17. Deena

Deena

A s thrilled as I was to win the bronze medal in a race where every pundit had predicted that the Americans wouldn't have a chance of getting on the podium, the extroverting was quickly taking a toll. I looked around for Paula, desperate for the comfort of a friendly face, but I couldn't find her.

"Do you know where Paula is?" I asked Kara. Our other U.S. teammate had finished the race in a perfectly respectable ninth place. She was less than three minutes behind us, which showed how competitive this race had been.

"I think she left. She seemed kind of pissed when she walked by me."

"She left?" I repeated.

We were all supposed to stay for pictures and interviews with the press. It was part of the job. And with Paula in fourth place, people would definitely want to talk to her about the race.

It took almost two hours before I was finally able to head back to the athlete housing complex. All the runners had agreed to stick around until the last competitor crossed the finish line, providing support after the crowd of spectators started to clear out. We cheered for the athlete from Romania as if she was a medal winner instead of what runners called DFL – dead fucking last. And she deserved it for making it to the Games and doing her best.

That was one of the things I loved about the running community, there was very little elitism.

After the race there were interviews and pictures and fans wanting autographs. It was exhausting. Through it all there was no sign of Paula, making me concerned that she'd hurt herself during that last surge at the finish line.

I'd never been so glad to head back to our crappy little room. I couldn't wait to celebrate with Paula.

Except when I got there, she was gone, and so was all of her stuff. All that remained was a crappy cardboard bed with the thin mattress halfway off, as if she'd dislodged it in her hurry to gather her sheets and get out of here.

I saw on my bed, staring at the empty space. There was no note, and when I checked my phone, there wasn't a text either. Then again, we didn't have each other's phone numbers. But surely if something happened Paula would leave a note or something, right? I opened the email app on my phone, hoping that maybe she'd emailed me, but there was nothing from Paula there either.

She'd disappeared without a trace.

Telling myself that I shouldn't panic, I took a long shower and then headed to the cafeteria to refuel. Paula and I had talked about going out for a nice meal after the race, but I didn't have the energy to do that alone. I'd run hard today and the granola bar they'd handed me at the finish line had done little to take the edge off my hunger, so I needed to eat.

I filled up a tray with food and headed to an empty table in the corner. I was coming down fast from the excitement of this morning, and the only person I wanted to talk to was Paula.

If I could just figure out where she was.

A few minutes later Kara wandered over, changed and looking refreshed despite our hard race.

"What happened to Paula?" she asked. "Did she have an emergency at home or something?"

"I don't know. She just disappeared from the finish line and when I got back to our room, all of her stuff was gone, with no note or anything."

"Your coach told mine that she texted that something urgent came up and she needed to head back to the States early."

I spent the next few hours wondering what happened. I tried messaging Paula through Instagram, the only way I knew how to contact her, and when I checked back for a reply she'd blocked me.

Suddenly I remembered how stiff she was when I hugged her after the race. And now that I thought about it, she hadn't even congratulated me! What was going on?

Things started to fall into place the next morning. My best friend Joan called me to congratulate me, and when I told her about Paula she said, "Oh, I think maybe I know."

"What? How?" I asked. "You don't even know her."

"I'm going to hang up and text you something. Call me back after you watch it."

About a minute later my phone beeped with a link to a video that had been viewed hundreds of thousands of times. The headline read, Don't Touch Me, B****! I clicked on the video, realizing that someone had filmed it from the chute at the end of the marathon. In the video, Paula turned to me with a big smile, says something, then reaches out her hand as if to take mine. I swing away with a frown, picking up speed and running past her to finish the race.

The comments were brutal. Some viewers accused Paula of trying to keep me from getting the medal while others accused me of being unwilling to be a good team player and link hands as we crossed the line. Link hands, as if this wasn't the most important race of both of our careers!

I called Joan back immediately.

"I didn't even see her reach for me," I said without preamble. "I felt something touch my wrist and I assumed it was a bug. I was looking forward, super focused, and the crowd was really loud so whatever she said, I didn't hear it either."

"Well, given what I know about your relationship with Paula, I'm betting her feelings were hurt."

I was normally very even tempered. I rarely felt anger or irritation but as I connected the dots between the video and Paula's rude behavior, I became angry.

"Her feelings weren't hurt," I scoffed. "She was angry that I beat her. She's had a tantrum every time I've ever beat her. She hates that I'm faster than her."

My heart pinched in my chest. I'd really thought that Paula and I had something special. Sure, we'd only been here in Paris together for a few days, but during that time she'd become one of my best friends. What's more, I fell in love with her. And delusional fool that I was, I thought she was falling for me too.

A lifetime of feeling like the freak who didn't fit in came rushing down on me until I could scarcely breathe.

"What are you going to do?" Joan asked.

"I've got some time off the next few weeks. I'm coming home to Minnesota."