In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1) (27 page)

But I had to be honest.
I’d pursued the job because I wanted to scoop Chase. I’d wanted
to discover and write about his secrets.

“Yes.”

He looked down, not
meeting my eyes. I couldn’t stop the tears and I didn’t really
even try. I just let them roll down my face. At least there was one
part of the article I could completely dispute. “I am a physical
therapist, though. I wasn’t lying about that.”

“I know that,” he
dismissed my protest. “I’ve worked with physical therapists my
whole life. Do you think someone could walk in and pretend to know
what they’re doing and I wouldn’t realize it? Do you think I’m
stupid?”

He sounded so angry.
And I felt like I deserved it. “No, I don’t think you’re
stupid.”

He sat there, silent.
Then he said in a quieter voice, “I sure feel stupid.”

“No, don’t Chase.”
I could take him getting angry at me. I was angry at me. But it hurt
more to hear him berate himself, as if he’d been a sucker. Like
somehow I’d tricked him.

“Why didn’t you
tell me, Emma? There were so many times you could have just told me.”

“I know, I should
have. I’m so sorry. It was stupid of me. I was afraid you’d be
angry.”

He gave a humorless
laugh and sank his head into his hands. “I feel sick.” He wasn’t
the only one feeling sick. I honestly thought I might throw up.

And I only felt worse
when he looked up at me and spoke. “When I think back on the day we
first met, I liked you right off the bat. And you were just sizing me
up for a story. All that ‘get to know you’ crap, asking me
questions?”

“I did want to get to
know you. I fell in love with you.”

Silence. My tears
flowed. This was not the way I’d pictured saying those words. Nor
was it how I’d pictured him reacting.

“Emma, I don’t know
what to believe right now.”

“Believe me,” I
pleaded.

“I have been. But
apparently you weren’t being honest.”

I paused, forcing
myself to take the hard, high road. “You’re right. I wasn’t.”

He shook his head,
fisting his hair in frustration. “You have no idea how much I want
to pull you over here and tell you everything’s OK.”

I sobbed, wishing he’d
do exactly that. Why couldn’t he just do that and this would all go
away?

“But I’d be lying,”
he continued. “I need some time to sort shit out. I feel like I
don’t know you.”

“You do know me,
Chase. I’m the same person I always have been.”

He listened, but shook
his head again. “Give me some time, Emma. I feel like I’ve been
clubbed over the head.”

There was nothing more
I could say, not then. “OK,” I nodded, conceding defeat. I
couldn’t batter him anymore, trying to insist that he buy my side
of the story. He said he needed time and I could give him that. I had
to.

“You should probably
go now, Emma. I have to meet up with my mom.”

I nodded, trying to
keep it together. I was supposed to go see my parents, too. I’d
hoped Chase would join me and the four of us could have a celebratory
meal before they flew back to Florida. Before Chase and I went off on
vacation together, enjoying the romantic getaway of my dreams.
Neither of which would be happening.

I couldn’t stop
myself from sobbing one last, “I’m so sorry, Chase.”

He nodded, fixing his
heavy gaze on the bedspread, acknowledging he’d heard my apology.
But it didn’t seem to make a difference.

§

“I didn’t know you
were still writing that blog with Tori.”

“We thought you’d
stopped that years ago.”

My parents were upset,
both by the news article and by the fact that I couldn’t stop
crying. I’d gone straight to their hotel room and was a complete,
hot mess, barely able to speak.

“I never liked that
blog,” my mom acknowledged. “I never dreamed you were still
writing for it. I thought you’d stopped in college.”

No, I hadn’t stopped.
Yes, they were right. They were too cool to say it to me, the “I
told you so.” But it was there, plain as day.

Back in high school
when we’d started it, they’d warned me it was a bad idea to write
anonymously. I should never do anything I didn’t want my name on. I
should always be proud of what I wrote.

I’d assured them, I
would do that. And I’d stuck to my promise. Every article I’d
written I felt good about. I wrote features, I felt like screaming it
from the rooftops. Feel-good features about the good in people!

But it didn’t matter
what was inside the package. It was all wrapped up in something very
different. I’d been lying to myself. When I thought about the blog
from an outsiders’ point of view, there was nothing to distinguish
it from all of the other ones out there feeding off of celebrity
gossip.

“Well, you can’t
change the past.” My father spoke the truth, even if it wasn’t
comforting at all. “You can only control how you behave moving
forward.”

I knew he was right,
but moving forward at the moment seemed next to impossible. I could
barely breathe, never mind pick myself up and begin the daunting task
of living an exemplary life. Without Chase in it.

They convinced me to
use my existing ticket to fly back to Florida that day. I wouldn’t
be on the same flight, but they’d wait for me at the airport and we
could all drive back to Vero together. Chase and I had mentioned
travel plans to them, but we all knew those were now cancelled. They
didn’t want me sitting around Rio bawling my eyes out, waiting and
hoping for a guy to get in touch with me. They agreed I’d made a
mistake, a big one, but they still wanted the best for me.

I didn’t deserve
them. I’d really screwed up. It didn’t matter that I had excuses.
That I’d been friends with Tori forever and it had clouded my
judgment. That I really was a legitimate physical therapist, not just
posing as one.

I’d done something
wrong to the man I’d fallen in love with. I’d been so wrapped up
in myself, first concerned with finding out his story, then worried
about falling for him. I’d actually felt scared about whether he
would hurt me. As if he might be the jerk in all this, screwing me
over like my past boyfriends.

I guess I’d really
turned the tables. I’d definitely been the one to fuck up this
time. It didn’t matter that I’d fallen completely in love with
him. I was the bad guy in this scenario. And Chase might never be
able to forgive me.

Chase

Back at my father’s
house north of Boston, I rattled around like a ghost, keeping all
kinds of strange hours, without a purpose. I had an apartment back in
Tempe, but I’d decided to move my stuff out at the end of the
month. I didn’t want to head back to my old life. Largely because
my old life wasn’t there waiting for me anymore. I was no longer on
the U.S. Olympic swim team. I’d become a former member of the team.
It sounded crazy, but I didn’t really know who I was anymore.

I’d spent the last
week partying with my teammates, and we hadn’t even left Rio. We’d
kept on renting the house and turned it into a crazy party pad. We
were lucky, our events finished up early. Everyone else looking for a
place to hang out found their way over to our house. No curfew, no
coaches, nothing but debauched letting-loose.

To be honest, I didn’t
remember much of it. My tolerance was low since I’d barely drunk
alcohol in almost a year. My spirits were even lower. And it turned
out, some of my teammates had hidden talents as bartenders, keeping
the party flowing at all times.

I had women draped all
over me at all times, too. I didn’t seek them out. It just
happened. But I didn’t hook up with anyone, even though my
teammates nearly locked me in a bedroom trying to make it happen.
They thought it would help me get over Emma.

“Exorcise the demon!”
Chris had told me, pointing out that blonde, or that one, or the
gymnast over there. “She won a freaking silver, dude! Do you know
how flexible she is?”

I don’t think I
ruined their party—I was a big draw, after all—but I didn’t
crank it up a notch the way they wanted. I knew fooling around with
someone else wouldn’t help. Hell, it would probably make it worse.

That chemistry I’d
felt with Emma? It was off the charts, like we were made for each
other. That didn’t happen every day. In my 26 years of experience,
it had happened exactly once.

I knew I’d told her I
needed some time to sort things out, and I’d get around to doing
that, but first I spent an entire week drunk. Then I spent a week in
pajama pants eating pizza and playing video games at my dad’s
house.

I had much more
glamorous and, well, social options. I hadn’t spent any real time
in the Boston area since high school, and I hadn’t kept in touch
with former classmates that well, but I knew I could reach out and
get some instant responses. All I’d need to do was hop on Instagram
and I’d start a party at any bar of my choosing. Everyone wanted to
hang with the reigning Olympic champion.

There were a whole
bunch of marketing opportunities for me to pursue, too. I had offers
for sponsorships, commercials, MC-ing events. ESPN even wanted to
talk to me about doing commentary, testing out how telegenic I was.
Schools wanted to book me as a motivational speaker. Corporations
wanted me to come talk about work ethic.

My father, of course,
wanted me to say yes to all of it. “The window’s going to close!”
seemed to be his favorite expression. Now was the time to make money
off of my brand. It wasn’t as if I was going back to the Olympics
again and winning more gold medals. The public’s memory was short.
Right now, I was a household name worldwide. But football season
would start up soon, then the World Series would capture everyone’s
attention, and swimming would go back to the shadows. Because no one
really cared about swimming. That was another chestnut he dropped
every now and then.

I knew I should strike
while the iron was hot. But I didn’t feel so hot. I felt tired.
When I’d been training hours upon hours every day, I’d had
boundless energy and drive. Now, with no reason to wake up at any
particular time? I found myself climbing back into bed a lot. I
thought having a lot of time on my hands, without a schedule, would
be great. I thought it would feel like freedom. Instead I felt a
strange mixture of aimless and trapped.

My mom called and
invited me to stay with her for a while. She lived twenty minutes
away in another leafy green and sedate suburb of Boston. Back in high
school, I’d divided my time between the two houses. But really I’d
spent most of my time at the pool. By senior year, I’d earned most
of my credits, and fulfilled the majority of my remaining
requirements with tutors and exams so I could train 24/7,
unrestricted by class schedules, in preparation for the 2008 games.
My coaches had become my parents, my teammates my family from a young
age.

I’d never really
spent a lot of time hanging out. I’d spent even less time hanging
out with my mom. On Sunday morning, we gardened together in her back
yard. She had a large garden with flowers, herbs and vegetables. I
hadn’t even known she liked to get her hands dirty like that.

“I didn’t start
until about ten years ago,” she recalled as we weeded. “I was
always so busy.”

That was how I
remembered her, always tense, always on edge waiting for some new
missile to get launched at her from my father. He had the tendency to
spring new, young girlfriends on her at vulnerable moments, like big
swim meets or back-to-school nights. She seemed so much more relaxed
now, with almost an easy way about her. I hadn’t noticed that at
the games, but then again watching your son swim in the heavily
televised Olympics while sitting next to your ex-husband might make
anyone tense.

“This is a great
yard.” I paused, wiping sweat from my brow. She had a bunch of
seating set up in shady spots, and a nice, wide lawn.

“Thanks.” She
looked around with satisfaction and pride. I’d always loved my mom
and known she loved me, in her way, but basically I’d thought of
her as an uptight socialite. She looked different with a smudge of
dirt across her cheek and a genuine smile on her face.

That afternoon she took
me to her yoga class. Her friends were dying to meet me. It would be
good for me to get out of the house. She had a whole bunch of
reasons, and I figured I owed her one. She was being pretty decent
putting up with all my moping around, eating her out of house and
home.

I gave new meaning to
the phrase “fish out of water.” A huge, gangly thing in the midst
of a whole bunch of 50 and 60-something women who could still
practically touch their noses to their knees, we all had moments of
laughter. Afterward, the instructor gave me a little talking to about
the importance of taking care of myself now that I was transitioning
into a new phase of life.

“You don’t want to
sit around on the couch all day!” she cautioned me. “Keep
moving!” I shot my mother a look and she gave me the “I didn’t
say a word” innocent look back. Because, yes, that was exactly what
I had been doing.

Later at the house, she
made us some tea. I watched her putter around, humming to herself.
Maybe she’d changed. Or maybe I’d been wrong. I might have been
buying into my father’s portrayal of her. She seemed so much
happier now. I guessed in the past I’d seen her so frequently with
my father, fighting her way through that incendiary battleground.
Without him, in her own context, she was much more peaceful.

“Blow on it, it’s
hot,” she warned me, as if I weren’t 26 with years of experience
living on my own. I smiled. I guessed once a mom, always a mom.

Then, all casual, as if
it were a continuation of a topic of conversation, she said, “She
hasn’t published a story on you, you know.”