Page 24 of Forbidden

“Eat your turkey,” Mom says, eying my plate. “You need the protein.”

I shoot her a withering look. “My diet is fine.”

“We’ll let Arrietta be the judge of that.” She sniffs.

Little does she know, Arri-fucking-etta won’t be getting anywhere near me. Mom’s nutritionist gives me the creeps and has done since she first met with me as a kid. I subtly try and reach for the red wine again, but this time it’s Dad that moves it out of my grasp.

“Not during swim season,” he says.

My lips press together, holding in the fact that I had two glasses of wine on the plane yesterday. It’s ridiculous.

In the twenty-two hours I’ve been home, all conversations have centered around swimming in some way. Not once have they asked how my semester is going. But why would they? My degree is purely something they’re begrudgingly indulging before I give myself up to the sport. They’re already pissed that I missed the chance to compete at one Olympics and have reminded me several times that I only have one, possibly two, left in me before retirement.

The peak performance bracket for swimmers is between twenty-two and twenty-six, something my parents remind me of almost daily. And isn’t that depressing? Forced into retirement by thirty—an age where most people are just starting to make a name for themselves and figure their shit out.

“How’s Coach McMann doing?” Dad asks.

“Great.” I stare at my plate as though he might be able to tell that I made out with the man on a dance floor. Holy hell, he’d be on the phone to Elizabeth West in milliseconds if he found out.Oh!“I forgot to tell you. We got an assistant coach.”

Dad’s graying eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, really? I hadn’t heard. Who did they get?”

“Lane,” I say, watching my parents’ faces carefully. “Lane Masters.”

Dad frowns as though he’s mentally flipping through the reams of swimmers he knows, trying to place the name. On my other side, my mom’s delicate jaw tightens, her dark eyes narrowing.

“Surely they could hire someone better than him,” she snaps.

Dad’s eyebrows lift as the pieces slot into place. “Lane! Oh, wow. What a blast from the past.”

My parents met Lane several times, especially when we were young enough that we needed adults with us all the time. They were passively supportive of our friendship, mainly because we’d never be in direct competition. If I’d developed a close friendship with a girl, I’m pretty sure it would have been different.

“Ah. I thought so,” Dad murmurs, his phone in his hand.

I pause with a forkful of food halfway to my mouth. “What?”

His brow is furrowed in a deep frown as he scrolls through whatever information he’s found. “He quit competing halfway through his second year of college. Majored in Sports and Exercise Psychology. Interesting. He was assistant coach for the college team for his junior and senior years. They won the intercollegiate championships both times. I suppose that’s why West hired him. I wonder who else was on her radar.”

He's talking more to himself than me, but I’m intrigued. Lane might have explained what happened between us all those years ago, but I don’t know what happened to him during college. Up until he told me about almost losing his scholarship, I’d assumed he’d continued competing. Franklin West competes on a West Coast collegiate circuit, but every time I swam in a national competition, I was on edge about running into him. I never did.

“Does it matter?” I ask. “West chosehim.”

Mom sniffs. “I might just put in a call to Elizabeth and see whether someone your father can recommend might be more suitable.”

My fork drops to my plate with a clatter. “You seriously want to get Lane fired?”

“Not fired per se.” She shrugs. “Replaced.”

“How the hell is that different?”

“Language, Joy,” Dad snaps, his brows furrowing. “I know you were friends back in the day, but this is your career we’re talking about. Does it really matter?”

My mouth opens to say yes, it does matter. But I press my lips together instead. I may have finally gotten my answers after all these years, but my heart is still battered and bruised by his betrayal. Even so, I can’t get the picture of him out of my mind. Eyes glistening, his cheeks and nose pink with cold, as he pleaded for my forgiveness. It’s something I’ve imagined a million times, but finally getting it was more bittersweet than I can handle.

“May I be excused?” I push my chair back from the table. “I think the exhaustion from traveling just caught up with me.”

My parents exchange a look. It’s barely a two-hour flight. But they nod their assent.

“We’ll take dessert in the sitting room,” Mom says. “I’ll call for you in one hour. Will that be enough?”

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