Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
The waiter returns with two Diet cokes, and two glasses filled with ice. I take a sip, feeling the burn bloom on my tongue as Dylan sips his soda as well. For a second, I wonder if this is a date or a parody, but Dylan doesn’t seem to notice the tension in my smile.
He launches into a story about the swim team’s recent meet: a relay gone wrong, some drama about a missed signal, the way he powered through the anchor lap and “dragged their sorry asses to victory.” He does the voices, even changes his face to mimic the angry coach, and for a second I almost believe he’s fun.
I nod and laugh at the right moments, but my hands keep drifting to my phone, tracing the outline through the faux leather of my bag. The conversation is all momentum, no gravity. I try to inject a little of myself into it.
“So, how do you even get into swimming? Is it, like, a family thing, or did you just fall in love with chlorine?”
Dylan grins, and I see the dimple for the first time. It’s a nice dimple. “Started when I was four. I had a medical thing—my lungs were weak, and the doctor said it’d be good for me. Turns out, I liked winning more than I liked breathing. By the time I was ten, I wanted to be Michael Phelps. It’s all I ever really wanted.”
He flexes his hand, like he’s gripping the edge of a pool. “My dad said if I made the Olympic trials, he’d get a tattoo. Never thought he’d have to, but…this summer? He’s on the hook.”
I smile, this time for real. “That’s sweet. You gonna let him pick the design, or is it full creative control for you?”
He shrugs. “We’ll see. He says he wants the five rings, but if I qualify, I might make him get my face.”
We both laugh, and for a brief moment the whole world is just the table, the drinks, and the overlapping shadows of two people pretending to have a great time.
The waiter returns with menus. Dylan barely glances at his before ordering the seafood pasta; I ask for the chicken piccata and immediately feel self-conscious, like I should have gotten something less calorie-heavy.
As soon as the waiter leaves, Dylan’s back on his story grind, only now it’s about the team’s early morning training: wake up at 4:30, protein shake, three hours in the pool, then classes, then weights, then another two hours swimming, then study, then pass out. I realize I know more about his average day than I know about most of my family’s birthdays.
He pauses for breath. “So, what’s your major?” he asks.
“English,” I say. “But, like, the creative writing side, not the journalism one.”
He makes a face—respectful, but with a hint of mock horror. “That sounds brutal. Isn’t there, like, a ton of reading?”
“Mostly,” I say. “But I like it.”
Dylan nods. “I’d be dead. I hate reading. I get my news from YouTube, and the only thing I read on purpose is the back of cereal boxes.” He laughs, clearly proud of this. “But, like, do you want to be a writer?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think about teaching. Maybe editing. Or law school, if I’m desperate.”
He grins. “You’d be good at that. You’ve got a lawyer vibe.”
I nearly choke on my soda. “Is that a compliment?”
He leans forward, lowering his voice. “It’s a major compliment. All the best swimmers go into law. It’s, like, a tradition.”
I nod, not sure how to answer.
He talks more about swimming, about what it feels like to glide through water, how the world is “quiet and alive at the same time.” There’s poetry in the way he says it, but he doesn’t realize. He tells me about meets in California, about rivalries with other schools, about how he once set a pool record and celebrated by eating an entire extra-large pizza by himself.
Through all of it, he never asks about me. Not about my family, not about why I’m here on a Friday night, not about what I want to do with my life.
I count the ceiling tiles above his head. I trace the condensation on my glass. I listen to the chatter from other tables, each fragment of conversation more animated than the one I’m trapped in. I think about Liam, about what he’s doing right now. If he’s out with someone, if he’s home alone, if he’s even thought about me once since I left his classroom with my panties balled in my fist.
Dylan asks if I want to split a dessert. I say yes, even though I’m not hungry.
We get the tiramisu. It comes on a plate dusted with cocoa and gold leaf, a little pyramid of decadence. Dylan slices off a chunk with his fork, then offers me the first bite.