Chapter 1 - The Door We Came Back Through
The parking lot was almost empty when I turned the truck back around. The natatorium lights threw a pale blue square out onto the wet asphalt, and Ivy sat in the passenger seat with a towel over her shoulders and her hair still dripping down the back of her T-shirt. She'd lost her goggles again, the blue NICEACK pair she never let out of her sight, and she was sure she'd left them on the bench by lane three. Tamsin had stayed behind after practice to talk to the front desk about the meet schedule, at least that's what she'd told me in the bleachers an hour earlier while Ivy swam.
That was the contradiction I kept turning over without wanting to touch it. Tamsin never stayed late. She didn't like the chlorine smell in her sweater, didn't like the cold drive home. But tonight she'd kissed Ivy's damp forehead and said go ahead, I'll catch up, and she'd been standing a little too close to the pool edge when I glanced back, the coach beside her with his whistle catching the light.
My name is Daniel Hale, and I was fifty-four that night, still thinking I knew my marriage.
It was just past eight forty when I pushed through the glass doors again with Ivy's hand in mine. The air hit us warm and chemical, chlorine and echo. Our sneakers squeaked on the tile. The lanes were empty, blue water flat under the overheads, lane ropes bobbing a little. The bleachers rose dark and empty behind the pool and the scoreboard glowed down at nothing. I remember breathing in and hearing my own breath come back off the walls.
Then I saw them at the far edge, under that blue-teal wash. Tamsin in her cream knit sweater and dark pants, and Coach Rourke in his dark polo with the whistle lanyard against his chest and dark shorts, his arm around her waist, her head tipped toward his shoulder. Not talking about a meet schedule. Holding each other close in a way that didn't leave any room for misunderstanding. His hand was low on her back. Her eyes were closed.
I stopped walking. Ivy's wet sneakers made one more small squeak beside me, and then she went very still. I felt her fingers tighten in mine. She stared across the deck at the two adults who hadn't heard us yet, her brown hair pulled back and still wet, water beading on her skin, and her voice came out small and confused in all that echo.
"Coach Rucker?"
May you like
I heard myself answer before I could think. "Ivy."
It was meant to warn her. To hold her back. To stop whatever was about to happen from happening, even though it already had. Tamsin’s eyes snapped open. Rourke’s head turned toward the doors. For a half second nobody moved, the water lapping against the gutters, my breathing loud in my own ears, Ivy rooted to the tile with her towel slipping off one shoulder and her empty neck where those blue goggles should have been.
