I move my lips with the numbers as I count silently, and my heart slows down when I pass five. The rhythm is back to normal when I end at seven, and in a blink, Maddy is standing in front of me again.
“Those years when you were gone?” she says, the Elvis lip twitching—taunting me to kiss it. “Someone practiced skipping rocks,” she says, a slight waggle to her head.
I bite my bottom lip and squint my eyes at her, feeling nothing but the moment for real this time. All of those other times—everything I try—I’m not able to keep the demons at bay, but when I’m with Maddy there is nothing else.
“I hope you practiced jumping from rope swings, too,” I say, giving her exactly a half a second to catch on and stiffen her muscles in panic before I lift her over my shoulder and run up the hill. Her feet kick and her hands pound at my back, but her laughter fills the in-between—it fills up all of the blank space.
“You lost fair and square, Will Hollister,” she shouts between howls, trying to jerk loose of my hold. “This is cheating!”
“If I’m going to swim fifty meters in eighteen seconds, I’m going to need some motivation, Maddy. Time to see how that gorgeous fucking dress looks when it’s wet and clinging to your skin!” I shout, wrapping one arm around her waist and gripping the rope in my opposite hand as I kick off from the cliff’s edge.
Maddy shouts my name, and the sound of her voice echoes off the canyon wall, around the lake, through the trees, and right into my heart. I tug her close and her legs wrap around mine before I let go and send us flying out above the water. She lets go just as our toes begin to kick at the surface, and she rises up through the water quickly, splashing her arms wildly at me, making wave after wave, until she’s close enough that I pull her to me again.
I never get to see how the dress looks wet against her skin. I imagine it, but I don’t have time to look because my need to kiss her is too great. My mouth craves her, and when our lips crash together, it’s like breathing for the first time—it’s weightless.
It’s my joy.
I found it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maddy
“Are there always this many people at a press conference?” I clear my throat after I speak, extra nervous now that I hear the rasp in it. I’ve been fighting a cold all week. It won’t matter in the water tomorrow. I can convince my body it isn’t sick for two minutes. But speaking to a crowd, to lights and cameras? I’m not so sure I can muster enough energy for that.
“No idea. My first one, really.” My father shrugs with his response as I work to straighten the knot on his tie. His movement forces it askew again, and I let my hands fall in defeat with my sigh.
“Sorry,” he grimaces, pulling both ends loose and holding them out for me to try again. “You know your mom can’t tie them either.”
“I know,” I say with a roll of my eyes, pausing with my eyes giving him a sideways glance. I laugh lightly and tug both ends of his tie, forcing them straight.
“You had interviews and stuff when you and Mom went to trials…and at the Olympics,” I say, tugging one last time, satisfied that at least I no longer could see the half of his tie that’s hidden in the back.
“It was a different time. We had the press, guys with notebooks, and maybe a camera. Today’s world is on people’s phones, though. Have you looked at that podium?” he asks.
I glance through the curtains, where the spotlight shines down on the wooden stand with a single mic, the surface covered in cellphones.
“That’s how they do it now,” my dad says, shaking his head.
I walk with my dad to the edge of the stage, a few other swimmers filing into their rows of seats. Only a few of us will get questions—me…Will.
“Can he handle this?” my dad asks.
Will was a different man all week. He was driven like he was that first time I saw him race when we started camp weeks ago, but his spirit was lighter. He still got lost in the moment—and those things he fights for, they’ll probably never go away. His brother…his parents—they’re his ghosts, and ghosts don’t leave. They only fade.
“We talked a lot last night, about the questions he knows are coming,” I say.
“Can he talk about Evan? Without feeling defensive?” My father quirks a brow at me, his hand gripping the rope near the stage curtain.
I smirk at him, realizing as I do—Elvis lip.
“He’ll say nicer things about Evan than I will,” I say.
My father puts his arm around me, urging me to step toward the stage with him.
“You and me both, sweetheart,” he says, a rumble of a laugh coming from his chest.
I step up on my toes and kiss my father on the cheek, then find my way to my seat. My palms are sweating—I wish instead of this press conference I would just swim extra laps for the public while people filmed me. That’s what I’m good at. Cameras…they’re…invasive I guess?