July (23 months since the biggest mistake of my life)
As much as Aaron loves me, I’m pretty sure he loves his privacy and his ability to have sex with his boyfriend whenever he wants more, which means I’m looking for an apartment of my own to move in to.
I’ve been putting it off; not because I particularly enjoy living on Aaron’s couch—though it’s a ridiculously comfortable couch—but because finding my own apartment feels permanent somehow. If I sign a lease, I’m stuck in Dallas for the next year, working my ass off six evenings a week at a bar and probably picking up a day job as well to make ends meet.
It's a big change from where I was two years ago. When Martin brought me to Ohio, I felt like a fairy-tale princess, whisked off my feet. But if we’re following that metaphor, then Jeremy is my Prince Charming, and that thought makes me grimace a little, because I don’t think anyone would use the word charming to describe Jeremy Reeve. Plus, my story didn’t get a fairy-tale ending.
So, an apartment it is.
The first place I look is in Oak Cliff, which is near Aaron’s apartment. Close enough that I’ll have the support of my best friend around, but far enough away that I won’t feel like I’m crowding him. It’s not the best neighborhood, but it’s getting better each year.
For what I can afford, it’s basically a shoebox . . . but it’s bigger than the prison cell I had in Ohio.
When I mention this to Aaron, he rolls his eyes. He’s tagging along with me to check out apartments, but he isn’t much help. “I don’t get why you stuck it out there for two years.”
The wrong answer is Because of Jeremy, so I just shrug. “Hey, I got my degree out of it, didn’t I?”
“Could’ve done that in Austin.”
“Sure, but I learned a lot while I was in Ohio, too. It made me a better athlete.”
Aaron looks at me, lips twisted. “You never cared about diving before you went up there and met Skeleton Boy.”
That’s not quite true. I enjoyed diving and the adrenaline rush it gave me. I had fun doing it, though I never thought of myself as a diver, just as a guy who dives. But I don’t actually want to get into it right now.
My phone rings while we’re visiting apartment number three, which is a nice one-bedroom that I can barely afford . . . if I live off ramen noodles and never use the heat or electricity. Which, considering it’s scraping the triple-digits on the thermometer today, isn’t gonna happen.
I’m half expecting it to be my boss asking me to come in and work—we’ve been short-staffed lately—but the caller ID makes my stomach turn.
“Hey, I need to take this,” I tell Aaron.
Ducking out into the blistering sun is like walking into an oven. It’s mostly a dry heat today, so it’s not as bad as it could be when the humidity really gets going, but even in the shade there’s sweat beading at the back of my neck and beneath my arms.
“Hello?”
For the second time in two weeks, Val’s voice is on the other end. “Hi, Brandon.”
She’s only texted me once since taking the job in Ohio, a quick message to let me know she was settling in. She hadn’t mentioned Jeremy then, but my heartbeat picks up a bit now, because there’s no other reason for her to be calling.
“I only have a minute,” I tell her.
“Perfect. That’s all I have too, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
I glance back at the apartment, and see Aaron standing in the door. His face says, This is supposed to be your apartment-hunting trip, not mine. I need to get back inside.
“Heads-up about what?”
Val sounds pleased. “The August issue of Sports Illustrated comes out one week from today.”
Um, what? “Okay?” I draw the word out.
“Y’know, in case you weren’t aware.”
She’s so obviously hiding something that I don’t even know where to start. “Is there a reason I should be aware of this useful bit of Jeopardy trivia?”
“Maybe. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Sure, Val.” Aaron motions for me to wrap it up. “I gotta go.”
“No problem. Take care, Brandon.”
I tuck the phone back into my pocket and rejoin Aaron in air-conditioned nirvana, but I’m only half-paying attention as we finish looking at the apartment that I really can’t afford. It’s nice, but my mind is still on Val’s purposefully vague phone call.
What the hell does it matter if a magazine comes out next week?
I turn the question over in my head as Aaron and I finally get back to his truck. There’s one more apartment to check out, but it’s my least favorite on the list I made up, so I’m not feeling optimistic.
What was Val hinting at?
It hits me as I’m walking through the last apartment, a tiny studio with a view of an alleyway, in a super dodgy part of town.
When I saw Val’s name on the caller ID, I was certain she was calling to talk to me about Jeremy. Except she didn’t . . . or did she?
Is Jeremy going to be in Sports Illustrated?
I knew from googling him—well, okay, from Aaron googling him, way back when he first found out about my crush on my diving partner—that Jeremy had been interviewed by S.I. before. But why wouldn’t Val just flat-out say that?
And, more importantly: why should I care? Jeremy dumped me, and he’s out of my life now. To read an article about him, probably something about his path to the Olympics, would only cause me more pain.
I chew that over for the next few days. Aaron isn’t pushing me to pick an apartment, which is good because I can’t find one that I like and that I can afford. My mind is an overflowing jumble of work, trying to find a place to live, and the weird phone call from Val that I can’t figure out.
Five days after Val called me, I’m getting ready for work when my phone rings.
I glance at the caller ID and my blood freezes. I only know one person with a Chicago area code, and I deleted his number back in May. But I’d still recognize those ten digits even without a name attached, and having them light up on my screen is causing my brain to misfire.
I’m so confused by what I’m seeing that the call rings to voice mail. After a minute, I realize that there’s no message. There’s nothing to explain why Jeremy would be calling me now, after all this time. And as much as I want to call him back and hear his voice, I’m suddenly terrified to even touch my phone, let alone dial his number.
Eventually I finish getting dressed for work, moving in a bit of a daze. My phone doesn’t ring again, and I pocket it warily as I walk out the door.
The next day, there’s another call. I don’t hear the phone ring because it’s in the kitchen, and I’m arguing with Aaron in the living room.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” he says.
What I hear, though, is I don’t want to keep watching you do this to yourself. I run my hands through my hair in exasperation. “I told you I’d be out by August first. You won’t have to watch me do anything after that.” That’s a week away, and I don’t actually have a lease yet, but I’m trying not to think about that.
Aaron’s hands twitch, like he wants to mimic what I’ve just done . . . or maybe just strangle me. Probably a fifty-fifty chance, either way. “It’s not that, Bran. I told you: I don’t care if you stay for another month.”
I have no idea what he’s getting at, and say as much.
“All you do is work and come home. You watch TV, you make dinner, you go to bed. Rinse, repeat, every day.”
“I went out with some of the guys from work last night!”
“You went out because I told you I wanted to have sex and didn’t want you listening in from the living room.”
Okay, fair enough. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.” The apartment in Oak Cliff is still available, the one I can’t really afford. I have enough in savings to cover the first month and deposit, thanks to living with Aaron, and I can get a second job to help cover the rest of it going forward.
Aaron throws his hands up. “It’s like you aren’t hearing a word I say.”
I do, but I don’t understand them. “Just tell me what you want from me,” I beg. I’ve been so lost and confused since I got back to Dallas, and having Aaron mad at me is like the straw that’s gonna break the camel’s back.
“I want you to do something. Anything. Get a hobby. Volunteer somewhere. Meet someone new.” Aaron swallows. “Shit, you should dive again. There’s gotta be a swimming pool nearby that’s free, and it’s hot as hell out anyways.”
I sit on the couch heavily. Val had said the same thing when she called me.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to dive yet,” I say, and leave it at that.
When I finally get to my phone ten minutes later, I’ve long-since missed the call from the same Chicago number.
I stare at it for minutes, though it feels like hours. There’s a message this time, and my fingers are shaking when I hit the little triangle to play it.
“Hey. Um, hi, Brandon.” I have to lean against the counter or risk collapsing. Black spots dot my vision, and I realize that I’m holding my breath. “It’s Jeremy. You probably knew that. Shit. Sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll try again another time.”
That’s it. Less than ten seconds.
Hearing Jeremy’s voice has shaken me to the core. Just when you thought you were over him.
Then, suddenly, I’m angry. Angry at Jeremy for calling me like this, and at Val for going back to him like she’s choosing a side. I’m angry at Aaron for pushing me to do more when all I want is to get over my heartbreak in peace.
And I’m angry at myself for feeling every single one of those things.
Aaron’s watching TV when I find the strength to walk back out of the kitchen. He glances up when I hover in the doorway.
“Hey, you mind if I borrow your truck tomorrow?”
Diving again after two months without is not like riding a bicycle.
I’m out of shape. Not badly—I exercise and go to the gym in the afternoons before my shift, and hefting trays of beer bottles and glasses over my head is a solid upper-body workout. But I used to put in thirty hours a week or more training with Andrey, and now I’ve lost some of that muscle tone and flexibility.
Still, standing on the edge of the platform is utterly familiar and strangely comforting.
I made a few phone calls and finally found a pool with a platform tower that would let me dive without being a member of a local club. There’s a group of teenagers and preteens who are diving on the springboard when I arrive, but by the time I’ve changed and climbed to the top of the ten-meter, they’re done and the pool is mine.
Starting off on the ten-meter is probably not the best idea, but I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy, and it’s amazing how quickly it comes back to me. I start off easy, a couple of inward pikes and a forward two and a half somersaults, tucked, once I’m sure I won’t embarrass myself.
By the time I’ve moved to trying an armstand, I’ve collected a small audience; the kids who haven’t been picked up by their parents yet are sitting along the edge of the pool, watching. I surface from my two somersaults with one and a half twists to a smattering of applause.
“You’re awesome!” one of the kids says. He looks like he’s maybe twelve.
I laugh. “I’m all right. You should see my friend Jeremy, though. He’s way better than I am.”
The kids’ eyes go wide. “Jeremy Reeve?” a girl asks.
I have to blink off my surprise. “Uh, yeah.”
The girl sounds awed. “He’s going to the Olympics.”
I know this, because I looked up the qualification trial results last night, feeling weak and ashamed for even caring. They only confirmed what I’d already suspected, though: Jeremy is getting a chance to make his dream come true.
“Yeah, he’s pretty fantastic.”
The kids are all excited that I’m friends with Jeremy, and I’m not mean enough to explain to a bunch of kids that when I said “friend,” what I really meant was, “the guy who broke my heart because he’s a cold-hearted bastard.”
Eventually parents show up, and the kids are ushered away. But the thought of diving more doesn’t appeal to me. Still, I feel like I’ve made some kind of progress. Now all I’m thinking about is when I’ll find time to get back to the pool again.
I change and start walking back to my car, but get sidetracked by a gas station across the road.
Val’s words come back to me, and I realize with a start: the Sports Illustrated issue is out today.
My feet are moving before I’ve made the conscious decision to buy the magazine. I haven’t signed the lease for the apartment in Oak Cliff yet, but once I do, I’ll have about twenty bucks left in my bank account. Spending five of that on a magazine is a dumb idea, yet minutes later I’m picking up the Olympic Special issue and walking to the counter to pay.
The magazine sits beside me, a silent temptation, while I drive back across town to Aaron’s apartment. He’s not home, and I kick off my shoes, hang up my wet swimsuit to dry, and pull some food out of the freezer to defrost before I finally allow myself to flip through the pages.
It’s a typical sports magazine: Articles about the upcoming football season, a photo spread of several hot women in swimsuits, all that jazz. There’s a section profiling some of the United States athletes, and I slow down to flip through these carefully. The basketball team, a famous swimmer, the gymnasts.
I turn the page, and Jeremy is staring back at me. In the glossy full-color page, his hair shines like gold and his eyes are bright. He looks really damn good.
Fuck.
He has a half-page interview, and it physically hurts to read it. I can hear his words as he talks to the interviewer: Yeah, I missed out four years ago, so it’s all the more exciting to have made the team this year, while smiling widely, or I couldn’t have done anything without Andrey coaching me. He really believed in me even after my injury, with fondness in his voice.
Then I reach the end of the interview.
I think the most important part of being an Olympic athlete is having a strong team around you. In my head, Jeremy is solemn when he speaks, and his eyes are ultra-focused on the interviewer. I have Andrey; my best friend, Val, who’s recently come on as my physical therapist; and my boyfriend, Brandon—who also dives synchro with me. What’s most important is making them proud. The gold medal would just be icing on the cake.
I put the article down.
I stand up, pace the living room back and forth.
The magazine taunts me from the coffee table, still open to show Jeremy’s warm brown eyes.
My phone buzzes, but it’s only my manager, asking if I want to come in a few hours early tonight.
I don’t respond.
Instead, I dial a number and, with numb fingers, connect the call.