Page 157 of The Unfinished Line

And shut off her phone.

As she stepped onto the bus, she heard the start horn blow. Leeds was underway, with one less swimmer in the water.

Scene 51

The soundscape of the tranquil Polynesian coast faded as the buzz of a motorboat engine grew louder.

I groaned, trying to block out the noise. The breeze was so fresh, the warmth of Dillon’s body beside me so comforting. I wasn’t ready to wake up. I pressed my face into the nape of her neck, inhaling her essence. Wanting to live in the peacefulness of it forever.

But the buzz grew louder. What was a motorboat doing so close to the shore? Or was it the hymn of the island cicadas?

I was no longer sure.

Reluctant, I pried open an eye. It was dark. The birdsong vanished, taking with it the rustle of palm trees and distant hum of music from the resort. I wasn’t on a tropical island. Dillon wasn’t lying alongside me in the warm white sands of Tetiaroa.

I was home—whatever that word meant—lying on the chaise lounge of my balcony, and it was the middle of the night. I rummaged for my phone to check the time and realized it was still sitting on the kitchen counter. The vibration against the tiles had woken me.

Stumbling over an empty bottle of wine, I lunged to my feet, quickly forced to steady myself against the glass door as dizziness threatened to upheave my equilibrium. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep. It had to be late. Judging by the moonin the cloudless sky, I imagined it was at least two—I dragged myself to the kitchen, swiping up my phone—threein the morning.3:19to be exact.

The race would have been over for more than an hour.

I hadn’t been able to bring myself to watch. My heart couldn’t take it. She’d told me she felt strong enough—healthy enough—she felt she had a shot to win it. Even her coach, Alistair, had echoed the sentiment.

“Sinc’s fitness is on par with her pre-injury results. I expect her to put in a strong standing,” he said in an interview earlier in the week.

So instead of tearing my hair out, agonizing over her every footfall, analyzing her every grimace, I washed down a Xanax with a bottle of Château Margaux (Hollywood had stamped its firm imprint on me) and took sentry on my balcony to channel all my positive energy to the north of England.

That had been more than three hours ago.

God damn it.

Without allowing myself to look at the notifications on my screen, I staggered through the dark back to my balcony. Whatever the results, I wanted the salty sea air, the ocean of stars, the unfettering pull of the tide to surround me.

Part of my consciousness was still lingering in the tropical buoyancy of my dream. In the way I’d felt Dillon’s presence. Warm. Soothing.

It was a good omen, surely.

Settled at the glass railing, with one final plea to the moon to let the results be what she—whatwe—needed, I swiped open my screen.

Seven missed calls. Not one of them from Dillon. My heart plummeted.

Fuck.

12:03: Seren Sinclair

12:17: Sam Huntley

12:25: Sam Huntley

12:37: Seren Sinclair

01:01: Jacqueline Sinclair

02:21: Kyle Wood

03:17: Seren Sinclair

Four voicemails.

---