I didn’t reply to the first three, but after the fourth text, I finally texted back okay. Then I told Andie I was going to the library, which is only a half-lie, since the coffee shop is technically attached to the campus library. But I don’t plan to read a single page today. I plan to survive the next thirty minutes to see what this guy wants. He was so rude in the library, and I can’t believe I’m even agreeing to meet him.
Dylan is already inside, as promised. He’s in the corner booth, back to the wall, staring down at a massive mug of something black and aggressive. He looks different from last time—like someone’s scraped the cocky veneer off and left just the raw, pulpy inside. His jaw is unshaven. His hands are knotted tight around the mug, big and bruised from a lifetime of chlorinated water and weights.
He sees me, stands, and waves me over. He’s wearing a swimmer’s hoodie that dwarfs his already huge shoulders. There are bags under his eyes, and the green of his irises is almost iridescent under the café’s string lights.
“Hey,” he says. There’s no swagger, no hint of the old, easy charm.
I slide into the seat across from him, hugging my elbows. “Hey.”
He sits, tries to smile, then gives up. “Thanks for coming, Simone. I wasn’t sure you would.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure why I’m here either.”
The words land flat, but he doesn’t take offense. He traces the rim of his mug with one finger, not looking at me.
There’s an awkward stretch. The couple at the next table are deep in a break-up fight, or maybe a pre-break-up rehearsal, so the word “commitment” is echoing at odd intervals.
Finally, Dylan looks up. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For the shit I pulled in the library. And for being a dick about Thomas.”
He says it so simply I don’t know what to do. “It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. “I was a mess, too.”
He nods, accepting the olive branch.
“I asked you to meet because…” He struggles, actually struggles, and for a second I see him as a person and not just a wall of muscle and predatory smiles. “Because I’m a wreck. And I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”
I almost laugh. “What about the swim team? Don’t you guys travel in packs?”
He flinches. “They wouldn’t get it.”
I’m about to press, but then I see his hands—they’re shaking, just a little, the tremor barely visible unless you’re looking for it.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He lets out a breath that sags his whole body. “Not really.” His voice is soft, almost apologetic. “I’m not sleeping. I haven’t eaten in like two days. All I do is swim and think about how I keep fucking up.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just let him keep talking.
“My coach has been on my ass about the Olympic trials. He keeps saying if I drop two seconds on my split, I’m a lock for the team. But then he started pushing me to do more. Lift more. Take these—” He breaks off, voice shaking. “Supplements.”
I blink. “Supplements?”
He looks down at his hands, like he can’t even look me in the face. “Not the kind you buy at GNC. The kind you have to order from a guy who keeps them in a freezer behind his garage.”
There’s a silence. I’m not sure what to do with this. It’s so out of left field, I almost want to ask if he’s joking. But the look on his face is pure panic.
“Are you on them?” I say, quietly.
He nods, once. “Started last fall. At first it was just a cycle, like everyone does. But then I couldn’t stop, because if I did, I’d lose the time and the team and everything I ever worked for.” His lips twist, bitter. “I feel like a fucking fraud.”
His hands are shaking worse now. “And then I saw you with Thomas, and I just—” He stops, then looks me in the eyes. “I thought maybe if I could have you, it would make me less of a loser.”
There’s a sour taste in my mouth, but not anger. Just a weird, echoing empathy.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just needed to say it out loud.”
I stare at him, not sure what to do. I reach for my own cup and realize I haven’t ordered anything, that my hands are empty.
“You should quit swimming,” I say, finally.
