Not even close.
Chapter 4: Alex
The boathouse was empty when I got there.
Good.
I needed empty. Needed the echo of the space, the bite of autumn air through the bay windows, the mechanical rhythm of the erg chain. I needed to burn off the noise in my head without anyone watching.
Sunday afternoon meant most of the team was recovering. Resting. Being smart about tomorrow's first joint practice.
I wasn't being smart.
I was already mid-workout—twenty minutes into what was supposed to be a forty-five-minute steady-state piece—and I'd come here specifically to make it hurt.
The fan whined. The chain rattled. My breathing found the rhythm: pull, exhale, recover, inhale. Over and over. Controlled. Mechanical. Everything on the outside exactly where it should be.
Inside was a different story.
The monitor glowed in front of me. Split: 1:52. Heart rate: 162. Stroke rate: 22.
Clean numbers. Sustainable pace. Textbook steady state.
My phone sat on the floor beside the erg, screen dark. I'd read Ethan's email this morning. Hadn't answered it yet.
Subject: Joint Program Mixer - Need Your Help
The subject line alone had made my stomach drop.
Alex,
Are you going to handle logistics for the joint crew fundraiser? Venue coordination with The Riverside Club downtown (contact: Maria Chen, already sent initial inquiry). Sponsor outreach to local businesses (list attached). Team coordination between Kingswell and Riverside rosters for setup/breakdown volunteers.
VT Film festival submission is due in two weeks. I can't finish editing and pull this off.
Ethan
I pulled another stroke. Then another. Let the rhythm quiet the memory of opening that email. No greeting. No warmth. Transactional. Like he was emailing a stranger instead of someone who used to be his best friend.
My chest tightened and I pulled harder on the handle.
The memory surfaced before I could stop it: Ethan's room. Being drunk. The way I'd kissed him. The way I'd pushed into him.
The look on his face when I finally stopped.
Split: 1:50.
I was supposed to be holding 1:52. Supposed to be keeping this sustainable.
I pulled harder anyway. It was punishment dressed as preparation.
This wasn't forgiveness. Ethan wasn't asking me because we were friends. He was asking because he was desperate enough to accept help from someone who'd hurt him. Because I owed himmore than I could ever repay, and this was the smallest possible start.
The film festival mattered to him. Actually mattered—his passion, his future, the thing he cared about more than anything at Kingswell.
And I'd get to help make it possible.
That felt right. Not in a way that absolved anything. In the way that penance is supposed to feel—earned and insufficient.
