Scene 47

I stood on the balcony of my seventeenth-floor high-rise, holding my modem up in an offering to the gods of WiFi. Briefly, my computer—perched haphazardly on a Balencia chaise lounge—chimed its connection, before promptly losing signal. I cussed, tempted to fling the device over the railing onto Pacific Coast Highway.

It was bullshit to live where I lived and still have sketchy service. I would have had more luck connecting to Tico's Taco Shop but the owner had gotten wise and applied a password.

Sweeping through the wide French doors, I reset the router and pulled a bottle of Chateau Lafite out of the wine cooler. As I waited for the box to reset, I tipped the chilled red into a Waterford crystal goblet Dani had sent as a housewarming gift. Her version of a peace offering. The sight of the glass suddenly intensified my loathing for the superfluous opulence around me. The walls of windows. The high beam ceilings. The travertine and hand-carved crown molding and Miele dishwasher larger than my first refrigerator.

I'd moved to the oceanfront penthouse six months earlier. It was my second move in as many years, and though I'd instantly hated the extravagance of the suite and the maddening drive from the studio during rush hour, the building served its purpose. It was private. It was secure. And it was designed for people like me: people who lived high-profile careers and didn't care how much they had to pay to buy their little piece of freedom.

But it didn't stop me from missing my six-hundred-square-foot, run-down one-bedroom in WeHo.

I loved that apartment. I missed the bohemian vibe of the community. The tree-lined walk to the farmer's market. The neighbor's cat who used to sit in my screened window and yowl the song of her people.

And more than anything, in my present predicament, I missed the steadfast reliability of the internet.

Dillon's start time in Yokohama was in less than twenty minutes.

The router signal turned green, so I collected my glass and returned to the panoramic view from the balcony.

As I waited for the World Triathlon livestream to load, I sipped the heady Rothschild and watched a flock of pelicans dip their wings into the golden shimmer of the Pacific.

I knew when the leasing agent showed me the luxury apartment, she felt it was her mention of the in-house five-star restaurant and rooftop infinity pool that tipped me over the edge to sign the contract. Little did she know, it was actually the view of the Santa Monica Pier—the sight of the pilings where I'd shared that kiss with Dillon—that sealed the deal on my new residence.

This evening, the distant murmur of the landmark carnival provided a background ambiance as I silently pleaded to any deity who would listen to help see Dillon across the finish line. All she had to do was place in the top twenty. It shouldn't have been a concern. Aside from her single DNF, she had never come in lower than fifth on the Japanese course in the eight times she had run it.

But it was a concern.

For the last three weeks, she'd returned to full training despite lacking medical clearance. I hadn't known until a few days ago that Dr. Monaghan had seen her name on the start list for Yokohama and dropped her as a patient. She'd brushed off my immediate alarm and told me not to worry.

"I feel good, Kam. Better than I did before Hamburg."

Every fiber of my being wanted to believe her.

But I also knew her.

I knew she would do anything… give up anything… fight through anything… to have a shot at another Olympic medal. The long-term consequences weren't her priority.

Her mom, Seren, Sam, even her coach, Alistair, had begged her not to push it. But she'd refused to listen.

So, in the end, what choice did I have but to show her support when everyone else was against her? She had enough people telling her she would fail. I couldn't bring myself to join them.

The livefeed clicked over and a commentator's voice funneled through my speakers. I wasn't surprised to see the cameras on Dillon as she stretched out her hamstrings. The media coverage of her return to triathlon had been relentless. We'd known, after the uproar of her name getting linked with mine, she'd be unable to avoid the spotlight. It had been expected. But I'd hoped, after four months, the obsession from the press would have dwindled.

Wishful thinking .

Everyone loved a comeback story. Combine it with rumors of a scandalous affair, and the added pressure of the upcoming Olympics, and it was a plot practically scripted for Hollywood.

Dillon had taken it in stride, never once blaming me for the unwanted publicity. We stuck to our narrative—we were friends—and instead of me flying to watch her in Japan—where I wanted to be—I'd spent the previous evening out with Elliott and his circle, providing fodder for the paparazzi.

Apparently, it hadn't helped, because Dillon was still the race day headliner.

"No question all eyes this morning are on Great Britain's most decorated triathlete," the American pundit said as the footage zoomed in on Dillon's sunburnt cheeks, hollow beneath her goggles. She did a couple of jumping jacks and dumped a bottle of water into the neckline of her wetsuit. "The big question today is—after an eight-month hiatus from competition, following what was nearly a career-ending accident—does Dillon Sinclair have what it takes to punch her ticket to her fourth Olympics?"

"You know, Mike, if it were anyone other than Sinclair," an English commentator answered, "I'd stack the odds against her. But I've watched the Welshwoman compete for over ten years, and I'll be the first to say, if anyone can do this—she can. I don't think the world of endurance sports has ever seen a grittier competitor."

The two men went back and forth, chatting stats and rankings, as the camera panned out to reveal the sixty-nine women stepping to their marks on the swim pontoon. I skimmed over the faces I'd come to know well—Alecia Finch, Georgina Potter, Elyna Laurent—and focused only on Dillon, whose gaze was on the water. She looked calm. She looked confident.

I, on the other hand, felt like I was going to throw up.

The horn blew, and a split second later the swimmers were crashing through the churning tide of Tokyo Bay. A washing machine cycle of kicking legs and swinging arms obscured all visibility of individual athletes, but as the strongest swimmers separated from the group, I could pick out Dillon's neon orange cap edging toward the lead.

There was no question she would be first out of the water. The commentators agreed. The swim and cycle were her opportunity to get ahead of her competition before backing off on the run. Despite it going against everything in her nature, it wasn't in her strategy to podium. Today, it was only about qualifying. Then she would sit out Leeds and turn her full attention to Los Angeles.

I paced, unable to keep seated, unable to stand still. Twice I looped my balcony, returning to peek over the lounge at my laptop, feeling like a child viewing a scary movie through splayed fingers and covered ears. I hated to watch but had to know.

Dillon was out of the swim and onto the bike, making a clean transition. Behind her, A breakaway group of eleven women chased in pursuit. I immediately took note that Elyna Laurent was amongst them.

"Sinclair's done an admirable job of giving herself some breathing room," the English commentator observed as Dillon moved into the third and final loop of the bike course. The drone footage showed a sizeable lead—but not enough for my comfort.

My phone chimed, and I swiped a sweaty palm across the lock screen. It was a text from Sam Huntley.

She's bloody got this!

I tried to send a heart, but my shaking fingers clicked on an emoji of a duck instead. I didn't bother to correct it.

The footage turned grainy, my internet threatening to freeze, and in the stupidity of my frustration I snapped the laptop closed. It took an eternity to reconnect, and by the time the livestream rebooted, the athletes were out of T2 and into the run.

I scanned to the real-time rankings at the bottom of the screen. Dillon had fallen to fourteenth place.

Fuck .

It was okay, I schooled myself. Even in her prerace interview, she'd made it clear she would allow herself leeway in the run. Today was about conservation.

I closed my eyes, chorusing a silent mantra. Top twenty. Top twenty. Top twenty .

"Oh, that is unfortunate," the American commentator said, interrupting my meditation. "It appears Dillon Sinclair has incurred a time penalty."

My eyes flew open.

This couldn't be happening .

Dillon was stopped in front of an official holding up a stopwatch. Her head was tilted to the sky, her frustration evident.

The American continued, "Word's just come in the British athlete is being penalized for dropping her goggles outside her swim bin."

"It's truly some hard luck," the English commentator lamented. "Sixty seconds is a steep punishment for an inadvertent equipment violation."

"I think we've all been there, Andy—moving too fast through transition."

I held my breath the entire time she was sidelined, internally screaming as runners continued to pass her.

Fifteen.

Seventeen.

Twenty-one.

I pummeled my palm into the cushion of the chaise lounge. "Come on, you bastard! It's been sixty seconds!"

Finally, the official clicked the stopwatch and Dillon bolted into the fray of runners. She was in twenty-sixth place.

The English pundit groaned. "It's a bit of a sticky wicket now for Sinclair—having to play catch-up. There's no question this is exactly not what she wanted."

"I wish I could say that stride looked more comfortable, Andy. If I were a betting man, I'd wager that knee—just six months out of surgery—isn't prepared for heavy sprinting."

I studied Dillon's face. Her jaw was tight, the subtle crow's feet at the corner of her eyes deepening. Having been forced to increase her pace, there was no question she was hurting.

The pair continued their banter as I tore apart my cuticles, the minutes ticking by with excruciating slowness. Dillon overcame a runner. And then another.

Twenty-fourth place .

I sat. Sipped wine. Stood. Paced. Sat again. I tried not to notice her shortening stride. Her noticeable grimace.

My attention was suddenly returned to the commentary when I heard my name mentioned by the American.

"I don't know, Andy—if there was a chance Kameryn Kingsbury was waiting for me at the finish line, I'd probably give it a go, too, even if I had to do it one-legged."

Was he even kidding? They were there to report on a professional race and this clown managed to slip in my name?

Hard fucking pass, Grandpa .

The English analyst offered an uncomfortable laugh before steering his cohost back to a more appropriate narrative.

"It looks like it's going to be a good day for France. Elyna Laurent's pulled well into the lead, with her French teammate, Josephine Durand, not far behind her."

They were on the final lap of the run, less than a kilometer from the finish.

Fall , was all I could think as I stared at the Frenchwoman's graceful stride soaring across the pavement. Trip. Stumble. Faceplant. Whatever it took to keep her from winning.

It wasn't fair, I knew, rooting for an injury. Dillon wouldn't approve. I'd never once heard her wish ill on a competitor. The only way she wanted to win was to beat them at their best—because if they weren't at their best, was she beating them at all?

Whatever .

I'd leave the righteousness to Dillon. I wasn't that noble. I would have traded an ungodly sum of money to see her run down by a wild pack of tanukis. Or waylaid by a snow monkey. Maybe slip on a banana peel. Anything to see the Frenchwoman eat shit—to avoid the misery of watching her draped with another medal.

It was a hope born in cloud-cuckoo-land, as a few minutes later, the lean, leggy bitch set a new course record.

I hated her. I didn't care if my anger was displaced. If she wasn't the one who deserved my contempt. I couldn't stand the sight of her demure, awkward smile.

As the cameras focused on the athletes beginning to cross the finish line, I stared at the bottom of my screen, watching Dillon's ranking.

Twenty-third place.

Twenty-second.

"Please," I breathed, casting the word to the sea breeze fanning my burning cheeks. "Please let her do this." Every ounce of energy I could muster, I channeled across the ocean.

"Oh, this has become nailbiting!" the American chimed as Dillon reached the straightaway amidst a pack of five runners. "It doesn't get more exciting than this! Sinclair's entered a footrace on the final two hundred meters."

I flicked the sound off. I couldn't take it. I watched in unbearable silence as Dillon overcame a Spaniard, and then fought, stride for stride, with an Australian runner. The pair were at the lead of the small group, jockeying for position. Dillon's gait looked stiff. Her cadence was uneven. Sweat was streaming down her face, her breathing forced between clenched teeth.

Please, God .

They were a hundred feet from the tape.

Fifty.

Twenty.

Two yards from the finish line, the Australian pulled ahead, hurdling herself across the timer. Dillon crossed a half second behind her.

I sat, stunned, watching her drop to the ground on the sideline. A medical staff member knelt beside her, but she brushed him away.

Twenty-first .

A news alert flashed at the bottom of my screen.

Legendary Welsh Athlete Fails to Qualify for Olympic Team

In a fit of disbelief, I swept my arm across the patio end table, sending the Waterford crystal shattering against the sandstone tile. Wine pooled at my feet before the rivulet of red slowly made its way to drip over the side of the glass railing. I choked back a sob. Never had I imagined she wouldn't do it. That was the magic of Dillon Sinclair—she could do anything she put her mind to.

I stared emptily at my screen as athletes continued to finish the race, thrilled with their top-third placing.

How strange it felt—to see people smiling.

With the footage still on mute, I watched Elyna Laurent's post-race interview. I watched her nod. I watched her lips move with robotic, one-word answers. And then I watched her walk away without an ounce of joy or celebration.

I should have felt sorry for her. I didn't doubt her story varied much from Dillon's. She was just another pawn, the two of them sharing the same loathsome denominator.

But at present, she meant nothing to me. I could think only of Dillon. What I would say when she called. How I would help her move forward.

There was still Leeds. Seven weeks away, she had another chance.

But I'd seen the look on her face. The pain she'd been in.

On my lap, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Seren.

Please, Kam. You have to convince her not to race again .

I sat on my balcony until the sun disappeared beneath the silvery waters of the horizon. Until the traffic waned on the boulevard. Until the lights dimmed on the pier. My body ached when I finally dragged myself to my feet, my muscles stiff and heart heavy.

Standing at the railing, I replied to Seren.

I can't, I'm sorry . I have to support her.