And then, we just stand there. Staring at each other like it’s the most normal thing in the world. For once, he doesn’t frown at me. Okay, maybe a little, but at least not as much as before.
“Sooooo.” Noah rubs his hands on his sweats.
“Sooooo.” I rub my lips together and rock on my heels.
“Should we just—”
“Is this too—”
Our words mash together when we talk at the same time, and I point at him. “You first.”
This time, he rubs his hands together in front of his body. “First, I want to apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed you the way I did at your place. Like you said, it’s none of my business. I also shouldn’t have flaked on you and your work. I’m sorry.”
I shrug and try my hardest to keep my facial muscles relaxed. On the inside, my blood is heating up, my heart is pumping faster, and a light sheen of sweat is forming on the back of my neck.
His apology isn’t only unexpected, it also means a lot. I absentmindedly rub my wrist, unable to stop myself even when his gaze goes there. My flight of swallows tattoo that’s so important to me. Knowing it’s there always helps me. It settles me, calms me.
During our abrupt move to Los Angeles, I thought I’d lost my beloved bracelet that someone very special gave me as a gift. It was a delicate bracelet with two swallows that are supposed to symbolize love, loyalty, commitment, and also freedom.
That special person was Noah, of course, and I was devastated when it disappeared.
By sheer luck—or fate as I’d like to think—I found it in an old jewelry box a few years later when I was going through a really tough time. But at that point, I was yearning for more, for something more permanent that I’d never lose again, and that would add a special meaning to my scar.
Less than twenty-four hours later, I had my first tattoo. Every time I look at it, it gives me hope. It makes me feel strong and free, and grateful to be alive. Because things could have turned out differently in so many ways.
And now Noah’s apologizing to me, even though I hurt him deeply all those years ago and will never be able to forgive myself for it. But it was the right thing to do. I have to believe that.
So, I lift the corners of my mouth and shrug. “You’re here now.”
“I am.”
“Aaaaaaand are you planning on staying, or did you just drop by to tell me you won’t be coming anymore?”
One corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit before it drops again. “I’d like to stay and do what I promised I’d do. If that’s okay with you?”
You’ve got this. You can work with him. It’s just for a few weeks.
I swallow. “Of course it is.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. It’s so much shorter now than it used to be. It definitely suits him though. “Great.”
“Great.”
Just how awkward is this going to be?
He points toward the wall. “What do you want me to do?”
I rub my finger along my chin. “Ehm, you can start painting Nemo if you want. I was going to do him next but now you can get started on him.”
“Really?”
I snort. “Yes, really. What did you think you were going to do? Watch me do all the work?”
He thinks about that for a moment. “Not sure, actually. I obviously missed a lot this week, and Hunter didn’t mention what you guys did.”
“Ah, Hunter. He’s something else.” Something in my brain clicks. “Wait a second. That’s not the same Hunter you went to swim camp with all those years ago, is it?” His eyes go wide at my question, and I hold up my hand. “Sorry, I won’t ask any questions. Let’s just focus on the painting.”
His hand lifts for a second before he shoves it in his pocket. “Yep, that’s him. And, of course, you can ask questions. I mean, we’re . . . friends, right?”
The way he bites the inside of his cheek once the question leaves his lips is adorable but also speaks volumes. And can I really blame him? Wasn’t I just wondering too if I could be friends with Noah? Not that there are a lot of alternatives. If there are any at all.
I tilt my head. Friends . . . with Noah? “I guess we are.”
“Well, friend, show me what to do.” He gestures toward the supplies, and I nod.
“I did the outlining with the help of a projector most of the week, so now it’s basically just coloring in. I can write down what color goes where and turn it into a paint-by-numbers kind of thing if you want.”
“Sure. I’ll try my best to not screw anything up.”
I barely catch myself from bumping my shoulder into his side in an attempt of reassurance. I don’t think we’re those kinds of friends.
I grab one of the extra aprons from the supply closet along with everything else he needs. A few paintbrushes, a palette, his own cup of water to clean the brushes, and a couple extra rags, just in case. And then we get started. I get back to my octopus while Noah is working on the clownfish.
The minutes tick by, but it’s a comfortable silence. I forgo my headphones this time because I don’t want to be rude. My gesture backfires when my thoughts take over, and my awareness of him rises with every little movement.
I can’t take it anymore and need to look at him. I’m compelled to. Intrigued to figure out how he’s still the same, and how he’s different. This friends thing might be a bit weird, but I do want to get to know this older, more mature version of him.
Because if I’m honest, something about him is off. He looks . . . sad. I thought that was from seeing me, that the anger I saw wasn’t his default personality.
Yet, after seeing him a few times, I’m finding it hard to reconcile this serious, contemplative Noah over the driven, mischievous Noah. He had a certain earnestness to him when he was a teenager. It was necessary to achieve his dreams. But that seems to have changed to something darker.
His eyes are focused, tiny slits as he moves the paintbrush across the wall. Slowing down when he gets to the corners, careful to not color over the outlining.
“So, how’s swimming going?” It’s the first question that bubbles to the surface. But it should be an easy one since it’s well . . . swimming. Noah’s number-one passion that always brings a smile to his face and a shimmer to his eyes.
But neither one of those things happen. Instead, he sighs heavily and lifts his shoulders before letting them drop like they weigh a ton.
I blink at him, my brain needing a few extra seconds to process this strange realization. I’ve never seen a reaction like this from him when it’s about swimming. “Uh-oh, that bad?”
He lazily dips his brush into the paint, continuing to work. “I wish I knew.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He turns to me, and I can’t explain it, but his gaze . . . it’s too much, yet I can’t look away.
My throat clogs from the intensity in his eyes. The rawness, and the fact that he’s letting me see it. “What happened?”
“Nothing really.” His voice is flat and he focuses back on the wall.
After a moment, I do the same, the quiet sound of our brushes on the wall the only noise.
“Do you ever want more from life but don’t know what that more looks like? All you know is that you’re not happy with the way things are going. That something is missing.”
The need to rub my chest at his words is almost impossible to resist.
And why is my chin trembling? Shit.
I know he’s probably talking about swimming, but it’s like he’s talking straight to my soul.
The only difference is that I know what’s missing, or rather who. And that I’ll never get him back.
Fourteen
Noah
Why the fuck did I just say that to her?
Is it because there’s some sort of leftover familiarity with Chloe after all this time? Or because she’s almost like a safe zone, a stranger—yet not—that I feel compelled to open up to?
Or do
I just have no willpower when it comes to this woman?
I haven’t talked to anyone about what’s going on, or rather, how unhappy and restless I’ve been. Sure, my coach seems to have an inkling, but that’s it.
Just saying these few thoughts aloud made my chest feel lighter and my breathing a little less confining.
Wait. Why hasn’t Chloe said anything yet?
I just answered her question, about a topic that has been filling me with nothing but dread and confusion lately, and she doesn’t reply?
After another moment of silence, I peek at her and find her staring at me.
And her eyes.
Shit.
It’s like she knows exactly how I feel. Just like the bond we used to have where one look is enough to connect us on a level I’ve never had with anyone else.
Over the years, I formed a decent link with the guys, and especially Coach Diaz, but never with this intensity.
A long time ago, when Chloe looked at me like this, with a pained look that somehow still managed to feel comforting, I wouldn’t have wasted a second. I would have grabbed her and pulled her close. Wrapped her in my arms and kissed the top of her head.
Finding solace in her arms used to be one of my favorite things. Sometimes it ended in more, other times not. But it always left me satisfied because it was her. Everything was better with her.
Now, I have to fight the urge, the instinct, to be her shelter. It’s like my brain is battling with itself, the thoughts racing through my head so quickly, I can barely make them out.
Comfort her.
No, stay strong.
She’s not your problem anymore.
But look at her. She’s clearly hurting.
My head’s starting to pound, but one question remains on my mind after I shut up the rest. Who am I trying to protect by not giving in to this need to comfort her? Her or me?
I clear my throat awkwardly. “Are you okay?”
She blinks and sniffles quietly. “What? Oh yeah, sorry.”
If she cries, I’ll lose my shit. I’m not the best at handling tears anyway, but with her? Not on my list of things I want to test today.
Chloe turns back to the wall and continues the finishing touches on her octopus. It’s enormous, its tentacles spreading along the whole length of the wall. “I’m sorry things aren’t going as planned for you.”
“I always thought I’d have a family by thirty. You know, the stereotypical two and a half kids, a dog, and a white picket fence.” And there goes my mouth again. Throwing out those words like it gets paid for it.
Her paintbrush slips out of her grasp, and reflex has both of us trying to catch it. Our hands collide, but we immediately pull back as if burnt. Thanks to this stunt, there’s now a zig-zag path of coral paint smeared across the wall.
“Damn it, I’m sorry. How bad is it?” I stare at the splatters across the outlines of the sea turtle, the stingray, the whale, and the hammerhead shark, while she grabs one of the rags to wipe off most of the mess.
She studies the wall and rubs some more. “There. It should be fine.”
“You’re amazing.” Her head snaps around at my words, her eyes wide as she gapes at me, and I gulp. “Your paintings, I mean.” Shit. What is wrong with me today? My mouth is just out of control.
“Thanks.” She doesn’t say anything else and gives me a tight smile.
Crap. I totally just made it worse.
She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head softly, before going back to painting. “You know, about what you said before, there’s still time to go after everything you want. It’s not like there’s a cut-off age when you turn thirty, or something like that.”
I wait for her to look at me so I can read her expression, but her gaze stays firmly on her work. Is she avoiding my scrutiny on purpose?
Her words sink into my consciousness, my brain mulling over them. On a rational level, I know there’s still time for everything. That I haven’t run out of options yet. But something’s nagging me about it. Maybe my gut? Something just doesn’t feel right, almost like I have run out of time. Like I’ve missed my chance but don’t know about it yet.
It’s hard to imagine a life without getting what I’ve always thought my future will look like. No wife, no kids, no dog, and no white picket fence. When I try to imagine it, it’s all just blurry.
“Yeah, I guess.” My brain wants to go to places I don’t want it to go. Fictitious places where Chloe and I had a future. Kids. I shut that train wreck down real quick. I need to keep my brain occupied with something else. “So, is this what you do for a living? Paintings like this?”
She shakes her head. “No, this is just a fun project and something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. Professionally, I illustrate children’s books.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” The corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. It’s new, something my brain stores away.
“Do you like it?”
“I do.” She exhales loudly. “There’s just something about creating a whimsical world for kids that fascinates me. Their minds are so pure and beautiful, and I love being able to add my pictures to them. In a small way, I help shape the way they see the world. There are so many terrible things going on everywhere around the globe. To be able to create something for them to escape to is special to me.”
This. This is the Chloe I know, the Chloe I lo—
Nope, not going there.
“That’s amazing. I’m so glad you were able to do what you love. And you’re so good at it too.” And I mean it. Her work is amazing, always has been. I don’t think there was a medium she picked up that she didn’t turn into something magnificent.
Art is in her blood, like swimming is in mine.
Only I seem to have lost my spirit. Or whatever the hell has happened.
“Thank you. That means a lot. I’m just glad I get to do what I’ve always wanted to do. I know not everyone’s that lucky.” After a few more brushstrokes, she takes a step back to inspect her finished design. It’s perfect, almost too perfect, like it could glide out of the painting at any second. “How about you? Will you participate in another Olympic Games?”
Well, isn’t that just the million-dollar question?
“Not sure yet.”
“Really?”
This time I feel her eyes on me, but I keep my gaze forward to finish the next clownfish. “Yeah. We’ll see.”
I don’t feel like talking about it because there isn’t much to say.
All I know is that I just don’t feel it anymore.
Swimming never used to be a thing I did, it was a part of me. But now, it has become a thing, and I don’t know how to handle it, or if I’m even equipped to handle it. Because what happens if I don’t . . . if I can’t? Because so far, I haven’t done a very good job, it seems.
Chloe clears her throat. “Oh and by the way, before I forget it.”
This time I turn her way.
“I was going to talk to you about it sooner, but since I didn’t see you all week . . .” She scratches her neck. “Anyway . . . about tomorrow, you don’t have to come. At all.”
Tomorrow? What’s she talking about?
My confusion must show on my face because her cheeks turn red.
“I meant lunch at my mom’s.”
Oh shit, I totally forgot about that. Or rather, I’ve blocked it from my thoughts as much as I could. “Oh yeah. What about it?”
“You don’t have to come. Really. I’ll make up an excuse for you. My mom shouldn’t have pushed you into it like that.”
“What if I want to come?” What the heck?
“Do you?” Her eyebrows lift as she looks at me expectantly. It’s still the same you can’t fool me look she’s given me about a million times in my life.
I nod. Of course, I don’t. I mean, I do.
Might as well bathe in my misery. “Sure, why not? Your mom’s a fantastic cook, and I’ve always liked your parents, you know that.”
She winces, and her whole face crumbles in front of me. The color drains from her skin before she gazes down, hiding as much of her from me as possible. “Mmm, about that. My dad. He . . . he died last year.”
What?
Fuck. No.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t, but thanks.” Her voice cracks, barely able to push out the words as she continues to stare at the floor.
Shit. I feel like a total dick.
I quickly put down my supplies, grab her, and pull her against my chest.
She loved her dad so much. I can’t imagine the pain she’s experienced.
Our hug isn’t very close. I don’t crush her to me as tightly as I used to, especially since she’s still holding on to her things, but it’s the best I can do in this screwed-up moment.
Her shoulders sag further into my embrace, like she’s allowing herself to let go.
With me.
My chest tingles from the close contact, and I don’t move, not even an inch. I don’t want to break the moment, especially since she seems to need it. So I just stand there, offering her what little comfort I can give her, hoping it’s enough to soothe the hole in her heart. At least, a little.
Chloe has always been closer to her parents than I have been to mine. Her parents were actually present while they were loving and doting on her. The pain this must have caused her. And her mom.
After another minute, she clears her throat and sniffles before pulling back. Her eyes are watery, but I’m not sure if she cried or not.
“Thank you.”
I nod. “No problem.”
“Um.” Her voice cracks and she clears her voice several times. “Sorry about that. But I was planning on telling you anyway so you’re prepared, you know?”
“I’m so sorry you lost him.”
“It was better for him. He was in a lot of pain at the end after battling cancer for years. It was hard to let him go, but we knew it was coming, so at least we were able to enjoy the time we had left with him and say our goodbyes.” She tilts her head back and blinks a few times, inhaling and exhaling deeply through her nose.
Second Dive: A Second Chance Sports Romance (Kings Of The Water Book 3) Page 9