by Gina Azzi
“Hey, Rodriguez.”
“Maura, good to see you!”
“Hey, how was your summer?”
My teammates, the girls I’ve spent the last three years learning from, improving with, confiding in, envelop me in hugs and high fives. I smile when I’m supposed to, ask the right questions, crack jokes like usual, but it doesn’t feel right. These days nothing does.
“You good, girl?” Valerie, our stroke seat, asks gently.
I smile widely. “Yeah, ready to get the season started!” I throw an arm around her neck. “But I totally dropped the ball on conditioning,” I whisper.
She laughs. “Me too. These next few weeks are gonna be brutal.”
I nod.
“At least we’re in it together.” She taps my back with her open palm.
“Yeah,” I agree.
And in the past it was true. These girls and I, we were always in it together. Whatever “it” was. I could count on them and they could lean on me and we would sort it out together. But now they wouldn’t, could never understand. And so we’re not in “it” together. I’m all alone, floating out in the choppy, destructive, dangerous waters of the open sea, half-hoping I don’t drown, half-praying I do.
Fifteen minutes later our boat is rigged, and we’re back on the water, our oars slicing through the river, our bodies bending in sync. As if we never left. As if nothing has changed. As if the finale of last season, Adrian’s death, never occurred.
Just like that, the season has started.
And my heart’s too damaged to care.
* * *
The first week of training shreds my palms, causes my back muscles to tighten and spasm, makes my legs burn. I’m so sore I can hardly move, collapsing into bed each night, too exhausted to think, too beat to dream. And for that I’m grateful, because the only thing worse than dreaming about Adrian’s death, waking with my heart in my throat and tear stains on my pillowcase, is dreaming about Adrian’s life, waking up hopeful and happy only to remember. And then I have to search out the clammy claws of numbness all over again. These days I can only seem to find it at the bottom of a wine bottle or underneath Hector’s sweaty frame.
For the first time in a long time, rowing seems like a gift again and not a prison sentence shackling me to memories of Adrian.
SEPTEMBER
Chapter Nine
Zack
The start of the season is always tough. Physically, it’s debilitating. Mentally, it’s exhausting. Emotionally, well, you have to dig deep. Still, after each practice, each session in the gym, even each study hall, there’s a sense of satisfaction. A feeling of contentment. But this year all of it is just painful.
Leaving the library on Monday afternoon, I head toward my next class, Urban Housing. The lawn stretching the length of the quad is green and perfectly manicured. Students lounge in the grass lazily, snacking on chips and chocolate bars, reading textbooks, napping in the sun. It’s important to soak up the good weather before the snare of winter. Colorful Frisbees sail, vintage hacky sacks jump, laughter and chatter swirl. I used to always be in the thick of it. Adrian and me. Man, did we have fun just kicking it on the quad, picking up girls, playing random games, hanging in between classes. Now I can’t wait to reach the Architecture building just so I won’t have to see the smiling students, the suave guys feeding lines to suntanned girls. The past. Suddenly, I’m that out of place, faltering eighteen-year-old I was the start of freshman year.
“Zack!” My name cuts through the air, and I stop reluctantly to wait for whoever is trailing me.
I turn, pasting a smile on my face.
It’s Lauren.
She looks beautiful, her long hair pulled back from her face, a sundress skimming her toned thighs, her pink toenails winking with each step. Just two weeks ago, those toned thighs wrapped around my waist, her hair scattering across my pillow and her toenails curling into my bedsheets.
My smile turns genuine.
“Hey, babe.” The endearment falls from my lips as naturally as the sun rising.
Lauren’s cheeks blush. God, was she always so cute? So sweet? So innocent? “Hi. Where’re you heading?” She falls into step beside me.
I slip my arm around her waist, my fingertips stroking her flat stomach. “Got class. Urban Housing with Kowalski. You?”
“Organic Chemistry.” Her mouth twists. “I’m going to fail.”
I laugh, pulling her closer into my side. She still fits perfectly. “You’re not going to fail. It’s still September. You’ve got plenty of time to make up for the B you probably got on the one and only quiz you’ve taken so far.”
She looks up at me in surprise. “How’d you know?”
I shake my head. “’Cause I know you.”
She sighs, snuggling closer, her hand catching the back of my shirt, her fingers twisting the material. “True.”
I pat her hip reassuringly as we reach the Architecture building. “This is me.”
She nods, taking a small step back as I release my hold on her. “Zack, I …” She fiddles with the pendant on her necklace: two interlinking hearts I gave her at the end of sophomore year. A nervous habit.
“What is it?”
“I miss you.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide with a hint of insecurity, the corners of her mouth turning up into a small smile. “I miss us.”
I take a step toward her, my fingers catching the ends of her hair. She still smells a bit like cinnamon. She always loved baking, even though you’d never know by her thin frame and taut stomach. I nod, unsure of what to say. Sure, I miss her sometimes. She’s the sweetest, kindest, most genuine person I know. And when she reached out in the wake of Adrian’s passing, I shut her down. Hard.
But now, with her standing before me, the vulnerability in her eyes cutting into me with such love and care and trust, I want to go back to sophomore year when everything seemed easy and carefree and fun.
I want to go back to before.
“Me too,” I tell her, and I mean it. “How about we go for dinner tomorrow night? You still obsessed with sushi?”
She lets out a small breath, her relief evident as she smiles widely. Lauren’s always been easy to read, always wearing her heart on her sleeve. “I’d love to,” she says, popping onto her toes to place a kiss on my cheek. “Sushi sounds perfect.”
I nod, the touch of her lips tingling against my skin. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00 PM.”
“I’ll be ready.” She smiles again, gripping my forearm lightly. “See you tomorrow, Zack.”
“Later, babe.”
Turning into the Architecture building, I locate my classroom and slide behind a desk thirty seconds before Kowalski introduces himself. The whole lecture, my thoughts ping-pong between the cinnamon sweetness of Lauren and the sexy spice of Maura.
* * *
“Nice work today.” Philips, our captain, tosses over his shoulder as we walk back into the boathouse.
“Thanks, man. You too.” I stretch my arms overhead and try not to wince at the soreness rippling down my spine, cutting into my ribcage.
“I mean it. The boat finally feels lighter.” He shakes his head. “Not like it was but it’s getting there,” he murmurs quietly.
Not like it was. Because Adrian is gone. And nothing is like it was.
I nod stiffly. “Yeah.”
Philips smiles weakly. He was close with Adrian too. Sometimes I forget that Adrian’s death affected the whole team. Not just me. Even though I’m the only one who could have prevented it.
“Heard you’re hanging with Lauren again,” he comments casually.
“Who’d you hear that from?”
Philips shrugs. “Marissa and I are having a party on Friday. Nothing crazy. Just wine and cheese or whatever.” He smiles sheepishly. The guy is already practically engaged. “You guys should come.”
I shrug. “Cool, man. We’ll see.”
He nods. “Catch you later, then.”
“’Bye.” I s
houlder my duffel bag and start walking back to my SUV.
There is already talk of me and Lauren. Not totally shocking but still surprising as I’ve seen her twice since school started. Lauren probably said something to Marissa; the two were always friendly, sitting with each other at all our regattas, driving together to the away races. And again, that old familiarity, reliving what once was, is comforting.
Chapter Ten
Maura
The scotch is strong and smooth as it coats my throat. I hold the glass in my hand casually, watch as the single ice cube slowly melts. Until last month, I’d never had scotch before in my life; now it’s a weekly vice. At least for this week.
“It’s from Scotland,” the guy sitting across from me says. His hair is dark. He leaves it long. It’s the type of hair a girl can run her fingers through, hold on to. Kind of like Zack’s.
I blush without meaning to. Where the hell did that thought pop up from?
Dismissing it, I run my eyes over the guy I’m talking to instead. Even though he dresses young and casual in dark-washed jeans and a black button-down, I know he’s pushing forty. He blinks steadily behind thick-framed glasses. I wonder if he wears them because he needs them or just ironically, cashing in on a passing fad? His eyes watch me closely, taking in every detail.
I nod, as if his words mean something to me.
They don’t.
“It’s smooth,” I say instead.
A ghost of a smile shadows his lips as he continues to watch me intently, his gaze slowly perusing my body, pausing at my chest. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. So typical. Instead, I arch my back farther, pushing my boobs out so he can appreciate them in all their glory. The desire that heats his eyes doesn’t disappoint and encourages me to move this exchange along.
“Are you in Philly for business or pleasure?” It comes out like a purr. I almost roll my eyes at myself, my mind wandering back to just one year ago when Emma and Lila had to push me to approach a guy at the bar, had to coach me on what to say, how to act. Sometimes it surprises me that I’ve perfected this persona in such a short amount of time. If I wasn’t so desperate to feel nothing, I might feel proud.
His eyebrows arch. “Business.” His eyes travel back to my face. “But I’m not above mixing the two.”
I smile slowly. “Good.”
“I’m at the Rittenhouse. Room 112.” He slides a key card across the table. What type of business does a guy like him have in Philadelphia that has him staying at the Rittenhouse? I’m about to ask but really why bother? It’s not like I care. Tapping the card twice, his fingers stray from the table to caress the inside of my wrist. “Join me.” It’s not a question, it’s a command. A demand.
An unexpected spark of excitement runs through me. A thrill.
Finally, a feeling I can bear. It’s one that usually precedes emptiness.
“I’d love to.” I palm the card, slipping it into my clutch.
“Good.” He leans back in his chair and picks up his scotch. A thick wedding band winks from his left finger.
I pretend not to see it. And I know he will remove it before we make it to his hotel room. In the short amount of time I’ve been picking up complete strangers for the night, usually preferring the ease of Hector, I’ve already learned that the married men always remove their wedding rings.
Sometimes denial can be incredibly pleasurable.
* * *
“Rodriguez! Are you okay?” Kay Hillard, our team captain, asks as she peers down over the tops of her sunglasses. Her eyes narrow, a mixture of concern and frustration swimming in their hazel depths.
“Fine.” Clearing my throat noisily, I attempt a smile, a nod at nonchalance, at faking it. My head throbs, my heartbeat pounding in my temples. Too much wine. And freaking scotch. “I’m fine.” My go-to words these days: I’m fine, everything’s fine, it’s fine.
“You don’t look fine.” Amber Mason throws in as she expertly braids her hair, fastening the end with a silver hair tie.
I cut her a look but quickly rearrange my features; it’s best not to show a reaction. Any reaction. I wave my hand dismissively. “Just getting over a cold. Really,” I add brightly. Too brightly. “I’m fine.”
Kay nods her head curtly, but she doesn’t look convinced. Clapping her hands twice, she manages to secure the attention of the other girls in the varsity eight, and we all form a half moon around her. “How did today feel?” she asks the group.
Valerie shakes her head. “Something’s off with the start. We’re too slow.”
Our coxswain, Amanda Stevens, nods in agreement. The rest of the girls chime in with their thoughts, their opinions. Everyone but me.
I’m too busy thinking about last night, too distracted remembering the way his hands felt on my skin. The way he trailed his fingertips up my ribcage with purpose, intent, peeling my shirt off in the process. The way he kissed my neck, his lips pressed against my clavicle, his breath tickling my cheek. How he sounded panting in my ear, begging me for more, begging me. He had a fallen angel tattoo on his left shoulder blade, and he smelled like soap and whisky. Like a man. Like all the men.
“Rodriguez.” Kay’s voice snaps me back to the present.
I look up. “Yeah?”
“Do you have anything to add?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She sighs and I hear all the words she’s not saying: What the fuck is wrong with you? But after a hard look, Kay turns to listen to Valerie’s additional suggestions about our start. Our varsity eight boat is currently ranked number two in the US. For most of us it’s our senior year, our last season to row, to compete, to be number one. And everyone, especially Kay Hillard, is one thousand percent committed to making this season—our final season—our best yet.
I wish I cared. I used to care. I used to care more than anyone. Even more than Kay Hillard. Turning my heavy sigh into a cough, I recall the way his fingers felt digging into my scalp, tugging hard at my hair.
I peek at my FitBit to check the time. 7:38 AM. Practice should be wrapping up any minute. I have an 8:00 AM class. Photography. Craning my neck to the right, I feel a delicious tingle that travels down my shoulder and arm. I’m sore from last night and it feels good, fulfilling. He was fulfilling.
Kay claps her hands again, signaling the end of practice. Tossing my practice duffle over my shoulder, my back aches slightly and I smile, reminded of his bruising touch, his unbridled passion.
Too tired to walk home today, I climb the two steps up onto the team bus and scan the rows quickly before taking an empty seat on the left. Turning toward the window, I pop in my earbuds and choose a random playlist from Spotify.
He had large, rough, calloused hands that sent chills up my spine and unleashed butterflies in the pit of my stomach when he touched me. Pulling my hair out of its ponytail and combing my fingers through my tangled mass of curls, his scent engulfs me once more. It’s heady and wild and complicated.
What the hell was his name?
Chapter Eleven
Zack
My hand rests in the dip above Lauren’s ass, my fingers itching to slide south as I guide her into Philips’ and Marissa’s apartment. They own a brownstone a few blocks from campus in the ritzy area of Rittenhouse Square, compliments of Philips’ grandmother. As nice as it is to see my friend in a relationship with a good girl, I can’t help but think if he would be so “in love” with Marissa if his whole family wasn’t pushing for an engagement. It’s a lot of pressure for a twenty-two-year-old to wrap his head around. I mean, who the hell hosts a wine and cheese night in college anyway?
I guess that’s the way of things when your father owns a tech company and her father is a senator. Politics suck.
“We’re here,” Lauren calls out as she pushes into their apartment.
I let my fingers slide down her ass as she steps forward. Lauren looks beautiful as always. Tight skinny jeans and a flowy white halter top. Gemstones sparkle from her sandals and a bright green purs
e hangs from her shoulder. She’s the perfect blend of understated class. Always has been.
After our dinner date on Tuesday ended with breakfast in bed Wednesday morning, I’m relieved, maybe even happy, that she’s back in my life.
“Yay!” Marissa squeals, coming forward and enveloping Lauren in a warm hug. She’s wearing a brightly colored paisley-printed dress. Like the Lily Pulitzer shit Nicole always scoffs at. Philips better go into politics because Marissa would make the perfect congressman’s wife.
I cough through my laughter. I really need to call my sister.
“Zackary, you’re looking well.” Marissa kisses my cheek, patting my shoulder with her palm.
I will not roll my eyes. “You too, Maris.” Her nose wrinkles momentarily in distaste at the nickname. Is it fucked that I take pleasure in her discomfort? Probably.
“Hey, man,” Philips calls from the kitchen as we make our way into the living room. The brownstone really is beautiful with an open-concept floorplan, huge windows, and high ceilings. It’s what most couples would aspire to buy in their thirties. Philips just beat them to it. “Want a beer?” He comes around the corner from the kitchen into the living room and holds out a Stella.
“Marcus!” Marissa scolds. “We’re doing wine and cheese.”
Philips shrugs, his arm shrinking back slightly. Before it can retract completely, and take the beer with it, I swipe the bottle from his hand. “A beer would be great. Thanks.” I say, smiling at Marissa to take away the sting.
She shrugs and tugs at Lauren’s hand. “Come on, I’ll pour us some wine. Everyone else should arrive in the next half hour so it gives us a chance to catch up.”
Lauren’s eyes dart over Marissa’s shoulder to me. I smile again and watch as they leave the living room.