The One That Got Away (2 page)

It's funny how, when you only get to spend a very finite amount of time with someone you wanted to know better, you find that certain details have cut deeper tracks in your memory than others—something about the way they looked, or one particular comment that made you laugh, out of hundreds of sentences. The image of Eamon that flits into my mind at that moment is of him, sprawled half on top of me in my bed, swearing as he struggled with the zipper on my favorite jean skirt. Laughing into my eyes, his smile so beautiful it could stop a bullet. The same smile he's giving me right now.

The thing is, it's not as if I haven't seen him between then and now. I just haven't seen him in person. In the two years after we met, he went from a talented NCAA star to one of the marquee swimmers on the American national team. So after living with former top-ranked—and still fanatical—Texas Longhorn swimmer Danny through two rounds of Olympics, I have seen a lot of Eamon Roy on TV. Culminating in a stellar performance at last summer's Olympics, less than two years after a brutal car crash almost killed him. But I haven't actually spoken to him since he kissed me goodbye that morning all those years ago.

I stare as he and Danny collide in a back-thumping embrace,
then begin picking their way across the courtyard to our table. The Eamon I remember was twenty-one, with the lanky beauty of a colt, still growing into his young athlete's body. He looks the same in all the basic ways: same yield-sign torso, defined jawline, and unfairly long-lashed brown eyes, though his dark hair is cut shorter than I remember. His face still has that openness that invites you to slide a chair next to him and tell him all the stories even your best friends don't know.

But whether it has to do with the hell he must have lived through as he recovered from his injuries, or it's as simple as a college kid growing into a man, there's a gracefulness about him, a completeness, that wasn't there before. I had been hoping that, with the perspective of the intervening years, I wouldn't be able to understand what I thought was so special about him in the first place. Especially after almost four years of basking in all of the countless things that amaze me about Noah. But as I watch him walk toward me now, attraction whomps me in the chest, and I realize, to my irritation, that my previous policy of avoidance was more sensible than I had given myself credit for.

Beside me, Nicole is peering at him like Gollum at the Ring. “God damn,” she hisses in my ear. “He got even hotter. I can't believe you hit that, you lucky bitch.”

“If you mention that, I will shank you and leave your child motherless.” I wipe my damp palms on my jeans as Danny and Eamon reach our table.

“And you remember these two,” Danny says, gesturing to me and Nicole. “Also known as Trouble and Hell on Wheels.”

“Which one is which?” Eamon's smile is like sunshine.

I extend my hand to him, but he pulls me in for an easy hug, and kisses my cheek affectionately. I inhale his scent: a mellow mix of shampoo, laundry detergent, and a faint whiff of chlorine. He must still train regularly—hard habit to break, I guess.

“Hey, Sarina. It's been way too long since I've seen you.”

And whose fault is that?
“I feel like I just saw
you
,” I say. “Danny's had our DVR backlogged with your race footage since the summer.”

“Oh, so his manners haven't improved since
I
lived with him,” he says, flicking Danny on the back of the head.

“Whatever; all she watches is
House Hunters: Outer Space
or some shit,” mutters Danny.

“No, you were amazing,” I tell Eamon, and I mean it. “The whole team was.”

He tips his head graciously. “Thank you. It's been a relief to let things get back to normal, though, believe me.”

Danny flags down one of our many musician–slash–cocktail waitresses, who double-times to our corner when she catches sight of Eamon, and we order a round of drinks. Conversation quickly turns to the merry-go-round of traveling and appearances that Eamon has been doing since retiring from swimming.

“I'm sorry,” Danny snits at one point, “but can't they come up with a better term than
retire
? It makes me think of my grandparents in Boca.”

“That's just the way it is,” says Eamon. “As far as the competition is concerned, I'm over the hill. Maybe I could have stuck it out for a couple more years, but I wasn't interested in hearing Bob Costas reminisce about how great I
used
to be, once I started getting my ass handed to me by nineteen-year-olds.”

“Yes, because twenty-eight makes you ancient. Somebody get this man some Depends,” drawls Danny.

There is a pause as the waitress returns with our drinks, bending her torso unnecessarily low as she hands Eamon his—a Lone Star beer. Awareness flashes over me at the sight of that red-and-white logo. Did he order that because they don't have it in California and he misses it? Or was it because he remembers?

“So what brings you to Austin?” asks Jay. “Just wanted to check out South By?”

“He's moving back!” yells Danny, with a deliberately dorky raise-the-roof gesture. Under the table, Nicole's heavily plat-formed foot makes abrupt contact with my shin.

“Nice! You gonna be coaching for UT?” asks Jay.

Eamon laughs. “Hell, no. Tony Parsons would nail my balls to the deck if I tried. No, USA Swimming brought me on as an ambassador to promote the sport. It's going to be a lot of traveling, so I got to choose my home base. And I love it here—I always wanted to come back once I stopped competing.”

“You make it sound like it was their idea,” says Danny. Turning to the rest of us, he continues. “Eamon scheduled a meeting with the director of USA Swimming two weeks after he finished the Olympics, and pitched her a point-by-point proposal for ways he could increase popularity and visibility of the sport. And of course, she green-lighted it all.”

I try not to look impressed, but suspect that I am failing. Nicole certainly is.

“So when you heading back this way, then?” she asks. On my unspoken behalf.

Eamon takes a swallow of his Lone Star before he answers, and when he raises the bottle to his mouth I notice it: peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt, a tattoo of the Olympic rings along the inside of his right wrist. I'm not generally much of a tattoo girl, but that, on him, is mind-bendingly attractive. “I've got a few things to wrap up in Berkeley, but I should be done around the end of the month. I need to find a temporary place to rent while I'm here this weekend. Then as soon as I get back for good, I start house hunting.”

My eyes water as Nicole nails me with her foot again. I will have to notify her later that causing me sudden physical pain is a poor way to remind me to look nonchalant about a piece of disconcerting news.

“You looking to buy?” asks Danny, and Eamon nods.

Shit
. I know exactly where this is about to go. And I do not want it to go there. But before I can think of a way to stop him, Danny goes leaping into the breach. “Well, if you need an architect, there's your woman,” he says, jerking his chin toward me.

Eamon turns to me, eyebrows hiked. “That's right—you did the renovation on Danny's house, didn't you? I'd forgotten that.”

Ah. Well, then. If he'd forgotten I designed Danny's house, then he certainly didn't remember about the Lone Star. I should not feel surprised and I absolutely,
definitely
, should not feel sad.

“And she designed this place,” Danny continues, “and our new bar, Clementine.
And
she designed that new spa, Balm, that just opened down on Cesar Chavez. You're looking at a rising architectural star, my friend.”

“So is Nicole,” I point out.

“Sure,” she says slowly. “In the field of institutional healthcare design.”

“Wow. You did an amazing job, Sarina—this place is beautiful. I had no idea it was your work,” Eamon says, looking around at his surroundings: the sandy concrete courtyard, oiled teak furniture, sculptural desert plantings, and the amber glow of the main bar beyond. “God knows I could use your help with whatever I buy.”

And god also knows the last thing I need is a time-sucking microproject for an obsessive perfectionist. Especially one who will probably expect me to work for him as a favor because he deigned to sleep with me back at the dawn of time. No, thank you
.

“Oh yeah?” I say, offering only polite interest. “What sort of help?”

“Depends on the house. But I've always liked the idea of picking up a fixer and redoing it exactly the way I want.”

In spite of myself, my attention is caught. I love fixers. It's easy to design a great building from the ground up, but to coax a
modern, functional space out of an outdated pile of bricks—now that's a challenge.

“Well, that's the way to do it,” I tell him. “You should be able to find a good deal if you're willing to put the time and money into a renovation—especially if you buy the one dump on a great street and turn it into a gem. That should be a solid investment.”

I know without looking that Nicole is giving me crazy eyes. The more so because I have folded my legs safely underneath me. But giving the guy ten seconds of advice is a far cry from getting involved in his project.

“That's the plan,” he says. “That, and I promised myself one day I'd have a shower where I wouldn't have to bend my knees to wash my hair.”

“You could get a jump on house hunting while you're here,” suggests Danny. “Since you're going to be looking for a rental anyway.”

“That's a great idea,” Eamon agrees. “I've got some neighborhoods where I want to look, but I haven't lived here in so long. Maybe I'll take a drive around and see what's there.”

“We'll take you to do that, obvi,” says Danny. “Ree can show you what neighborhoods are good to invest in.”

“That would be awesome,” Eamon says, already thanking me for something I had not possessed the slightest intention of volunteering to do.

“No problem,” I say brightly, tasering Danny with my eyes. “I was planning to work tomorrow, so I'm not sure I could go on the drive, but I can give you some notes.”

“Come on, Ree, it won't take long. Ame's only here for a couple of days. Pry yourself away from your laptop for two hours.”

Aaaaand now I look like an asshole if I continue to demur. Too bad Danny is sitting out of Nicole's striking range. “Okay, fair enough.”

Not content with the mischief wrought so far, he continues.
“And, Ame, cancel your stupid hotel room and stay with us. We graduated from air mattresses. We have a full-on guest room. It's almost like we're actual adults.”

Oh goddamnit. Normally Danny's bottomless hospitality is one of my favorite things about him, but this particular guest I could live without. Not to mention this hell-born house-hunting escapade.

“Thanks, but I wouldn't want to impose,” Eamon says, shaking his head.

Danny heaves a dramatic sigh. “It's not an imposition, you fool. Who stays in a hotel during South By?”

“Maybe it's not an imposition for you, but did you ask your roommate if she minds having a houseguest for a few days?”

“Of course I don't mind,” I lie, “but I hope you're not allergic to cats. Mine likes to use the guest room as his nap space. There's fur everywhere.”

“Doesn't bother me. All right, I'll take you up on it, if you're sure I won't be in your way.”

“Oh, shut up—you're coming,” says Danny, raising a palm to show the matter is closed.

We stay at Albion until nearly three, drinking and talking until, despite some baleful muttering from Danny to the effect that we are all losers with weak constitutions, we spill out onto the street for the requisite round of goodbyes. Once we get home, though, Danny sinks onto our big gray sofa to take his shoes off and promptly falls asleep, mouth open in an inelegant gape that would mortify him if he ever saw it. I briefly consider grabbing a picture of him but decide to give him a pass, just this once.

“The bastard,” says Eamon. “After all that talk.”

“Typical,” I say through a yawn.

Eamon clearly doesn't share my scruples about Danny's privacy, as he calmly takes out his phone and snaps a photo of his sleeping friend, leaning in close for maximum detail.

“That's going to be spectacular blackmail material,” I observe.

“I thought so too,” he says. “For now I'll just use it as his caller ID photo.”

A ripple of laughter escapes me. Danny would faint with shame if he knew. At the sound of voices, my cat, Newman, pads into the living room to investigate the newcomer.

“Hey, buddy.” Eamon drops to his knees and extends his hand to Newman, who approaches and sniffs cautiously, then bumps his sleek black head against Eamon's knuckles. This is highly unusual; typically Newman regards strangers with the squint-eyed suspicion of his namesake.

“That's Newman,” I explain.

Eamon looks up at me, eyes crinkled with humor. “From
Seinfeld
?”

“Of course.”

“Hello,
Newman
,” says Eamon. “He's a Manx?” he asks, clearly referring to the stubby nub that punctuates Newman's rear end where his tail ought to be.

“No, he lost it in a bar fight,” I deadpan.

Eamon's crack of laughter causes Danny to stir briefly, but he doesn't wake. Danny could sleep through a hurricane. “Wish I could have seen the other guy,” Eamon mutters.

This is how it was with us
, I think suddenly.

I grin stupidly at him for a moment before I remember that I'm supposed to be playing hostess. “Let me show you where you're sleeping.”

He follows me up the stairs, and oohs appreciatively when I open the door to the subdued gray and tan room. “Wow, you guys weren't kidding. I like this painting,” he adds, moving closer to
the big abstract piece that hangs over the bed, a study in taupe and gray shadows.