January (7 months until the Olympics)
January would be a depressing month of nothing but gray skies and bitter, icy weather, except for three things: I’m diving incredibly well in practice, the Olympic qualification trials are in a month at the FINA World Cup, and I spend the majority of my nights with Brandon.
The first two are the most important part, and Brandon smiles fondly when I tell him that.
“I know,” he says. “I get it.”
I bite my lip and feel guilt twist in my stomach. I’ve watched a lot of movies with Brandon over the last few months, and Hollywood tells me that I should probably rank my relationship higher than anything else. “It’s just that diving is all I’ve had for so long, and—”
Brandon puts his finger over my lip, and his eyes are full of understanding. “I get it, babe.”
I’m thankful that Brandon understands what diving means to me. That he doesn’t expect me to change who I am and what I want in life.
We had to shift our practice schedule around for the new semester, to fit in better with our classes. One more semester to go. It’s weird, when I think about it. Come this summer, I’m going to be graduating college . . . and hopefully heading to the Olympics.
“What’s with the hopefully?” Brandon asks when I bring it up one afternoon. We’re eating lunch together, just the two of us. Val usually joins us, but today she has a headache and went home to lie down for a few hours.
“I mean, it’s not guaranteed.” Four years ago I assumed I would be going to the Olympics as a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old . . . and look how that turned out.
Brandon raises an eyebrow. “I thought you definitely got to go, because you won the World Championships.”
I did secure a spot for the United States this past summer in Germany. Other Americans competed as well, and we netted USA Diving quite a few places for the Olympics. But it’s not as simple as Brandon makes it sound.
For one thing, we still have a chance to secure more spots for the US, including at least one spot for a synchro pair. The last chance for us to do that is at the FINA World Cup in February. This year it’s being held in Toronto—where the Olympics are being held as well—which means we’ll get a chance to see all of the Olympic venues as they’re being completed.
And then there will be another round of qualifications at the end of June, at which time USA Diving will determine who gets to fill those spots and actually go to the Olympics. Usually it’s the same diver or synchro pair who qualified previously, but stranger things have happened; just look at four years ago for an example.
So I’m nervous.
“Are you excited to go to Canada?”
Brandon snorts and takes a sip of his water. “I guess. Mostly I’m exhausted when I look at the next few months. Toronto for the qualifications, and then another four World Series stops? And it seems like the second we get back from the last World Series competition, we’re taking finals, graduating, and then it’s the Olympics. Like . . . damn. I want to take a nap just thinking about it.”
I forget, sometimes, how differently Brandon and I approach diving. Because as he lists off all of the huge events coming up, my adrenaline kicks in and I sit up straighter. The thought doesn’t wear me out . . . it gets me wide-awake and excited.
Although, now that I think about it, Val hasn’t been super excited about the upcoming competitions either. I would have expected the same level of enthusiasm from her as I’ve had, but instead she’s been more like Brandon, looking tired whenever Andrey mentions travel plans.
“I don’t think Val wants to go to the Olympics,” I say.
Brandon stares at me, waiting.
I peel an orange and start splitting it into slices. “I always thought she wanted to be an Olympic champion. It’s all we used to talk about when we were growing up. And I knew it was her mother’s dream, but I figured it was hers too.”
“She’s planning to retire completely from diving after the Olympics.”
Brandon’s words are a softly spoken bombshell. I knew she’d been thinking about it, but the confirmation coming more than half a year before the Olympics is unexpected.
“She told you that?”
He shrugs and focuses on his sandwich, eyes narrowing as if he’s debating whether to say anything else. “I overheard her talking to one of the physical therapists.” With our ramped-up training schedule, we’ve been having PT sessions and massages weekly to make sure we’re not doing irreparable harm to our bodies. “Asking him questions about how to get a job as a PT, certifications, all of that.”
I chew on the orange because it’s something to do, but I don’t taste anything. “But she hasn’t said anything to you about it?”
Brandon shakes his head.
“Val and I never talk about this,” I say, swallowing around a bite. “We’ve always shared everything, you know? But the only things we never talk about are the fact that she would rather use her degree than keep diving, and my—” I still stumble over the words, even after all that’s happened “—my sexuality.”
“She’ll come to you when she’s ready.”
I’m not convinced.
“Hey.” Brandon leans forward, grinning. “We have two hours before class. Wanna go back to your place and fool around?”
My smile hits before I can remember that I’m upset. “Yeah, okay.” Because it’s a depressing month, and I’m worried about Val, but if I can’t be diving right now, then Brandon’s the perfect way to cheer up.
Brandon doesn’t show up to practice one day at the end of January.
Andrey doesn’t seem upset, so I go on with my cardio workout and do a couple of hours of basics: somersaults on the mats, and practicing twists on the trampoline. Sometimes one of us has to miss training—usually because of a class assignment or tests—so I assume Brandon had something unexpected come up.
By the time we finish, it’s lunch and I have to dash to class, my hair damp from a quick shower and freezing in the winter air. I manage to shoot a text off to Brandon before class starts, but by the time my lab is over, there’s still no reply.
There are two choices: I could do the pile of homework and reading that I need to get done before tomorrow, or I can sacrifice my two free hours and try to track him down.
It says a lot about how far gone I am for Brandon that I choose the latter.
He doesn’t answer when I knock on the door of his dorm room, but I can hear music faintly inside. So I dig out my keys, find the one Brandon gave me just before Christmas—“In case of an emergency!”—and let myself in.
The room is dark and stuffy. It’s also depressingly small, which is why we rarely spend time here together, and why Brandon prefers to come to my apartment as much as possible.
There’s a lump on the bed, curled up beneath a scratchy old flannel blanket I know Brandon found at a thrift shop.
I close the door quietly behind me, then sit down on the edge of the bed. Brandon’s hair is sweaty, and his forehead is warm. In the dim light, I can tell that his eyes are moving restlessly behind his eyelids.
There’s a box of generic painkillers and tissues that feel like sandpaper on the nightstand. A can of soup sits next to a dirty bowl by the microwave on the counter.
“Oh, Brandon.”
Homework is completely forgotten. I grab my coat and shoes and leave again right away. When I get back, I have bags weighing down both of my arms, and Brandon hasn’t moved an inch.
I’m not a great cook, and Brandon has only a microwave, a minifridge, and a hot plate that I know from my own time in the dorms is against the rules. But I do have a phone that can pull up recipes, and a determination that Brandon often says is unrivaled by anyone he’s ever met.
First things first, though. I dig out the medicine that I bought, something specifically for cold and fever instead of the plain, probably expired bottle of aspirin.
“Brandon, hey, wake up for a minute?”
He stirs when I gently nudge his shoulder, bloodshot eyes squinting open. “Jer?” His voice is raspy.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
He groans. “Texted Andrey. ’M okay.”
This again. I sigh. “We’re going to have a long talk once you’re better about how you’re supposed to ask for help when you need it. For now, open your mouth.”
It’s a sign of how sick he is that I don’t get a dirty joke about that. He lets me slip a pill on his tongue, gratefully swallows the cold water I bring him, and sinks back into his pillow.
“I’m going to take care of you until you’re better.”
Brandon smiles at me, eyes almost completely closed. “Kay.”
I run a hand through his hair again, then stand to start making him something healthier than a can of sodium-drenched soup.
“Love you,” he mumbles.
My heart hammers against my rib cage. I stop dead and turn to look at him.
But Brandon is already sound asleep again, that weak smile still visible.
When I wake him an hour later and help him sit up to eat, he doesn’t seem to remember saying those two words.
I remember though. And I think back to December, and feel something in my chest expand.
If you handed me an Olympic gold medal right now, I don’t think it would make me any happier than I already am.
Because I’m in love with Brandon Evans.
And he loves me back.