” Sara promises.

  She tries to catch my gaze, and because I don’t want to ruin her night, too, I let her.

  I muster up enough energy to pretend like her advice is helpful. “Right,” I say.

  “Let’s eat,” she suggests. “Dinner looks incredible.”

  But I’ve lost my appetite.

  APRIL 2020

  • CHAPTER 23 •

  I’m in a terrible mood. I’m fifteen minutes late to practice because I couldn’t overcome the overwhelming dread of getting out of bed. The sight of Ryan’s spare blue toothbrush in my bathroom made me crumple. I don’t want to face him, but calling in sick would be worse.

  I stride across the lobby, past the life-sized cutout of Hallie, beyond the poster with my face hanging dustily from a forgotten spot on the rafters, onto the floor. Ryan is chatting with another coach. His shoulders are hunched, and he leans his chin onto his fist as he talks; from the awkwardly self-conscious way he speaks, I’d bet anything that he’s discussing Nationals, even though I’m out of earshot. Once he notices me approaching, he shifts ever so subtly. He straightens up and clears his throat. He gives a small nod of recognition in m
y direction but doesn’t pause to say hello. The way he brushes me off looks so subtle to an outsider, but it stings because it’s light-years away from his attitude toward me even just a few days ago. I can’t believe I said that I was falling in love with him and was met with silence.

  Hallie’s not here yet. I cruise to the water fountain just to have something to do. I lean against a low practice bar and look at my phone to kill time, but I can’t fully relax. The energy in the gym is all wrong. I can feel Ryan not even halfway across the room. Most of the kid gymnasts are too young or too casual about the sport to have understood the full ramifications of Hallie’s performance at Nationals—if they’re even aware a competition took place, they probably think it’s cool that she went at all—but the older, elite-track girls understand. So do their parents. Especially their parents, the ones who watch Hallie as if she’s a weather vane that can evaluate the gym’s worthiness and predict their own daughters’ success.

  Hallie slinks into the gym ten minutes later with her tracksuit hood shielding half her face and quietly settles down in an empty corner of the floor to warm up. I head over to greet her, but she barely looks at me. Ryan joins us, squatting down to Hallie’s level on the floor and giving me a respectable amount of space. Luckily, Hallie is so caught up in her own morose world that I doubt she’ll even notice the tension between me and him.

  “Actually, I’m just gonna warm up by myself, if you don’t mind,” Hallie says, slipping her AirPods into her ears and shutting us out.

  This isn’t like her. She hasn’t been her typically energetic, goofy, fun-loving self since before Nationals. This isn’t good.

  “Okay,” I say uncertainly.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready for conditioning, okay?” Ryan asks.

  She gives a curt nod, slides into a wide straddle, and slumps forward so her cheek rests against the floor. Sometimes, coaches will sit behind a gymnast in a straddle and press her down flatter into the floor for a better stretch; all I want to do is give her a hug. I hate seeing her so sad like this.