Been Here All Along (23 page)

“Nate—”

“No!” Nathan interrupted, wagging his finger. “I don't want to hear any more excuses from you. I'm fed up seeing you lose.”

“But—”

Nathan crossed his arms and cocked his hip to the side, displaying his best I-don't-give-a-damn-what-other-people-think stare. “We did not fly all the way to Colorado just so you could choke at the very last second. Third? Seriously? When was the last time you placed third in any race?”

“Then what do you think I should do?” Preston asked, heat creeping into his tone.

Nathan rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. “Maybe calm the fuck down?”

It dawned on Preston all at once. “I'm a fucking idiot.”

“Exactly! Stop thinking too much about Bennett and focus all your energy on swimming.” This time the slap against his chest was one of reassurance. “It's what you're best at. Stick with the butterfly for now.”

“But those aren't until later.”

The butterfly was the most challenging stroke, so the fly heats were always slated for last. Competitive swimmers had to be proficient in all styles, but everyone had a favorite stroke. Preston just so happened to possess the shoulder strength and the arm span that made him lethal at the one he enjoyed most.

Nathan tilted his head. “Better for you to rest up. How many heats are there?”

Preston did the mental count. “There's the hundred-meter and the two-hundred-meter.”

Nathan's eyes grew saucer wide, as if he suddenly understood something he might not have at the beginning. “The freestyle has six heats, while the butterfly usually only has two. Somehow you got it in your head that being in the water more will show Coach Bennett what you're made of.”

The last part sounded more like a question, but Preston knew it wasn't. “Maybe.”

“Pres, you are one of the best swimmers I know.”

“I'm the only swimmer you know.”

“You can't afford to suck any more than you already have,” Nathan said. “You're making me look bad.”

Preston kept his expression blank, but inside he was wincing. Maybe even dying a little. But not from the obvious joke at the end of Nathan's words. He knew just how much he was sucking. The truth hurt like a punch in the gut.

Showboating. That was what he had been doing. Sure, he could deny it all he wanted, but it didn't mean it wasn't the truth. He wanted to be top dog. Unfortunately, he'd bitten off more than he could chew. Damn it all to hell.

“Switch gears,” Nathan continued. “Show Bennett and everyone in this building why I flew a thousand miles just to watch you swim.”

The corner of Preston's eye twitched. “Of course you're making this about you.”

“Hell yes, this is about me.” Nathan shot him one of his better grins. The kind that hid nothing from the world. “Don't embarrass me out there, Pres. Show them what you're really made of.”

Preston snorted.

Nathan's features softened. “You're too stiff. Remember, just have fun. I know this is your dream. I know it might feel like the world is over if you don't get onto this team, but if you don't have fun, then it wouldn't be worth it either way. Trust your training. Breathe and loosen up.”

And just like that, Nathan turned Preston's humiliation into renewed purpose. His fingers closed tightly around the towel he'd been holding. He faced the fifty-meter pool currently filled with his competitors. Somewhere along the way he'd let his nerves get the better of him when he should have been concentrating on what he did best.

“The bastards won't know what hit them,” he said, meaning every word.

“That's what I like to hear.” Nathan turned on his heel. As a parting shot, while walking away with a strut like only he knew how, he said over his shoulder, “Give them hell, Pres. Give them hell.”

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SEPTEMBER

Maribel
(Lea's roommate)

“I'm going to get us fake IDs,” I say to Lea as we walk to class on the first day of school.

“What? That's illegal!” she says.

Even though we've only been roommates for four days, I'm not surprised by her reaction. I think there must be something about the first few days of college that really make people bond together, because I feel like I've known Lea my entire life.

And I can already say unequivocally that she is a great roommate. She's neat, polite, and quiet without being boring.

“Don't think of it as illegal,” I say. “Think of it as helping out local business owners.”

“You have a skewed perspective of the world, Maribel.”

“Drinking is fun!” I say, throwing up my hands. I've only actually been drunk twice in my entire life, once at my sister's wedding and then prom weekend. But still, I know it's fun.

“I don't even really drink!” she says, also throwing up her hands. She's laughing now though.

“Do you want to?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

“I mean …” I trail off. We're walking onto an enormous green where about half of the academic buildings are located, and I want to take a moment to appreciate the fact that I am actually starting college.

“We're really here,” I say, looking around.

“We are,” she agrees, smiling. “We should embrace the moment.”

“What class are you on your way to?” she asks after a sufficient amount of “embracing the moment” has happened.

“Development of Europe part two.” I make sure that my voice is as unenthusiastic as humanly possible.

“I assume that there will be a lot of spoilers if you ever decide to take part one.”

“I'll keep that in mind. What are you on your way to?”

“Creative writing.”

“How did you get into an awesome upper-level course like creative writing?” I ask as we approach the steps to the English building.

She turns to walk backward for a second and swings right into a very cute guy.

“Oh my gosh,” Lea squeaks as she kneels down to help him with his belongings. “I'm so sorry.”

“S'okay,” he says. He's cute, but super awkward as he tries like four different ways to pick up the books he dropped.

“You're sure?” Lea asks.

He nods but doesn't look at her.

“I just don't want to be late for class on the first day,” she says, glancing at me and then back at him.

He settles on the ground and scoops things into his backpack.

He finally looks at her and sort of smiles. “I'm fine.”

“Okay, as long as you're okay,” Lea says. “See you later, Mar.”

I nod and walk toward my own classroom. I think I just got to witness my first collegiate meet cute. I'm sort of assuming meet cutes happen a lot here.

Inga
(creative writing professor)

People always expect the first day of school to be crisp and autumnal when the reality is that it's all too often on the hottest freaking day of the year, and the sun burns with the heat of a thousand George Foreman grills.

I stand in front of my latest bunch of creative writing students and look around, trying not to sweat through my thinnest blouse. When I left the house this morning I asked Pam what she thought of my outfit and she said it was like “slutty Little House on the Prairie.” I didn't know that was a thing, but I felt proud that I had achieved such a look without even trying.

I hop up on the desk, making sure my Laura Ingalls miniskirt doesn't ride perilously high, and then lean over to check the time on my phone. I'll give them at least four more minutes. It's the first day of school, and even though they're mostly upperclassmen I doubt many of them have been into this far-reaching subbasement before. I swear, it's well below sea level. I would say the depths of hell, but the air-conditioning just kicked in.

There are nineteen seats taken and twenty-seven kids on the roster. I can't help but hope that an odd number of them drop the class. I hate having an odd number of kids in creative writing; it throws everything off when we pair up.

The door opens and my TA comes in.

“Hey, Cole,” I say.

“Hey, Inga. Where are we? Twenty thousand leagues under the sea?” he asks, gesturing around confusedly.

“You're telling me. I'm gonna have to leave a trail of Beer Nuts back to my office.”

“Why Beer Nuts?”

“Because if I'm wasting food like that it's going to be something I'm not particularly fond of. I would never waste decent nuts.”

The door opens again and student number twenty walks in. He's frazzled looking, out of breath, but when he sees us looking at him, he smiles shyly at Cole and me. He takes a seat on the side near the door, next to the angry-looking kid and a girl who looks younger—and more nervous—than the others. He makes blink-and-you'll-miss-it eye contact with the girl before they both blush and turn away.

I glance at the time again and clear my throat. This is the part I'm bad at. I've been teaching my own courses for ten years, but every semester I feel like I mess up my greeting. I always try to be way too cool. I'm thirty-six; what am I trying to prove?

“Hey, hey, hey!” I say, and inwardly groan. I've obviously watched too many reruns of
Fat Albert
in my life. “Let's get this started,” I add, clapping my hands.

At least I omitted the word “party” from that sentence this semester. One year I said, “Let's get this party started!” and then ended up on a tangent about how writing can be a party, it can be fun, but there are no kegs involved and limited opportunities to dance.

The students all look up at me attentively, aside from the angry kid. He scratches his ear and rolls his eyes. Guess he's not a
Fat Albert
fan.

“I'm Inga Myerson, and this is Cole … my TA.” I blank on his last name and mouth “sorry” to him. He shrugs and smiles. “And in case you've trudged into the depths of Narnia by mistake, this is creative writing.”

I fall into my usual creative writing spiel and pass out syllabi while I chat. I put it on autopilot and try to pick out the two students who I want to see get together this semester. I have a weird knack for this. It all started when I was a TA for my favorite professor back in grad school. She said she liked to think about the students as stories and enjoyed writing one in her head as class unfolded. I took it one step further and made it a romance.

There were a couple of boys I picked in a seminar in the late nineties who are now happily married with two kids of their own. They're my most successful pairing, but pretty much every semester I see the couples at least get to the point of in-class flirtation.

“I'm going to take attendance, because I like to get everyone's name right eventually. We're going to have to get to know each other in this class, so I hope everyone is comfortable with that idea. There's no way to become writers together without knowing each other at least a little.”