A Matter of Heart (3 page)

“M
y heart is racing.”

Connor whispers the words in my ear, then kisses my neck.

My heart is racing too, but in a slightly different way, because while he's kissing my neck, his hand is sliding down my arm, around the curve of my bra, and now it's circling my stomach. My lower stomach.

I cover his trailing hand with mine. “Connor,” I say hesitantly. I shift and the leather seat squeaks beneath me. Connor drives an old black sedan. It's full of dents and smells like stale Doritos and chlorine, but it's a BMW, so that's pretty cool. The window above me is cracked open and the cold air feels nice, though it smells a little ripe since we're parked near the canal.

He sighs and pulls back. I scoot up a little higher in the seat and straighten my bra and my shirt. I'm a little nervous to meet
his eyes. I love this backseat, and I don't want to lose it. Or Connor. But I don't want to lose anything else, either.

I look up. He's got a hand in his hair, his elbow resting on one knee.

“Sorry,” I say.

He lifts his face and all I see are shadows and lines: strong nose, wide-set eyes, full lips. I don't need a light to see his face, though, because I've been watching him for two years now.

I love that now he's watching me too.

A year ago, Connor was unattainable. I was a freshman and he was a junior. A talented, smart, gorgeous junior. Even Jen—who is usually immune to guys—was impressed. We didn't see much of him because Connor swims for the Aqua Athletes club team, so he practices with them most mornings. During the high school season, from August to November, he competes for Horizon High, so he shows for one workout a week and comes to all the meets.

Still. I couldn't take my eyes off him right from the beginning. The guy is always laughing, always loose and relaxed. And when he swims—oh man. Watching him slide through the water with his muscles stretching and pulling is a beautiful sight. Connor was the fastest swimmer at Horizon last year, and I have a thing for speed. It turns out so does he.

This year, at our opening meet in August, I finished first in the 100-yard free, and I anchored the 4 × 100 relay team that also took first. My points helped grab our school the win. Afterward, Connor came over to congratulate me. “Nice race,” he said.

I managed a shrug. “Just getting warmed up for the season.”

And then he smiled at me. A completely sexy smile that
knocked me flat. SS#1—that's what Jen called it. Sexy Smile #1. From then on, it was a joke between us, and she started keeping count.

After SS#7 (and another meet with two first places), he said I cut through the water like a shark. When I passed him in the hall at school the next Monday, he called me Fins for the first time. Then about a month ago, in combination with SS#22, he asked if I wanted to grab some pizza after swim practice. I ended up in his backseat that night.

And here I am again.

He gives me a slanted look. “It's all good.” But then his shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “Maybe it feels like I'm rushing things, but I've liked you for a long time.”

“Liar.”

He gives me a heavy-lidded look. “You swam at the club championships this past March up in Scottsdale.”

“Yeah,” I say. “So?”

“So you were wearing a purple and blue suit and you laid out your towel near the edge of a tree. I watched you braid your hair.”

Heat floods through me. “You were watching? I didn't see you.”

“Your eyes were closed.”

And I can picture it suddenly, the tree, my legs stretched out and thrumming with pre-race adrenaline. My eyes closed tight, visualizing the race while I braided my hair.

Connor watching
.

I turn liquid at the thought of it. My breath hitches and his gaze drops to my chest.

Oh jeez
. I pull in air, but it feels like I'm underwater. Like I've gone deeper than I realized. I may not say yes, but Jen is right. It would be easy to
not
say no.

“You have to stop looking at me that way,” I say.

“What way?”

“You know what way.”

“Can't help it.” He grins. “It's biological.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“It's true,” he says. “It's the whole Darwin thing. Survival of the fittest.”

“And we're the fittest?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says. “Who won the hundred free today?”

“We did.”

The grin widens. “You didn't just win. You killed it.”

Tingles race along my back at the memory of it. “You were amazing too. I can't believe your time. Your lungs didn't burn?”

“Not even pneumonia can slow
me
down.” He trails a finger down my arm. “This is my senior year. It's gotta be perfect, you know? Like we're perfect together.” He slides back toward me. “You wouldn't want to dis Darwin, would you?”

“Darwin is biology,” I say. “I think what you're talking about is chemistry.”

He laughs. “I like chemistry. All that experimenting.” He kisses me again, and I feel his arms lift me onto his lap. He's so strong. I want to thread my arms around his neck and just hold on.

Instead, I push away. “I have to get home.” I glance at the dash clock and see it's already 10:45. “Curfew in fifteen minutes,” I add. Mom and Dad put me on a tight leash when I started seeing Connor. I don't think it's him so much as the fact that he has a car. At first, I didn't get why it mattered. But now I do.

“One more kiss.”

I plant a quick kiss on his lips and then smile at his disappointment. “I gotta get up early for work anyway.”

“Call in sick.” His face is pressed to the curve of my neck, his lips planting kisses along my collarbone.

“I can't. If I don't show, they'll give my class to Alec.”

He pulls back as if I've dumped a bucket of ice water on his lap. “Nice way to spoil the moment.”

“Sorry.” I slide off him.

He shrugs. “It's okay. I just hate that you work with Mendoza.”

“We don't work together. We teach separate classes.”

Connor pushes open his door and moves back to the front seat. I do the same.

He starts the car while I strap on my seat belt. An old Katy Perry song starts pulsing through the speakers.

“So what did he say to you after the race?” I ask.

“Nothing.” Connor puts the car in gear. “He can't handle losing, so he has to talk trash. Just ignore him, okay? Whatever he says to you.”

“It's not like we ever talk.”

“Good.”

He pulls off the gravel and onto the road, and it's as if we left the conversation behind. Connor likes to live on a constant high and hates anything that threatens to bring him down. Which is okay by me—why look for trouble, right? I reach for his hand and he squeezes my fingers. Resting my head on the back of the seat, I close my eyes. I'm thinking about Darwin. About being one of the fittest. About being a perfect match with the perfect guy.

I'm the luckiest girl alive.

M
om and Dad are both in the kitchen when I shuffle through Sunday morning at eight. No matter how early I'm up, they're always here, sitting at the table in their spots—Dad with the sports page spread out and Mom working the crossword. It's a Sunday ritual with them, and has been for as long as I can remember. The only difference is now Dad wears glasses and Mom has switched to green tea because coffee upsets her stomach.

They both look up and smile. I yawn. The kitchen smells like cinnamon, and I wonder if Mom has rolls in the oven.

“Good morning,” she says. “Seven letters, teen TV star from the land of big sky.”

“Montana,” I say.

She smiles and pencils it in. “Thank you for being home on time last night.”

I nod. They were already in bed, but I tapped on their bedroom door to let them know I was home. Mom seems to have some inner clock that wakes her when I tap, and also wakes her if I don't.

Dad slides the glasses down his nose and rattles the paper in his hand. “Article in here about that girl who swims at the University of Arizona. She's making some noise out there, getting a lot of attention.” His eyes widen meaningfully. “Your time yesterday was better than anything she did in high school.”

Mom shoots Dad a look.
Already with the swimming?
That look is also part of the Sunday ritual.

I pull open the fridge and reach for the milk.

“Rolls are in the oven. They'll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Cool.” My voice is scratchy and another yawn pops out before I can stop it.

“Dad told me about your dizziness,” Mom says. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” I reach for a mug. I still don't have a taste for coffee, but I like my milk in a mug. “It was just a weird thing. I'm fine now.”

“I told you,” Dad says to Mom a little impatiently. He smiles at me. “How are the shoulders? You sore this morning?”

I roll them back, wincing at the slight ache. “The usual.”

“Well,” Mom says, as if we haven't moved past dizziness to soreness. “I'm taking you in tomorrow to get checked out. And don't argue, it's Coach's idea, remember? I've got a call in to Laney, and I'm sure she'll fit us in early.”

Laney is Delaney Adams, my mom's college roommate and best friend. She has a family practice, and any time we have a
medical question, she gets a call. I don't think we've ever made an appointment like other families.

“I'm fine, Mom.”

“Then it'll be a nice chance to see Laney.”

“You need to be in bed early tonight,” Dad says.

The oven timer dings. Mom stands up.

“You're going to miss morning practice for the doctor,” Dad goes on, his glasses sliding down another notch. “So take advantage of the extra sleep. It's all you'll get before State.”

“Fine.” I drink down half the milk.

Mom opens the oven and the smell is amazing. My stomach growls. “How many can I have?”

“As many—”

“One.”

Mom and Dad stop and stare at each other. “David, really. It's Sunday morning. I thought we agreed to swim-free, trainingfree, competitive-free Sunday mornings.”

“It's not about swimming. It's nutrition.”

“A couple of low-fat cinnamon rolls aren't going to kill a sixteen-year-old.”

His lips pinch like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Mom is small, but she's mighty. As in she can get mighty pissed, and then it's mighty unpleasant for everyone around her. Plus, they've been over this a million times. Mom thinks Dad drives me too hard, but she doesn't realize that I drive myself.

Once, years ago, Mom was taking me to a swim meet in California. It was some invitational Dad heard about and thought would be a good test. Then at the last minute, he had some teacher in-service day and couldn't take me. Mom and I had to
leave the house at three a.m., and on the drive I spilled orange juice all over my favorite blanket. I threw a tantrum in the backseat and cried enough to fill a pool. Mom cried too, which is probably why I remember it. The two of us driving down a freeway as dark and empty as a tunnel—while she cried and told me she was sorry for the blanket, sorry for the early morning, sorry for everything.

“If he'd been able to compete himself,” she said, “then maybe he wouldn't pin all his hopes on you.” Her voice hitched, and I could tell by the choking gulp that she already wished she could pull the words back inside.

But I wasn't sorry. Her words made me feel good. I
wanted
him to pin all his hopes on me. I was proud to be that good—to know that I was special. How many kids can say that?

We've mostly worked it all out by now. Mom's realized that swimming isn't just something I do. It's who I am. Cut me and I bleed chlorine—it's that much a part of me. Mom's a counselor; she worries—that's her job. But it's not as if I haven't had a taste of normal life. I have. I just haven't found anything that beats the high of a podium.

The Olympics will be the ultimate high. I want to stand on that podium and hear the “Star-Spangled Banner” play. I want all the cameras on me:
Here is the best the world has to offer
. I want to finally put a medal on The Shelf.

The Shelf is a dark brown piece of plywood that Dad had from his high school days. He'd hung it for the medal he was going to win. The Shelf is hideous and doesn't match the maple furniture in his office, but after I won my first regional swim meet, he pulled it out of a closet and hung it above the chart. I'm the one who's going to fill that shelf now.

I take two warm rolls, though I really want three—so that's a compromise between Mom and Dad. With a bite already in my mouth, icing dripping from my lip, I sit at my spot at the table and pull out the movie section. For a few minutes, it's quiet while we all eat and read. But I can see Dad with a pencil in his hands, circling something in the paper. Swim times for the grid in his office. Charting my future.