"I know."
"Then fix it."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder." An edge in his voice now. Not a calm coaching tone. Frustration. "You're pulling like you're trying to rip the oarlock off the rigger."
"Maybe if you'd actually follow—"
"I can't follow what doesn't exist. You're not setting a rhythm. You're just thrashing."
The words bit. Because he was right.
We rowed in tense silence for another thirty seconds. I forced myself to slow down—shorter slide, cleaner catch, less power. Trying to give him something to match. But my hands were shaking and every stroke felt manufactured. Mechanical. Nothing like Monday.
"We're drifting left," Liam said.
"I can see that."
"Then adjust your pressure."
"I'm adjusting."
"You're not. You're pulling the same on both sides. Your port blade is going deeper and it's—"
"I know what my blade is doing."
"Clearly you don't, because we're about to hit the—"
I over-corrected. Too much starboard pressure. The boat swung right and Liam's oar caught awkward on the recovery, the handle knocking against the gunwale with a sharp crack.
"Jesus, Alex—"
"Don't."
"You almost caught my hand in the—"
"I said don't."
We sat there. Drifting. The boat rocking on its own wake. Both of us breathing hard and we'd barely gone three hundred meters.
From behind me, I heard Liam exhale. Long. Controlled. The kind of breath you take when you're choosing not to say something.
"Just row," he said. Quieter now. Tighter. "Stop thinking about whatever you're thinking about and just row."
"That's rich coming from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you seem to have no trouble turning things off. Compartmentalizing. You did it pretty easily a few days ago."
Silence.
I'd gone too far. I knew it the second the words left my mouth. But I couldn't pull them back and part of me didn't want to.
"Just row the fucking boat, Alex."
I rowed.
