Page 76 of Depths of Desire
The question hit me with devastating clarity. This moment, this validation I’d been chasing for a year, felt as weightless as the water I’d just conquered. The medal that should have filled the hole in my chest just made it feel larger, more echoing.
Is this why I let Lennox walk away?
Is this why I chose to be alone?
I thought about him playing that hockey game, the way his face lit up when he scored, how he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I thought about lazy Sunday mornings in my apartment, his laugh echoing off the walls, the way he made even silence feel like home.
I’d traded all of that for this.
For a piece of metal and some applause from strangers.
The reporters clustered around me, microphones thrust forward like weapons.
“Oliver, how does it feel to be back on top?”
“Was last year’s performance a wake-up call?”
“What’s next for you heading into the World Championships?”
I answered their questions on autopilot, gave them the sound bites they wanted. But inside, I was drowning. Not in water. I’d never drown in water. I was drowning in the realization that I’d achieved everything I thought I wanted and felt more lost than ever.
When the interviews finally ended, I walked away from the podium with mechanical precision. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the gold medal was made of lead instead of precious metal.
I’d won.
I’d proven myself.
I’d vindicated every choice I’d made, every sacrifice I’d demanded of myself and others.
And I’d never felt more defeated in my life.
The locker room was mercifully empty. I sat on the bench, still in my racing suit, the medal heavy around my neck, and finally let myself think the thought I’d been avoiding.
I made the wrong choice.
I chose gold over love, and I don’t know how to live with either one.
TWENTY-TWO
LENNOX
The lake was perfect.
Crystal-blue water stretched out like a mirror, reflecting the pine-covered mountains that rose from its shores. Sunlight danced across the surface in diamonds, and somewhere in the distance, a speedboat carved white foam trails through the afternoon calm. It was the kind of postcard beauty that made you believe in magic, in fresh starts, in the possibility that geography could heal what hearts couldn’t.
I took another sip of my mojito and tried to feel something other than hollow.
The same cabin. I’d specifically requested cabin 7, the one with the stone fireplace and the view of the hiking trails. The one where Oliver and I had been snowed in six months ago, where we’d first kissed, where everything between us had started. It seemed poetic, in a masochistic kind of way. Like returning to the scene of the crime to prove I’d moved on.
Except I hadn’t moved on.
The deck chair was comfortable, the drink was cold, and the weather was perfect for a romantic getaway. Everything exactly as I’d planned it, minus the romance. Minus the other person who was supposed to be here, stretched out on the chair besideme, complaining about the sun being too bright or asking me to put sunscreen on his shoulders.
Don’t think about his shoulders.
I drained the mojito faster than I should have and immediately regretted it. The rum hit my empty stomach like a warm fist, and suddenly, the perfect afternoon felt fuzzy around the edges. I wasn’t drunk, not even close, but I was definitely tipsy. And with tipsy came that familiar reckless energy that made me want to do stupid things just to feel something other than this aching emptiness.
I checked my phone. 12:47 p.m. Early even by vacation standards to be drinking alone, but I was on vacation, dammit. I was allowed to have a cocktail by the lake. I was allowed to feel sorry for myself. I was allowed to make questionable decisions.
