Page 41 of Racing Hearts

“Let me walk you,” he says.

Bad idea. That’s a bad idea. I should have ended this evening nearly two hours ago and not neglected my evening recovery routine. I open my mouth to say so, but instead what comes out is: “Okay.” And then: “I’d like that.”

Thirteen

The last traces of sunset have already drained from the sky, casting low buildings into indigo silhouettes. The fading warmth of daytime soaks my limbs even as a cool breeze ruffles my braid. Maybe it’s the summer air, humming with possibility, or the high I’m still riding from my string of Skee-Ball victories, but I’m relaxed in a way that I shouldn’t be, especially considering the fact that I missed my evening foam-rolling session.

“Can I ask you something?” Adrian says as we pick our way past a pair of street musicians throwing a melancholy song into the twilight sky.

He presses a bill into the velvet lining of an open guitar case. It’s the tiniest gesture, but it reminds me of my mom and her sincere appreciation for anything artistic. I think she would like Adrian, if they ever met.

“Sure,” I say.

“I don’t want this to sound wrong, though.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ve already pried about you and the job.”

“Okay.” He hesitates for a moment longer, then says: “In Italy…when I asked if you were considering quitting, you said no.”

I snort. “I believe what I said was someone would have to tear my cold, dead hands from my oars.”

It’s one of the only things about that night that doesn’t coat me with embarrassment.

Adrian smiles. “That’s right. Well, what I’m wondering is…why not?”

I pause, considering.

“I have a lot of goals for rowing. Making the finals at Worlds. Racing in the Olympics. In my biggest dreams, standing on the podium there, too. And, yeah, all of those goals involve winning, but to be honest, that’s not why I row. Or why I keep rowing. Like, despite all the pain and heartache, I row because I love the predictability of my daily routine, the calm I feel when I get on the water. Rowing makes everything else go quiet.” I glance at him. “Winning is good, too. My collection of medals is probably the first thing I’d save in a fire. But even if I somehow knew that I would never stand on another podium, I would still want to row.”

A bus exhales a group of chattering college students as Adrian considers.

“I still remember the way you said it in Italy. That winning is about more than the thrill of victory. I’ll be honest, I didn’t believe you at the time.”

“Because rowing isn’t just my life,” I say. “It’s me. Quitting it would be like quitting a part of myself.”

Adrian’s eyebrows flash upward. “Damn.”

“Too much?”

“Not at all. As usual, you’re just the right amount of extremely fucking impressive.”

My cheeks heat to the point that I’m relieved for the cool evening air. “Well, anyway. That’s why I’m here. Living with my mom. Taking three hundred steps backward so maybe one day, I can go forward again.”

“I’m sure it’s nice for her,” he says, and I’m relieved he’s letting me change the subject. “To have you home, I mean.”

“That’s true,” I say. “And it’s nice for me, too. To be home with her. Between training and racing, it’s been years since we’ve spent more than a few days in a row together.”

I can feel Adrian’s next question radiating in the thud of his footsteps, the faraway rumble of traffic up Shattuck Avenue. The next question is obvious: What about your dad? Most people don’t have any reservations about asking that question—it’s as natural as asking if you’re married, if you have kids. But for someone who is recently divorced or who lost a child, those simple questions are anything but harmless. It’s the same with a parent, no matter how many years have passed since you spoke to them.

Adrian doesn’t ask. But his silence, and the dispassionate way he’s asked his questions, make me want to keep talking.

“My dad left when I was young,” I explain. “Mom was a professional dancer. She was on the verge of making it big—she had been a guest with San Francisco Ballet and was offered a permanent spot. It was all too much for him, though. The long hours, the travel. She quit dancing to save their marriage. But by then, it was too late.”

Of all my mom’s breakups—the dozens of small chips that have torn away at the foundation of her life—that is the heartbreak I’ll never forget.

Mom and Dad were supposed to go to a New Year’s Eve party, but they’d been arguing all day. Dad kept slamming cabinets and shouting about priorities. Mom was sobbing, then yelling back about how much she’d already given up. When the babysitter rang the doorbell, Mom was still in her robe, cheeks blotchy and stained with mascara-black tears. I heard Dad say they weren’t feeling well, then the babysitter’s car rolled away. I spent the night shivering under my bedsheets, listening to them argue over the occasional percussive thud of a distant firework.

The next morning, I awoke to the echo of the front door slamming. Downstairs, Mom stood in the living room, fingers shaking, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. When she saw me, she lost her balance and crumpled onto the carpet. I knelt next to her, patting her back, and puffing up my slight shoulders, hoping I’d be strong enough to hold her weight.