Chapter 13 - The Bleachers Empty
She'd texted that morning and asked if I would meet her at the natatorium to get her gym bag. She'd left it in the bleachers the night everything went wrong, and the front desk had held it. She didn't want to go alone, she said. I didn't want to go at all, but I told her six o'clock, before the evening lessons started. That way we'd have the place mostly to ourselves.
The air hit me first when we pushed through the glass doors. Chlorine and cold. The overheads were only half on, and the water sat flat and too blue under them. The scoreboard was dark. Our footsteps carried all the way across the deck.
Her bag was up in the third row where she'd said, a gray duffel slumped against the aluminum bench. She picked it up and held it against her stomach like a shield. She was wearing jeans and a dark coat, not the cream sweater. I was glad for that. I didn't think I could have that conversation looking at that sweater.
"I told Ivy I'd be back before her show was over," I said. "So let's walk."
We started along the edge of the bleachers, not looking at the pool. The empty lanes stretched out beside us. I could hear the filter humming and my own breathing a little too loud.
For a while neither of us said anything. Then she stopped and set the bag down at her feet.
"I didn't plan it," she said. "I know how that sounds."
I didn't answer. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jacket.
"It was late nights," she went on. Her voice was low and it echoed faintly off the block wall. "You were working late. Ivy had practice and then homework and then bed, and I was just sitting up there." She nodded at the seats. "He'd talk to me after he locked the office. Ask about my day. Nobody'd asked me that in a long time. I liked being noticed."
I looked at her then. Her hair was pulled back and her eyes were tired. "You were lonely," I said.
"Yes." She swallowed. "I told myself it wasn't anything because we never — it was just talking at first. Then it wasn't. I'm not trying to make it okay."
I stared at the dark scoreboard so I wouldn't stare at her. The red lights were out, just black glass. I could see our reflections faint in it.
"I was wrong to hit him," I said. "I've said that to Ivy and I'll say it to the director again if I have to. I lost control and I shouldn't have."
She nodded quickly.
"But that doesn't fix what you did," I said. "You let our daughter think you didn't care if you watched her swim. She said it herself. You only come when I swim. She'd already counted it up. Do you understand what that does?"
Tamsin's mouth tightened. She pressed her palms together. "I know."
We walked a few more steps. A door banged somewhere deep in the locker room hallway and then it was quiet again.
"I can't live like the last two weeks," I said. "Sleeping in the den and checking what time your car pulls in. Ivy listening for it too. That's over."
"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice shook a little on the last word.
I stopped and faced her. I kept my breathing slow on purpose. "I want a trial separation in the house. I stay in the den. We don't act like a couple for Ivy or anybody else. No physical stuff. We tell her we're working on things and that's all."
She looked down at her shoes. "Okay."
"And counseling," I said. "Not just one visit. I already called the guy Dr. Patel recommended. He has Tuesday and Thursday. I want us both there. If you won't go, then I have my answer."
"I'll go," she said fast. "I will."
"I need full transparency," I said. "Phones open. Schedules shared. No late stays here unless it's Ivy's practice and I'm with you. No texts you delete."
She flinched at that, but she nodded. "You can check anything."
I picked up her bag and handed it to her. It was heavier than it looked.
"And you step back from this pool," I said. "No coming to watch from the bleachers, no talking to parents about lessons. If Ivy swims, I take her. You give her space to like it again without wondering if you're here for her or for him."
Tears came into her eyes and she didn't wipe them. "I already told the booster group I'm out," she said. "I won't come back in this building unless you ask me to."
"There's one more thing," I said. "You write Ivy an apology. Not a long excuse. Just that you weren't there the way a mom should be, and you're sorry, and you'll do better. She can read it when she's ready. No talk about Rourke in it. That's ours to carry, not hers."
Tamsin gripped the strap of the bag with both hands. "I started one last night. I didn't know how to finish it. I'll finish it."
The pool lights buzzed faintly above us. Someone laughed out in the lobby, then a whistle blew twice from the far office, early for lessons. Our time was up.
I walked her toward the glass doors. She stopped before we reached them, like she wanted to say something else or step closer. I stepped back and held the door open instead.
May you like
"I'll see you Tuesday," I said. "At the counselor's. Drive safe."
She nodded and walked past me into the parking lot without touching me. I watched her go to her car alone, then I turned and looked back once at the empty bleachers and the dark board above them before I let the door close.
