I roll over, tucking my hands under the pillow. For a few minutes, I stare, trying to imprint this memory in my mind. We’ve never slept in the same bed overnight before. It’s bittersweet, a step ahead that’s about to predate a lot of backtracking.
That was it.
We’re done. Over before we ever started again.
I dress silently, relieved my dry suit requires minimal shimmying.
There’s a pad of paper and a pen on the table next to where I left my phone and room key. After a minute of indecisive hovering, I scribble a short message. I’ll see him on the shuttle to the airport and on the flight back to Boston, obviously, but this feels like my last chance to say anything private. Or meaningful.
I wrap the chlorine-scented towel around my midsection, grab my belongings, and slip into the hallway. It’s quiet and empty—unsurprising at this hour, but still a relief—and beelinefor the elevator. While I wait, I check my phone. I have a few notifications, but I fixate on one from a few hours ago, when I was asleep and thought he was too.
otto_berger has requested to follow you
There’s a blue check mark next to his name. It’s his official account, not one of the fan pages I used to follow.
I accept the request and click on his account. They’re all soccer photos. His last post was in January, just before he was injured. No personal photos. No reference to his recovery in Boston. If he hadn’t requested to follow me, I would’ve assumed this page was run by someone on his team.
He has 9.4 million followers.
Following? Two.
I swallow hard as I tap on the number. FC Kluvberg…and me.
The elevator arrives. As soon as I’m inside, with the doors closed, I release a long exhale, letting my phone drop back to my side.
I’m exhausted, in a good way, physically spent and satisfied.
Empty, too, like I just left a concert put on by my favorite band. There’s residual excitement and happiness, but it’s mixed with plenty of disappointment as well. Thatwhat do I have to look forward to nowsensation that inevitably follows the end of anything special.
The doors ding open on floor four. I huff out another shorter exhale, chastising myself for already overthinking. For looking back when I should be focused forward.
“Claire?”
I really should be focused forward. Because I failed to notice, until now, that the hallway on my floor isn’t unoccupied.
“Reyna. Hey.” I pair the greeting with a lackluster wave as I step out of the elevator, like that will normalize running into a teammate in the middle of the night.
“What are you doing up?” Her eyes are on the towel wrapped around my torso, which I momentarily forgot I was wearing and isn’t going to make this explanation any simpler.
I blurt the first word that comes to mind. “Sleepwalking.”
Reyna’s forehead furrows. She’s wearing a set of matching pajamas, patterned with tiny soccer balls, which I would tease her about under other circumstances. “What?”
“I sleepwalk sometimes. I take medication for it, but I forgot. Tonight. It’s a minor case, but when I wake up, I’m disoriented. I decided to go swimming to wake up.”
“But you’re not…wet?”
“Pool was closed,” I say, smacking my forehead. “Duh.”
Thank God there’s no way for her to tell I was coming down, not up. At least, I don’t think there is.
“Oh-kay,” Reyna replies carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay? You were acting weird earlier too.”
“Just bummed about the break,” I tell her.
Most of the worry clears from her expression. “You should have come out with us earlier. We missed you.”
“I’m sure you had more fun without me. I know I can be a downer.”
