Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  These last twenty meters, they belong to me.

  When I touch the wall, I don’t hesitate to look at the scoreboard, sure of what I’ll see. It seems impossible that an outside smoke upstart like me won the whole thing, but I’m confident I snuck through in the second-place spot. I hear a shout of jubilation from my right as my eyes find my name.

  7 RAMOS SUSANNAH GAC-IL 2:13.30

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  35 days since US Olympic Team Trials

  THE DOORBELL STARTLES me from my nap. Across the living room from where I’m sprawled on the couch with the cats draped all over me, the TV is asking if I’m still watching The West Wing.

  “Don’t judge me,” I gripe. I’m alone in the house. Mom is with her study group, Dad’s at the restaurant and Nina took Lulu on a hike with Amber. I want to doze to the sound of smart people fast-talking about politics—is that so much to ask?

  At least I took a shower this morning, so I’m not unfit for company. Probably not very fit for it, either, but that’s not something I can bring myself to care about right now. The cats bolt out of the room when I sit up. I go to the front door and open it without looking through the peephole, something I regret as soon as I see who’s waiting on the porch.

  If I had known, I would’ve changed.

  “Hey, Susie,” Harry says, easy as a summer day, as if his presence here isn’t completely unexpected. He rocks back on his heels, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, handsome as the first time I met him. He smiles at me, and it’s like the sun gets brighter in the sky.

  My heart pounds against my rib cage and my whole body erupts in goose bumps. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him in person, but absence hasn’t dampened his effect on me in the slightest.

  Extremely inconvenient given the fact that he’s not my boyfriend anymore.

  “Hi,” I reply, struck stupid with shock. “Is everything okay? How are you feeling?”

  “It’s a good day,” he says.

  His smile widens, but even the force of its beam, however diminished, can’t distract from the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. My guess is he hasn’t been sleeping well. His hair is longer and shaggy; he keeps having to brush it out of his eyes, and the humidity is making it curl at the ends. He always kept it short, to mitigate the sting of constant swim cap removal, but there’s no need for that anymore.

  The evidence of his struggle makes my heart ache, but it’s so wonderful to see him I can’t quite regret whatever has brought him here.

  As if I didn’t know.

  “I wanted to see how you were,” he says, choosing his words with care. I wonder if he rehearsed his side of this conversation.

  “I should’ve come sooner,” he says, looking sheepish and, at the same time, resigned. “I know I should’ve come sooner. Only I wasn’t sure...”

  If you wanted to talk about it. If I could be there in the way you needed me. I hear all the possible conclusions to that sentence in the silence that follows. It makes me want to weep. From the first time we met, Harry seemed to know what I needed, and what I needed him to say, even when I didn’t. It was me who couldn’t see past my own nose, or think about anyone besides myself. Now we’re both at a loss for words.

  I’ve spent the last few weeks building up a callus around the wound of Trials, practicing the art of forgetting, of pretending not to be devastated by the loss. I haven’t watched any coverage of the Olympics, which aren’t even over yet. As we stand there on either side of the door, looking at each other, trying to puzzle each other out, I begin the painful task of dismantling my walls and protections, everything that has served to separate me from the recollection of that failure and—perhaps even more painfully—the death of the certain knowledge that I would succeed.

  When I feel ready, when my vulnerabilities are at the surface to be exposed, I say to him in a quiet voice, “I lost, Harry. I thought I would win and I lost.”

  He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “I thought you would win, too.”

  My eyes hurt with the effort of holding back tears. “Were you watching?”

  “Of course,” he says, sadness curdling his smile. “When you win, I win, remember? I wanted it for you almost as much as you did.”

  “I was never going to win,” I say, fighting to get the words out. It’s so hard to admit, but it’s the truth. Outside smoke was a fairy tale I told myself to avoid having to face the real height of the odds stacked against me. “What was it all for?”

  The work. The pain. The wedge my ambition drove between us. The selfishness it surfaced in me. All the things I’m proud of, and all the things I’m not.

  “What do I do?” I ask. “How do I begin again knowing it will probably all come to nothing?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. Then he steps into the house and puts his arms around me.

  I sag against his body, relieved by his solidness, his warmth. He smells the same, like Irish Spring and warm cotton, and a bit like chlorine, though he can’t have been near a pool in months. It never really leaves us. Even when we abandon it, the water remains.

  Harry kicks the door closed, and for a while we hold each other at the foot of the stairs. It’s so quiet I imagine I can hear the blood thrumming through Harry’s body, propelled through veins and arteries by the ragged beating of his heart. Though it could be my own I hear, or maybe they’re synchronized so that I can’t tell one from the other.

  At first, I think it will be only this—a tender, almost familial embrace that ends with sad smiles and a permanent goodbye. But as the seconds tick on and neither of us pulls away, as we travel far past the marker for how long a normal hug should last, the space between us heats up despite the blasting AC and a familiar emotional energy builds—the kind that, in other days, would signal the start of something, not the end.

  It startles me to feel it, and I almost give in to the reflex to resist. But then Harry’s hand comes up behind my head and gently presses my face into his neck. I fill my lungs with the scent of him, feel the warmth of his skin against mine, and any instinct to move away is squashed. He strokes my freshly washed curls and murmurs something unintelligible in my ear. I sigh, threading my arms around his waist and pulling him closer to me.

  The tip of his nose skates gently across my cheek as he repositions himself so he can look at me. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath against my lips. The hand that isn’t holding my head settles on my lower back, and his fingertips curl into the fabric of my sweatshirt. I lift my eyes to meet his and realize I’d forgotten what a deep blue they are, practically sapphire when the light hits them, almost black when his face is in shadow. A lock of hair falls over one of them and I feel the urge to blow it out of his face, so I do, with a tiny puff of breath. It drifts back down exactly where it was before.

  He smiles then, a genuine smile, and I feel like a fire has sprung up inside of me. I squeeze him tighter because that seems to be allowed, and I’m afraid to ask for more.

  “Can I...?” he asks, staring at my mouth, and I can hear in his voice that he doesn’t expect the answer to be yes. But it is, of course it is. I always have a yes in me for Harry.

  I nod and then his lips are on mine, though neither of us seems to have moved. All the stiffness goes out of my limbs as I let go of the last of my reservations and my arms mold themselves to his body. For a heartbeat, everything is still, and I wonder if we’ve forgotten how to do this, or if he regrets it.

  Then Harry’s lips part and the tip of his tongue passes over the seam of my mouth. He kisses me in that familiar way, the one that feels like talking without voices or singing without music. Like swimming without a body, without bones and flesh to slow you down—weightless and painless and free.

  I cup his cheeks in my hands and the heat of his skin scorches my palms. I’m burning up, too, suffocating beneath too many la
yers. I pull away from Harry, noticing as I do that he doesn’t open his eyes when he feels me gone, but waits, knowing I’ll be back. The sight of that unquestioning trust squeezes my heart in a pleasantly painful way.

  I nuzzle his jaw and whisper, “Come with me.”

  He opens his eyes as my words sink in and I take his hand. There’s a question in them, and I reply with a silent answer of my own, a brief smile that’s half permission and half pleading. His fingers tighten around mine as we climb the stairs with careful, measured steps, feigning calm as our hearts pulse in our throats like dogs straining against a leash. I don’t want to rush this, and I can sense Harry doesn’t, either. What if it’s the last time, the only time? I won’t waste this gift by being impatient.

  My room is a disaster, which I would, under normal circumstances, be embarrassed by, but Harry doesn’t notice. I’m the only thing he sees as we make our way, still hand in hand, to the bed. He reaches into his back pocket but comes up empty-handed.

  “I don’t...have anything,” he says, his voice heavy with apology. “I stopped carrying...” He shuts his eyes and pulls away with a grimace. “Fuck.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, turning his face toward mine and giving him a soft, lingering kiss. “Don’t worry. I have some. The ones I bought with my mom, remember?”

  I fetch the box from my drawer. “She said I should never trust a guy with that responsibility. Looks like she was right,” I say with a teasing wink.

  Harry laughs.

  “Probably good advice with other guys,” he says, wincing. Proof that he can’t stand the idea of me with someone else makes my chest grow tight. Maybe...no, that’s not what this is about. This is about us, right now, and I’m not going to muck it up by thinking too much about the future.

  “But you never had to worry about that with me,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “I was always prepared in case something happened. I just...really didn’t expect this to happen.”

  An unspoken question hangs off the end of his sentence: Is this going to happen? Without another word, I pull my sweatshirt over my head, taking the T-shirt underneath with it, and then I’m standing in front of him wearing just my bra and leggings.

  He’s seen me in far less, but he inhales sharply and runs his hands up my sides, sliding them over the curves I used to hate, the small belly no number of laps could ever get rid of. He removes his own shirt and steps out of his jeans and the next thing I know we’re climbing naked into my unmade bed. Harry pulls the crumpled sheet over our heads.

  We stare at each other, surprised at ourselves and each other. Is this going to happen? Harry clears his throat.

  “You know, I can’t...” He trails off, then tries again. “I’m not ready.”

  My face falls. “For this?”

  “For more than this,” he says with hard-won frankness. I can tell by the expression on his face that he thinks he’s ruining this with his honesty. Nina, cynic that she is, would say he’s using me for his own temporary pleasure, but that’s not Harry. He would never give me anything less than everything he has, and where he is today, this is all there is.

  “Right now,” he adds.

  I push the hair out of his eyes with a smile. How good he is, still not denying me hope. But I’m starting to understand the power of individual moments. The joy that can be found when you’re not too distracted by the faraway horizon to appreciate the beauty of where you’re standing.

  “Harry,” I say softly. “I spent the last four years of my life preparing for a two-minute race I lost by three seconds. I’m tired of worrying about the future. I just want to be here with you. Right now.”

  Nodding, he lowers his body onto mine. I love the weight of him, the soft hair on his legs tickling my bare ones, the sharpness of his hip bones digging into mine. He’s thinner, I think, but there’s nothing to be done about it right this second. I feel effervescent, like champagne bubbles rising to the surface of a glass, and grow impatient, but Harry touches me so slowly, determined not to rush.

  Gradually, I relax and learn to match his pace, but not before noting that his hands are shaking, gratifying proof of his own desperation. I sigh as he kisses my throat, my collarbone, the space between my breasts, letting myself drown happily in the sensation of knowing someone loves the body that I never could.

  As it turns out, the first time is not the only time, or the last, which is good because it was awkward and kind of uncomfortable. I thought we knew each other’s bodies well, but it turns out there are still things to discover.

  * * *

  We linger in bed all afternoon. Eventually, I glance at the clock and realize how late it is. Seeing Harry sneak out of my bedroom wouldn’t shock Nina, but Dad’s shift at the restaurant will be ending soon and Mom could be back from study group any second.

  “We should get up,” I tell Harry, who rolls away from me with a groan. I rest a hand on his chest. “You probably need to go.”

  He nods and bends over the edge of the bed in search of his clothes. He dresses slowly, pausing several times to kiss me. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave. My throat tightens at the thought of watching him walk out the door, but I know it can’t be any other way.

  “How come you weren’t at practice?” he asks. His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it in a while, but I know he has. The thought makes me smile.

  “It’s Sunday,” I remind him.

  “The days kind of run together,” he says with a shrug.

  “If you thought I’d be at practice, why did you come over?”

  Harry shoots me a sheepish grin. “Cowardice?”

  I smack him with a pillow. “What were you going to do if I wasn’t here, leave a note?”

  “It was supposed to be a dry run!” he cries, grabbing a second pillow and returning the blow. “I was going to come back.”

  I grab his chin and kiss him. “You’re not a coward. I think you’re the bravest person I know.”

  He shakes his head. “No, Susie, you are the bravest person you know.”

  The crushing weight of my failure at Trials drops all at once. I can feel it in my shoulders, my arms, my back—it’s a physical thing, a never-ending full-body wince. I wipe my eyes.

  “Not brave,” I say. “Just stubborn.”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive.” He releases a deep breath and puts his arm around my bare shoulders. “What’s next? Four more years?”

  “I...don’t know,” I lie, but it feels wrong. Tell him, a voice in my head insists. If anyone will understand, he will. I clutch Harry’s hand in mine so hard it must hurt, but he doesn’t shake me off.

  Suddenly, he stiffens. I follow his gaze to the wall, and the empty display where my trophies and medals and ribbons once lived. “You took them down,” he whispers.

  “Harry,” I say in a voice so low he puts his head down to hear me better. “I think I’m done.”

  He nods, processing this. “Are you sure?”

  “No,” I say, swallowing hard.

  He hugs me as I start to weep. It feels so good to be near him; I want to burrow in deeper, get as close as I can get. He rocks me in a soothing rhythm, like you would a child, and yet somehow it feels more intimate than anything we did this afternoon. That was it. The last of my walls. I feel exposed and vulnerable, dreading the moment he walks out the door, because then I have to be alone with it, this terrifying decision that I have made.

  I sob against his shoulder until I’m empty and shaking. He dries my face with the edge of the sheet and presses his lips to my forehead.

  “It might be interesting,” he says with a casualness that seems forced, “to see what your life would be like without swimming. What you might want to do with it.”

  “Animal shelter,” I mutter into his chest. “I saw a post online. They’re looking for volunteers.” />
  The force of his laughter vibrates through me. “I knew you’d already have a plan!” he crows. He hugs me tighter. “Never change, Susie. I mean that more than anything I’ve ever said.”

  “You think I’m doing the right thing?” I ask, lifting my head so I can see his face.

  “I think you won’t know until you do it,” Harry says.

  “Mom and Dad found me a therapist,” I tell him. “Someone to talk to about everything that’s happened over the past few years. I’m still getting used to it, but...it is making me feel better.”

  He nods. “That’s great. I’m glad you have someone. Talking helps.”

  “It’s what made me realize that I have to do this,” I tell him. “I’ve always been an anxious person, but all the pressure I put on myself made it so much worse. I need to give my shoulder time to heal, and I need to figure out who I am outside of the pool.”

  “Well, I know that person,” he replies, kissing my bad shoulder tenderly. “And I’m excited for you to meet her.”

  Harry and I say our goodbyes in my room, because I know that if I go downstairs with him, if I walk him out, that I’ll follow him to his car, then wait in the street until his taillights disappear around the corner, and that all strikes me as both inevitable and extremely sad.

  He kisses me one last time, then leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him. I press my face against it and close my eyes, wondering if he’s standing on the other side, fighting his own instinct to come back. It takes longer than it should for the front door to slam and his car to start up. When I look out the window, he’s gone.

  I sit down on my bed and glance at my swim bag, which is already packed for tomorrow. I take a deep breath, release it, then reach for my phone and set an alarm for four a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  36 days since US Olympic Team Trials

  DURING THE WINTER, I live my life in darkness. With such short days, the sun is down when I wake up and it’s down when I leave evening practice, and I’m in school between, so the only glimpses of daylight I see come through the occasional window.