Page 95 of The Problem with Perfect

A loud voice comes over the speakers that are set up next to our seating area.

“All swimmers in heat one, please move to your assigned marker. We are at a one-minute countdown. All swimmers in heat one to your markers. We are one minute from the whistle.”

My body begins to vibrate with equal parts nerves and excitement as I watch the first group line up along the edge of the center dock in two rows, Rusty among them.

“Swimmers, take your marks,” the announcer says.

All of the men bend down, gripping the side of the platform, and when the whistle sounds, they dive in.

chaptertwenty-six

Rusty

The cool lake water envelops my body as I launch off the platform. I know there’s a benefit to jumping in and getting wet before the race begins, but it always feels like just as much of a shock as if I were going in for the first time.

I break through the surface and begin swimming, one arm over the other, stroke after stroke, finding my rhythm fairly quickly. I’ve always been interested in participating in this competition, but I’m not going to lie…the prospect of going head-to-head with Connor was the ultimate reason why I finally filled out the paperwork a few weeks back.

It was after he called me an old man that morning outside Ugly Mug. I just knew in that exact moment that I wouldn’t be able to let it go. I also—immaturely—envisioned shoving it in his face a little bit that anold manlike me bested him.

Now though, it feels less about Connor and more about myself.

I used to love swimming. Even though I never imagined myself doing anything with it long term, I was still good enough to be on the team during college. I got a tiny little scholarship, barely enough to cover my books each year, but a scholarship nonetheless, and yet when I returned to Cedar Point after my parents died, I didn’t swim for almost two years.

Eventually, I got back into it, getting out into the water in the mornings a few times a week, but it never occurred to me to compete again. I just considered it a part of my past, one more thing I’d decided I needed to sacrifice.

After my confrontation with Connor at work when he sucker-punched me and got in my face, I realized—I have nothing left to prove to him. It doesn’t fucking matter if he thinks I’m an old man, or if he holds me responsible for his fiancée breaking up with him. It doesn’t even matter if I come in last today.

What matters is that I start trying again, that I give myself permission to enjoy these things I love. So today, this race, is for me.

It’s why I didn’t tell anyone I was competing. I’m not looking for the praise. I’m not looking for anyone to cheer for me. I’m cheering for myself, for the first time in a decade.

It’s an exhausting slog, and my arms start to feel like rubber as I circle around the buoy near Miller’s Landing and head back to South Bank Marina. I’ve done a lot of swimming over the years, but this event is five miles roundtrip. I have more than a few moments where I wonder if I made a mistake by signing up without more practice. My primary swim route usually clocks in around three miles, and I’m always completely gassed by the end of it.

The muscles in my right calf begin to cramp during the last mile, so I slow and come to a pause in the water, trying to massage it out. I glance around, thankful there’s a bit of distance between me and the next competitor behind me so I don’t feel like I’m losing ground by stopping momentarily.

After about a minute, I begin swimming again, my arms slicing in and out of the water. It would be nice to say I find a renewed energy after my brief stop, but the truth is it only feels more difficult. I feel weighted down, like I’m dragging something behind me, but still I push on.

Eventually, I can hear the cheers of the crowd in the distance, the indiscernible warble of the announcer’s voice over the speakers as my face and ears dip in and out of the water. When I finally cross the finish line, I feel more exhausted than I ever have in my entire life, and I rotate onto my back, ripping off my goggles and cap and floating off to the side so as not to get in the way of others crossing behind me. I don’t even care how I placed.

I finished.

I fucking finished, and I’ve never been so proud.

After a minute or two of floating there like a broken old man, I finally cross over to the hook ladder and begin to climb my way out, my muscles protesting the entire way. I’m barely up and over the edge before I feel a pair of arms wrapping around me.

Surprised, I look blearily at them as they pull back, smiling when I see Bellamy’s beaming face.

“You are so incredible!” she shouts, jumping up and down with her hands in mine before embracing me again. Her words all come out in a jumble, her excitement a palpable thing.

I can barely understand her as she talks a mile a minute, my sluggish brain struggling to keep up. She yanks me down for a kiss then starts bouncing again, and that’s when I spot my sister standing a few feet away, watching us with her own wide smile.

I’m surprised they’re both here, but I’m even more surprised at howgladI am that they’re here, the pride I feel that they’ve seen me complete something that was so draining to, something that required me to push through with my heart and my body and my mind in equal parts.

Eventually, I shake off the post-race fog enough to really hear what Bellamy’s saying. She leans into me, her arms around my waist and her eyes focused up at me.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says.

It hits me square in the chest: it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to make somebody else proud, since it felt like itmatteredhow someone else felt about me. Having Bellamy here, hearing her say those words…

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