Britt gets to her feet and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t be silly, Nina. Anyone can change.” She unclips her walkie-talkie from her shorts. “You’ve got about five minutes to find your radio before lunch service starts.”
I look up at Britt, feeling as if I’m seeing her for the first time in years. She’s capable of more than I give her credit for. She’s no longer the greener-than-grass, gossip-loving, hot-mess junior stew I met three years ago. She still loves gossip and isn’t any better at keeping her bunk clean, but she’s grown up more than I realized.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re a great stewardess, you know. I’m sorry I haven’t said that more.”
“Or ever,” Britt teases.
I roll my eyes.
Amir’s voice comes on over the radio again. Britt groans, whips her radio to her mouth, and presses the talk button. “Amir, this is Britt. I need you tofucking chill, over.” She shakes her head and looks at me. “Chefs, am I right?”
Xav’s voice comes on over the radio seconds later. “Knock it off, Britt.”
***
That night, I’m sitting on my couch, my old gymnastics routines queued up on the TV, when I receive a text from Jo.
Just heard from Ollie. He’ll be at the wedding. Thought you’d want to know. xo
I read the text but don’t respond. I’m not sure it matters if Ollie will be there or not.
I turn my attention back to the screen, where I’ve paused the video right at the start of my beam routine from Olympic trials. I’ve never watched it before. It takes all my willpower not to look away, but I see the moment everything changes. Right before I attempt the salto, my eyes leave the beam, and my back foot is a smidge to the left of where it ought to be. That’s all it takes for the salto that was supposed to usher me onto the US Women’s Gymnastics Team to become the salto that ends my career and throws me into another life completely.
A moment of hesitation, a sliver of fear, a quarter inch in the wrong direction, and everything changes.
I’ve learned nothing since.
But maybe I can start.
When the video ends, I turn off the TV and stare at my phone. Once I send this message, I can’t take it back. Jo won’t let me.
I fumble with one of my unicorn earrings and think of Ollie. I can’t let hesitation and fear take anything else from me. I pick up the phone and tap out a text to Jo.
Send me your therapist’s number. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Yes, I can feel your gloating from here.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
Just get it over with, the voice in my head says. I don’t know how it can be so helpful at times and yet utterly destructive at others, but I guess I’m going to find out.
25
October
Carla, my therapist, flicks on a white-noise machine by the door and settles into the chair across from me.
“How are you, Nina?” she says.
It’s our fourth session together. The first three were painfully awkward. Every time I pull into the parking lot for therapy, I consider downloading a voice changer app so I can pretend to be someone else and call the office to tell Carla that I’ve died and am no longer in need of her services. It’s not Carla. She’s fine. Therapy isn’t at all what I expected. I haven’t been asked to recount my earliest childhood memory. She doesn’t askAnd how does that make you feel?after everything I say.
Even though I like Carla, I can’t seem to open up. When she asked why I was seeking therapy during our first session, I panicked and said I was having a midlife crisis.
Carla glanced at the paperwork in front of her and raised an eyebrow. “You’re thirty-three, right?”
“It’s an early midlife crisis,” I said.
“Can you tell me more about this crisis?”
“It’s nothing, really. I’m just... bored.”
