Meet Me at Midnight

by Jessica Pennington

  “I know you fixed everything with Nadine.” Her voice is soft. “I’m sorry I accused you of setting that all up. I just—I overreacted. And I would have known even if I hadn’t talked to Lindsay. I mean, I know you wouldn’t do that, I never should have implied you would. I just—I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.

  “Okay?”

  I nod, and Sidney pulls the door shut behind her.

  34 DAYS AFTER

  Sidney

  Asher jogs past my dorm every morning. I saw him the first time by accident, when Ellie and I were walking to the café across from our building to meet the girls for breakfast. It’s not weird or even intentional that he runs by—my building is at a major crossroads where paths from all of the living centers converge at one of the campus’s three dining spots.

  The second time I saw him, a few days after what I will always think of as the day of puke, I waved. Like an idiot. It took a monumental effort to make my arm move, and it’s too early to know, but I suspect I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. Someday when I’m lying on my deathbed, I’ll regret never climbing a mountain or doing something to better humanity, and that one time I waved to Asher Marin on a cold morning in the middle of September my freshman year. Because Asher didn’t wave, but some random dude coming out of the café did. And to save face I had to pretend I recognized him from my biology lecture, and I wasn’t hopelessly waving at my ex-boyfriend. Look at me, making friends everywhere I go. Between team breakfasts and this, I have officially reached social butterfly status. My certificate’s obviously lost in the mail.

  I get that I did something horrible, but I did apologize. And it’s been over a month now—weeks of me giving him space and watching him avoid me—and we can’t be like this forever. I don’t want to lose Asher completely.

  Whether he saw me or not, there was no wave. Asher is normally like a distracted dog when he runs, checking out everything going on around him, but when he passes my dorm, he is laser-focused on one thing: not seeing me.

  I waved four more different times when I saw him. On the fifth time, I decided I’d be proactive. I sat on a bench along the walkway, clearly in his sightline. And still, nothing.

  So now, three weeks into classes, I’m finally fed up. I pull on my running shoes. Usually I run on the track, but today I’m going to make an exception. I’m waiting outside my dorm when Asher passes, and I fall in step beside him. I can’t be sure, but it feels like he speeds up, and quickly I fall a step behind, and then two. It takes a near-sprint for my considerably shorter legs to keep up with him. Words come out of me in an explosion. “You’re avoiding me.”

  Asher raises his voice so he doesn’t have to turn around. His voice is even. “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “Okay—” He stops in front of me so quickly I nearly run into him. And when he turns to face me, it makes my heart jump into my throat, because we haven’t been this close in months now, not even in his dorm room. I have a ridiculous urge to touch him. “I’m avoiding you.” He pulls up the collar of his T-shirt and wipes the sweat from his face, exposing a little of his stomach. Do not stare, Sidney. “You’re my ex-girlfriend. That’s what people do.”

  It’s a lot harder doing this when he’s giving me his full attention—I wish we could keep running. “It’s not a requirement, is it?” Obviously I know people do this, I just didn’t expect that Asher would be one of those people. “You’re not friends with any of your ex-girlfriends? You have, what? At least four of them, right?” Wow, okay, Sid. You’ve veered down a very unfriendly road. “I mean—I’m sorry. Just. You’re not friends with any of your exes? You said you’re still friendly with Jordan. And you called Lindsay, she wouldn’t have helped you if you weren’t—”

  “Lindsay and I were never together.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, and I think maybe it’s to keep from strangling me, because he looks like he wants to. “And Jordan’s different. It’s not the same.”

  “Because she’s nicer than me? She wasn’t horrible to you for years?” I slam my hands onto my hips. “I watched you puke, I’m not the worst person in the world.”

  Asher’s face scrunches up in confusion. “What? No, you’re not the worst. And I never thought you were horrible.” He shakes his head and the words shouldn’t light me up as much as they do. How low are my expectations when I’m excited to hear he doesn’t think I’m horrible? “But me and Jordan weren’t … I mean … it’s just different.”

  I nod, but I can’t see how it is. I’ve never been mean to any of my exes. Maybe I avoided them for a few days while the weirdness settled, but after that, I just treated them like people again. I get that lots of exes treat each other like crap, or avoid each other, or whatever, I just didn’t think Asher would be one of them. I want to tell him how much worse this is than the pranks or the jabs, but classes start in thirty minutes and the walkway is starting to fill with people scurrying toward food and academic buildings.

  “Okay.” My tightening throat and the stinging in my eyes won’t let me say more.

  I’m three steps away when he grabs my wrist, stopping me. The tears have spilled free so I don’t turn around. And maybe Asher senses it, maybe he can smell tears—which is a theory I have about boys—because he stays behind me. “I’m sorry, Sid. I’ll try, okay?”

  I nod, and then my wrist is free, and I don’t look, but I know Asher is gone.

  49 DAYS AFTER

  Asher

  Five weeks into classes starting, we finally have our first coach-led practices. And today is our first stroke clinic. Both of our coaches plus all three of our grad assistants are on deck, each one of them positioned at the end of a lane. While we swim pool lengths, they watch our form and bark out corrections. We swim each drill until everyone has it right. It’s exactly what I do for my club team, except I have to sound way nicer when I’m yelling out corrections, because they’re twelve.

  Two lanes down from me, Sidney is swimming her third lap of this drill, struggling to correct her rotation. She’s hanging off of the deck looking frustrated as David, one of our grad assistants, crouches in front of her, tapping her shoulder as he tells her whatever it is she needs to correct. She plunges down into the water and takes off with a push again, but David doesn’t seem to be pleased. The entire practice, it seems to be nothing but David yelling, Sidney listening, and shoulders being tapped. Tap tap tap. By the end of practice I don’t know who I’m frustrated with, but I am.

  Sidney wants to be friends. I’ve had a really hard time picturing what that looks like in my head, so mostly I’ve still been avoiding her. But maybe being friends with Sidney looks a lot like being teammates. And if it had been Ryan struggling today, I know what I’d do. After practice I stand outside my locker room door, waiting for Sidney to come through. After what feels like an eternity, she emerges, her hair twisted into a damp mess of curls on top of her head. For how long she was in there, I didn’t expect her to emerge looking like she’d just jumped out of the pool. She sighs when she sees me, running a hand over her hair, like she’s smoothing it back.

  “What’s the deal with your arm?” I say, falling into step with her as she passes.

  “Didn’t you hear?” She raises her eyebrows at me in annoyance. “It has a mind of its own.”

  “That’s never been a problem for you before. That’s your strongest stroke.”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I feel like I was picked up and dropped in a new land.” I look at her sideways and she shakes her head like I’m an idiot. “New school, new teammates, new pool. I don’t know, I’m just a ball of nerves in the water right now.”

  I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to tell her. Does that make me the worst future sports psychologist ever? I haven’t even taken a class yet, I doubt I’m supposed to be doling out psychological advice, but still. I smile at the thought of telling my dad that I’m throwing in the towel and it’s all Sidne
y’s fault for wrecking my confidence. We walk together through the double doors and out onto the sidewalk, still in silence. When she turns to the left and I turn to the right, she gives me a tiny wave, and walks away so fast she’s practically jogging.

  Maybe I really don’t know how to be friends with her.

  59 DAYS AFTER

  Sidney

  I’ve started to dread my time in the pool. Whatever it is that’s in my head, I just can’t seem to shake it. Looking into the glassy water is like staring down into my failure. And my future failure. Today is the official start of the season—our very first meet—and for all of the work I did this summer, all of the time I’ve put in at the gym, I don’t feel like I’ve improved nearly as much as I should have. I shove my bag into my locker and adjust my suit straps.

  “Can someone send Sidney out?” A male voice rings out in the locker room, and several girls gasp or jump before realizing the voice is coming from the doorway that leads out into the pool area.

  I don’t jump, I freeze. Because it isn’t just anyone’s voice. It’s Asher’s. Several girls look at me, but it’s not in a curious or suspicious way, as much as a get-out-of-here-before-he-comes-in-for-you way. It feels like everyone should know about the history between us, but why would they? We’ve hardly spoken at practices—no one has any reason to suspect there’s any sort of messy past between us. I’m not sure if I like it that way or not.

  I slam my locker door shut and snap a hair tie around my wrist as I grab my swim cap. I bypass the showers, because whatever Asher wants certainly can’t take long. I’ll be back before I get in the pool. A sudden wave of panic trills through me when it occurs to me that there aren’t many reasons for Asher to see me. What if something’s happened with my parents, and they couldn’t get ahold of me, so they went through him? Do I have my phone on me? I think about turning around to pluck it out of my bag, but I can see him just beyond the door, standing alongside the tiled beige wall.

  He’s in his suit, his hip leaning against the wall, arms crossed. So much skin. I will never be immune to Asher like this. I can almost smell the lake, hear the waves in my ears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He turns, his face confused. “Wrong?”

  “I just … I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I thought maybe it was something with my parents or…”

  His face turns apologetic. “No, it’s not anything bad. It’s just…” He bites his lip and shifts his shoulders, and six summers of studying Asher tells me he’s nervous. “Come with me, I’ll show you.” He has something clutched in his hand—I can see a thin strip of blue peeking through his fingers. The pool area is almost empty. There are a few people milling around, but mostly everyone is still in the locker rooms. We pass another guy from the team as we walk toward the diving blocks, and Asher nods his head in greeting.

  Asher sits on the edge of the pool and smacks his hand down on the tiles next to him. I should sit, but I’m in shock. Asher has only spoken to me once since our run together. And even then, it was a few sentences about swimming. He looks up at me impatiently, and I know if I don’t sit down he won’t stay. I’m on borrowed time. Borrowed patience, probably. I lower myself next to him, leaving half a foot between us. I don’t know if it’s him or me that can’t be trusted to touch, but I’m not risking it either way.

  “Are you nervous?” He says it casually, like we’re two normal people, and not us. And I know without him saying anything that he’s talking about the meet, not us.

  “What do you think?” I flutter my feet nervously in the water. “I feel like a tiny bomb, like once I get in the water I’ll explode—maybe in a good way, maybe not.”

  He smiles. “That’s what I figured.” He opens his hand and reveals a small glass bottle. It’s pretty, like something I could see his mom having on a shelf somewhere, and it has a little black rubber stopper. He shakes it in the air in front of him.

  “I’m sort of afraid to ask what’s in there.”

  “We’re christening the pool. Turning it into your happy place.” He pulls the black stopper from the tiny bottle and holds it in front of me.

  “Is that…” I swallow back the lump forming in my throat and take the bottle. “Why do you have this?”

  He shrugs. “Sentimental pack rat, remember?”

  I take a quick look around the pool to see if anyone is watching us, and hold the little bottle of lake water in front of my knees. Slowly, I pour it into the pool. “Are there magic words we’re supposed to say?”

  Asher laughs, and the sound unwinds something I didn’t even realize was coiling in my chest. “This is my first pool christening, but just imagine I’m in the boat next to you. You always swam like a beast across the lake.”

  “That’s because you were chasing me. I was sure you were going to hit me with the boat.”

  “Hm.”

  I look down at my bare toes under the water, at the dark pink polish I put on last night. “This is really nice.” I don’t deserve it. I never deserved him—sweet, perfect, hopeful Asher—and I certainly don’t now.

  “I’m just being a decent human who doesn’t want to see another person die.” It’s exactly what I said to him that night at the lake, when he was drunk.

  “How am I going to die?”

  “Well, you could drown.” His voice is deadpan, his face serious. “You’re not that great of a swimmer.” He smiles and I poke him in the side with my elbow. We haven’t been this close in what feels like centuries. That old feeling is back, the buzzing nervousness of him being close to me, able to touch me at any moment. But he’s not going to touch me at any moment, I remind myself. He’s trying to be a friend. Because I asked him to.

  “I thought I was a beast.”

  “You could get so nervous that you take the angle all wrong on your dive and crack your head open.”

  I let out a sharp laugh. “Wow, that’s dark. I thought you were supposed to be helping me with my nerves.”

  He shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “You’re not scared you’re going to crack your head on the bottom of the pool.”

  Of course I’m not. Now all I can think of is the fact that Asher and I are sitting here, talking and teasing, just like we used to. That we’re only inches away from touching. That for these few minutes, it’s felt—for the first time—like we might make it through this unscathed. He must register our proximity, too, because in one smooth move his arms cross over his chest. He angles away from me and back to the pool.

  “Why did you get so drunk that night? Why’d you kiss me?” The words pour out of me like the lake water now in the pool. I’ve always wanted to know, but was too scared to ask. I don’t know what has changed now. I suppose I have nothing left to lose. Except for this race. And this moment with him.

  “Sid … I’m not doing this.”

  Asher looks around us nervously, and I remember we’re surrounded by our teammates. We both have races to think about. Of course he doesn’t want to be bothered with this. “Right. I’m sorry.”

  “I had the water. I knew you’d be nervous. It was just—when I decide I’m going to do something, I follow through.” He pushes himself up and towers over me. “Good luck.” He says it to me the way he would to any other teammate. The same way he’ll say it to ten more people before the afternoon is over.

  There’s already five feet between us when I say, barely over a whisper, “You, too.”

  60 DAYS AFTER

  Asher

  On Wednesdays I have classes from eight-fifteen straight through until two o’clock, so by the time I get back to my room I’m ready to eat my World History textbook, and I only have forty-five minutes until I need to be at the pool for practice. I make a quick stop at my room for my practice bag and as many protein bars as I can grab. Ryan usually walks over with me, but when I open my door I don’t find my roommate.

  I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at. The first thing I see is the web of string, densely crisscrossing fro
m every wall. Then I see the tiny little hooks secured to the wall … the little peel-and-stick kind. And while I really wish I could think this was Ryan, I know it wasn’t. Luckily, my practice bag is in my little closet, which is just next to the door. My protein bars, on the other hand, are clear across the room in my desk drawer. Getting to them would mean dismantling this web, and I’m going to leave that to the person who let this happen.

  When I get to the locker room, Ryan is standing by the bench, and it’s clear he’s waiting for me. A giant grin spreads across his face when he sees me.

  “So? Tell me what happened.”

  “You can see when you get to the room.” I set my bag on the bench and pull my shirt over my head. “You’re cleaning it all up.”

  His face drops for just a second. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “It is. And you shouldn’t have let her in our room.”

  Ryan shakes his head at me. “A hot girl wanting into your room seems like an okay deal to me. You’re just hangry.” He punches me in the shoulder.

  “This isn’t any hot girl, this is Sidney. And it doesn’t mean what you think it does.” I don’t want to get into this with him in the crowded locker room. For Sidney, pranking me was just getting all of her frustration out. For me, pranks were the only way for me to connect with her after she shut down at the end of that first summer. We didn’t prank each other when we were actually together, and I can’t go back to that. Maybe I can’t let myself admit that pranks wouldn’t turn out the same way this time around. “Just don’t let her in again, okay?”

  Ryan doesn’t get it, but he nods anyway. I have to see Sidney at practices and in the dining hall, and around campus, but my room is the one place I’m safe from this new reality.