Scene 49

It was the fourth day Dillon hadn't returned my calls.

I knew she was okay—earlier in the afternoon, I'd watched a livestream from British Triathlon featuring her and Georgina Potter. They'd filmed an open-water training session to promote the upcoming race in Leeds. I recognized the bright bobbing buoys of Serpentine Lido, the swimming club where Dillon often swam. It was a glorious spot in the middle of Hyde Park, only a few miles from her apartment in South Bank. We'd walked there together a handful of times that first blissful week I stayed with her in the city—the week we had ridden the London Eye.

Days that seemed to belong to someone else, now, as I once again sat on my balcony, cloistered away from everything resembling real life.

I hit redial.

I needed her to answer. I needed to hear her voice.

The woman I watched on the livestream had seemed almost foreign to me. Someone I didn't know. I mean, it was Dillon alright, with her sunbleached hair hanging damp in her eyes, and dusting of freckles beneath exertion-pinked cheeks. But it somehow felt like the hollow version of her. Like a knockoff replica or poorly cast body double for daytime TV.

She said all the right things in the post-swim interview, answering questions with Georgina in all the appropriate places. She acknowledged her only option for Leeds was a podium finish after her missed top-twenty in Yokohama. It would be the only way to prove to the BOA that she was medal-contender-worthy.

Visibly annoyed, she brushed off the reporter's queries when he asked about the improbability of her comeback story. Did she think she had a chance on Saturday?

"You think I'd really be out here freezing my arse off before the sun pipped the horizon just for a bit of a lark?" Her smile had been tight, the green of her eyes unblinking.

The man backpedaled, circling around to the excitement leading up to the race, and emphasizing that the entirety of Great Britain was behind her. With her storied success on the podium, it was unquestionable, he emphasized with a thump on her back, she would make their nation proud.

I'd watched, analyzing every detail of her expression, trying to get a glimpse behind her facade. Wanting to find some indication in the stone-faced, glassy-eyed competitor on auto-pilot that told me it was just her typical race mode—that it was her armor of hyperfocus I was struggling to see through.

But I couldn't reconcile the woman on my screen with the woman who'd once kissed me so soundly on those same stone steps leading into the lake, we'd ended up turning her pre-dawn workout into a ridiculously risky—yet wildly passionate—tryst in the swim club's empty changing room. I could still smell the baby powder she'd sprinkled on her skin, hear the way she'd laughed as I clumsily struggled with the zipper on her wetsuit.

The woman today didn't resemble that woman at all.

She was a dimmer, more stripped-down version of the woman who'd left my apartment a month earlier, two days after my birthday.

I'd initially been relieved, the morning after my party, when she told me she'd decided to race Leeds. It allowed me to accept her abrupt decision to return to the UK. It gave me hope the uncomfortable distance newly come between us was less to do with Dani and her idiocy, and instead, was Dillon's switch to competitive mode. That making a firm decision on the upcoming race had toggled her into hyperdrive.

But it was different this time, and I could feel it immediately. She didn't text me for two days after she'd landed back at Heathrow. When I finally got a hold of her, the conversation was brief. Yes , she'd arrived safely. Yes , she was fine. Yes, she'd call me again in a few days. It had ended with a curt love you without enough time for me to respond.

The next time she called, it was in the middle of her night. I'd answered, terrified something had happened, but she'd shrugged off my alarm. "Just couldn't sleep." She'd sounded dull. Tired. Part of me had wondered if she was drunk, but I didn't have the heart to ask.

Instead, I'd committed a far greater blunder. I'd voiced the question gnawing at me ever since she left.

"You're not doing this because of what Dani said, right? You know you don't have to prove anything to—"

"You really think I care what that cunt said?" she cut me off, and I knew at once I'd made a mistake. "You realize this is what I do, Kam, right? It's what I did, way before I met you, and it's what I'll continue to do, until…" She didn't define a deadline.

"I'm sorry," I tried to recover, "I didn't—I didn't mean it like that. I just—you're so hard on yourself. I worry about you."

"Yeah, well, join the fucking queue with Seren and everyone else."

It was so unlike her to snap at me, I hadn't known what to say. I chalked it up to stress and let it go. I didn't want her to shut me out completely. More than she already had.

The next day she apologized, and had called nearly every day since. Things almost felt normal.

Until this week.

Without warning, I'd been given complete radio silence.

With no explanation.

The previous weekend, I'd texted her, floating on cloud nine.

I've got incredible news!!!! Call me when you can!!!

I had a meeting with Steven Spielberg about a project kept entirely under wraps. A few months earlier, I'd tested to play the role of soccer legend, Mia Hamm, in an upcoming film about her life. I hadn't said anything to anyone, uncertain if it would pan out, but over a steaming pot of mint tea on the courtyard of Chateau Marmont, I'd finally gotten the green light from Mr. Spielberg himself.

There was no one I wanted to tell more than Dillon. It was the first role I'd landed that I thought she might find impressive.

It wouldn't be Sand Seekers , Spielberg warned me, acknowledging the drama was on the more low budget scale, but I hadn't cared. Dillon loved the American athlete. She used her as a frequent example of grit and tenacity. It was a part I knew I could play, and one I knew I could do well. For once, I felt, Dillon would be thrilled.

But a day went by, and then another, and she still didn't call. I left a couple voicemails. Another few texts. I'd started to panic last night, deciding to reach out to Seren this morning, but then I came across the livestream.

First, I'd been relieved, and then furious. Because there she was—home in London, alive and—despite the gauntness of her cheeks and darkened circles under her eyes—apparently well, just without the courtesy of three seconds to text me back.

Once again, I punched call on her contact, and once again, the phone rang—this time four rings before being sent to voicemail. Sent— as in, deliberately.

I left a final message. "Listen, I know you're getting ready to race, but do you think you could spare half a moment to call me? If I don't hear from you by this evening, I'm going to fly to London." I hung up and texted her the same thing. It wasn't an idle threat—and we both knew it.

She called a couple hours later.

"I'm glad you could finally squeeze me in," I answered, unable to hide my anger boiling over.

"I'm sorry." The words were toneless.

"Where have you been?"

"Home."

I waited, needing more than a single syllable. I needed an explanation. A reason why it took the threat of flying there to get her to respond.

"That's all you have to say?" I finally snapped, when the line remained silent. I hadn't planned to pick a fight with her. I'd just wanted her to call. But I thought she'd at least have an excuse—some kind of reason.

I've been training .

I've been focused.

I've been drunk .

I would have accepted any of those. Anything at all.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might worry?"

"I'm sorry, Kam."

Those fucking words again .

"Yeah, I can tell!" I hated that my voice wavered. And I hated it even more that I didn't have the guts to ask what I really wanted to know.

I needed her to tell me if we were finished. If it wasn't the race, or the disaster of my party, or my so-called friends, or this fucked up existence I lived in… But instead, if it was me—plain and simple. And if we were done.

But I couldn't bring myself to voice the concern. Not today, with Leeds in less than forty-eight hours. As angry as I was, I didn't want to burden her with any added stress. Any more additional pressure than she was already going through. After the race, whichever way it went… I'd ask her then.

For now, I needed to be supportive. To try and understand.

I took a deep breath. "I know you've got a lot on your mind—and when you're in this mood, you can't think about anyone but yourself—" okay, so I threw in one last dig. I couldn't help myself. "But please remember—there are a lot of people who love and care about you. Please don't close us out."

She was quiet.

"Well, okay, then. Good talk. I guess I'll hear from you when I hear from you—"

"Kam?"

I quieted. And waited.

And waited.

She didn't continue.

"Was there anything else?"

There was a longer silence. I could hear her swallow on the other end of the line. "Sorry, no. I'll call you after the race, okay?"

"You promise?" I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

"Yeah."

So much of me wanted to tell her everything would be alright. She was going to make it. If there was one thing I knew about her, it was she could do anything she put her mind to. After all: she was Dillon Fucking Sinclair.

But I didn't say any of it. I don't know why. Instead, I just said goodnight. She told me goodnight. And we hung up.

It was the first time in longer than I could remember that I hadn't told her I loved her when we said goodbye.

I wanted to hit redial. To tell her I was sorry. To beg her to let me come and support her. I didn't have to come to the race—the headlines about the two of us had finally subsided—I could just be there. Be near. In whatever capacity she'd allow me to be.

But I didn't call her back. I knew what she would say. It would be easier for her to focus without me there. Just give her until Saturday.

I got up and poured a glass of wine, deciding to bring the whole bottle back to the balcony.

I'd forgotten to tell her about Mia Hamm. Steven Spielberg.

It didn't matter. I'd tell her after she qualified.

Because she would qualify. She had to.

And after that, everything would be okay.

We were okay. She wasn't done with me. I knew that in my heart. She was just being Dillon. And I was just being dramatic.

Friday night, I got a text from her while I was up pacing my apartment. I double-checked my watch. It was almost midnight in Los Angeles, which meant it was early morning in Leeds. In less than half an hour, she would dive headfirst into the most important race of her life.

I swiped the text open, anxious. It was so unlike her to have her phone on—especially this close to the time of the start.

I'm sorry. I love you .

I breathed a sigh of relief, promptly texting her back.

I'm sorry, too. I was just worried. I love you. So much. You'll do great today. I'll be thinking about you the whole time. XOXO

The message went unread.

I set my phone on the kitchen counter and headed to the balcony. Just a few more hours and this would be over.

This part, at least.

Then…

Too far ahead .

I turned my focus to today—and today, only.

She could do this. She would do this.