Page 153 of The Unfinished Line

The next time she called, it was in the middle of her night. I’d answered, terrified something had happened, but she’d shrugged off my alarm. “Just couldn’t sleep.” She’d sounded dull. Tired. Part of me had wondered if she was drunk, but I didn’t have the heart to ask.

Instead, I’d committed a far greater blunder. I’d voiced the question gnawing at me ever since she left.

“You’re not doing this because of what Dani said, right? You know you don’t have to prove anything to—”

“You really think I care what that cunt said?” she cut me off, and I knew at once I’d made a mistake. “You realize this is what I do, Kam, right? It’s what I did, way before I met you, and it’s what I’ll continue to do, until…” She didn’t define a deadline.

“I’m sorry,” I tried to recover, “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—you’re so hard on yourself. I worry about you.”

“Yeah, well, join the fucking queue with Seren and everyone else.”

It was so unlike her to snap at me, I hadn’t known what to say. I chalked it up to stress and let it go. I didn’t want her to shut me out completely. More than she already had.

The next day she apologized, and had called nearly every day since. Things almost felt normal.

Until this week.

Without warning, I’d been given complete radio silence.

With no explanation.

The previous weekend, I’d texted her, floating on cloud nine.

I’ve got incredible news!!!! Call me when you can!!!

I had a meeting with Steven Spielberg about a project kept entirely under wraps. A few months earlier, I’d tested to play the role of soccer legend, Mia Hamm, in an upcoming film about her life. I hadn’t said anything to anyone, uncertain if it would pan out, but over a steaming pot of mint tea on the courtyard of Chateau Marmont, I’d finally gotten the green light from Mr. Spielberg himself.

There was no one I wanted to tell more than Dillon. It was the first role I’d landed that I thought she might find impressive.

It wouldn’t beSand Seekers, Spielberg warned me, acknowledging the drama was on the more low budget scale, but I hadn’t cared. Dillon loved the American athlete. She used her as a frequent example of grit and tenacity. It was a part I knew I could play, and one I knew I could do well. For once, I felt, Dillon would be thrilled.

But a day went by, and then another, and she still didn’t call. I left a couple voicemails. Another few texts. I’d started to panic last night, deciding to reach out to Seren this morning, but then I came across the livestream.

First, I’d been relieved, and then furious. Because there she was—home in London, alive and—despite the gauntness of her cheeks and darkened circles under her eyes—apparently well, just without the courtesy of three seconds to text me back.

Once again, I punchedcallon her contact, and once again, the phone rang—this time four rings before being sent to voicemail.Sent—as in, deliberately.

I left a final message. “Listen, I know you’re getting ready to race, but do you think you could spare half a moment to callme? If I don’t hear from you by this evening, I’m going to fly to London.” I hung up and texted her the same thing. It wasn’t an idle threat—and we both knew it.

She called a couple hours later.

“I’m glad you could finally squeeze me in,” I answered, unable to hide my anger boiling over.

“I’m sorry.” The words were toneless.

“Where have you been?”

“Home.”

I waited, needing more than a single syllable. I needed an explanation. A reason why it took the threat of flying there to get her to respond.

“That’s all you have to say?” I finally snapped, when the line remained silent. I hadn’t planned to pick a fight with her. I’d just wanted her to call. But I thought she’d at least have an excuse—some kind of reason.

I’ve been training.

I’ve been focused.

I’ve been drunk.

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