His tone made it sound like he had more to say but he broke off abruptly.
“Do you like her?” I asked.
“I did. We’ve sort of been butting heads lately.”
The bartender delivered our order and I was delighted to receive a Creamsicle-colored drink with slices of orange hanging off the rim, and a black-and-white-striped straw in it. The thing was a party compared to Ben’s tumbler of muddy liquid over ice.
I held up my drink. “To us.”
He tapped his tumbler to my glass. “Cin cin.”
I wasn’t used to being the cheerer-upper for Ben, since it seemed like the man never had a bad day. It felt like every topic I wanted to get into with him was off limits, specifically what the hell was going on with the show, and more important, what we were to each other.
Ben broke the silence first. “You’re ready,” he said.
It was a non sequitur but he didn’t have to explain what he meant.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I am. I feel really good. Confident in a way I’ve never experienced.”
“That’s the most important part,” he said. “If you can keep your peace in here,” he clutched both hands over his chest, “then you’ll be fine. It’s easy to get caught up in the weirdness of being at the Games, but all that matters is staying true to you.”
“Agreed.” I took a sip of the drink that tasted like dessert in a glass.
“So I’m guessing it feels different this time around?”
Here I was maintaining a boundary for him, yet he was crossing one of mine. But I’d always insisted that we couldn’t talk about my past on the record. This was a case of a fellow athlete checking in on me, not an attempt to trauma harvest for public consumption.
“It really does feel different. I can’t even compare the two experiences, because I was so miserable in Switzerland that my memory has holes. Like, I can’t remember entiredays.”
His expression went pained as he watched me. “Trauma can do that to you.”
I stopped fiddling with my fancy straw and returned his gaze.
“How much trauma areyoudealing with right now? Because you’re not you, Ben, and it’s sort of freaking me out.”
“Quinn,” he sighed. “Let’s not.”
“No,let’s. Because I’m getting some really weird vibes about what’s happening with you and the show and I’m worried.”
“Now’s not the time,” he insisted, staring at his tumbler and not me.
“Ben.”
I said it so sharply that he jumped, and the couple next to us glanced over.
I lowered my voice. “Talk to me. Please. You should know firsthand that keeping everything bottled up is unhealthy. I can handle it, I swear.”
He sighed again, heavier and deeper. I wanted to rub his slumped shoulders but worried that touching him might derail us.
“Fine. You want to know?” His voice was sandpaper. “I’m getting the sense that the show might not sign me, and I’m worried about what’ll happen to me if they don’t. I’m feeling, like, theseechoesof how I felt four years ago.” It came out in a rush, like it was hard for him to admit it out loud.
A stone formed in my chest as I watched his face go ashen.
“I feelweak,” he whispered, finally turning to stare at me with haunted eyes. “I don’t want you to see me like that, at any point, but especially now. I want to be strong for you, Quinn, and all of a sudden I’m worrying that I won’t be able to. I’m terrified that I might wind up back on my couch for months if this thing doesn’t pan out. Because how fucking humiliating would it be?”
He looked queasy at the thought.
“But whywouldn’tthey hire you?”
