See, there’s always a silver—make that smoke-filled—lining.
there’s more than one way to spell heartbreak
Rhys Sterling walked onto the deck of the pool of the Ninety-second Street Y in a daze, still wearing his St. Jude’s school uniform, complete with blazer. He didn’t want to go into the locker room and risk running into Owen. He could easily break down at any moment. Just being around people was too much work. All he wanted to do was lie in a dark room until college.
He squinted in the bright fluorescent lights of the pool. The JV and varsity swimmers were all on the pool deck, huddled tightly around Coach Siegel, their eyes wide with fear. Coach Siegel had been a champion swimmer and partier at Stanford, and loved giving his swimmers advice on girls outside of practice. But during practice, and especially during meets, Coach was super tough. And right now, he didn’t look happy. His chiseled young face was bright red and his jaw was clenched. Cautiously, Rhys edged over to the team.
“Sterling, buddy, there’s a problem!” Coach Siegel yelled as soon as he noticed Rhys. He took a Speedo from the large cardboard box by his feet and threw it over. Rhys halfheartedly reached up to grab it, but he missed and it fluttered to the wet pool deck. He glanced down. He could clearly make out the scripted, embroidered words on the material: ST. DUDES.
Rhys racked his brain. It was a miracle he’d even remembered to send in the swimsuit orders from the sports shop at all last week, since it was right after he’d caught Kelsey and Owen together. And maybe he’d been upset and distracted, but St. Dudes? Wouldn’t the operator or the manufacturer or hell, even the embroiderer realize how absurd that was? Rhys shook his head in disbelief, holding his palms over his eyes. Maybe when he looked again, everything would be back to normal.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” he said finally, not sure what else to say.
Coach nodded slowly. “Well, there’s nothing we can do now. Guys, get in and warm up. Try to stay underwater so no one reads your suits. Sterling, let’s have a little discussion.” The guys began grumbling, but broke off and headed toward the starting blocks. Coach motioned for Rhys to follow him.
Coach led him to an empty section of blue metal bleachers in the corner. Rhys sat down with a thud. “Sterling, buddy, you’ve got to step it up!” Coach stared down at him with his intense blue eyes. Rhys’s ears felt like they were filled with water. This was going to be the you suckand you’re supposed to be a leader speech. And the truth was, he sort of did suck. He couldn’t even order fucking swimsuits right.
“I’ll get new suits, Coach. Sorry,” Rhys said woodenly, staring straight ahead. He tried not to notice Owen dive into the pool. Despite the fact he was late to the warm-up, he was easily cutting through the water, looking as sharp as ever. Rhys placed his hands over his eyes.
“My man, forget about the suits for a second.” Coach slid onto the bleacher next to him and awkwardly patted his shoulder. “I know you got dumped. I hear things. You may not believe it, but it’s even happened to me.” Coach chuckled. Rhys nodded, trying not to look away from the floor. Like knowing Coach had been dumped was supposed to make him feel better about the fact that his whole fucking life sucked?
“But you’ve gotta carry on!” Coach pounded his fist into his hand rigorously, gaining steam. “You’re the captain. And when you’re hurting, the team’s hurting. And that hurts me.” His reddish-brown eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I don’t care what you guys do, but it’s up to you to get it together. You’re my captain. Now, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“It’s… complicated,” Rhys finally muttered. If he even said Kelsey’s name, he’d cry. And if he said Owen’s name, he’d…
Cry some more?
“Love is complicated!” Coach boomed. “Let’s figure this out. I can’t have you thinking about this in the pool—it’ll just slow you down. I remember, back in my sophomore year there was this smokin’ volleyball player. Her name was Sunny, she was a junior, and her rack was—”
“Uh, sir?” Rhys asked, glancing at the scratched-up gold Rolex on Coach’s wrist. The swim meet was supposed to start in five minutes. “Should I make sure everyone’s ready?”
“What?” Coach stood up, pulled out of his reverie. “Yes. And you know what? I’m glad we had this conversation. Girls pull off your balls.” Coach stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Emotionally speaking,” he added.
Rhys nodded numbly, playing with the zipper on his swim bag.
“Okay, go warm up. We’ve got to keep our focus, Sterling.” Coach clapped him on the back in a manly way. “It’s going to be a tight one, and I’m counting on you and Carlyle to go one-two in the hundred free. Got it?”
Suddenly, the white shorts–clad official on the pool deck blew his whistle, signaling the end of the warm-up period. Rhys headed to the locker room to change. He wasn’t sure if he even had the energy to swim today.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Ken Williams roughly pushed Rhys as he passed by. Ken looked more like a linebacker than a long-distance swimmer, and it wasn’t a secret that his parents still sent him to fat camp every summer. His pasty body was squeezed into his Speedo. It was not an attractive look. “St. fucking Dudes? We look like tools. I’m never going to get ladies this way!”
“Sorry, man.” Rhys didn’t bother to stop walking. His mind kept flashing back to an image of Kelsey and Owen in front of the Y. They’d been all over each other. And if they were that close in public, he couldn’t imagine what they were doing in private….
Actually, he could. And it was more than he and Kelsey had ever done in three years of going out.
By the time Rhys collected himself in the bathroom stall, changed, and walked back on deck, the meet was already well under way. The bleachers were peppered with fans of the Orioles, who came from some private school on Long Island.
“Sterling!” Coach grabbed his shoulder from behind. “We’re down, you and Carlyle are up for your race now, and you’re beating off in the locker room. Just get in,” he spat, their earlier heart-to-heart clearly forgotten.
Rhys stepped on the block for the hundred freestyle, his best event. He saw Owen swinging his arms back and forth easily, loosening up.
“Swimmers, take your mark,” the official in the corner intoned, and Rhys leaned down over the water. The start machine beeped, and he dove in. As soon as Rhys surfaced, he knew everything was wrong. He began pulling the water with his arms, but they felt like lead, and all he could see was Owen ahead of him. As Rhys slogged through the water, he realized it was fucking pointless. By the flip turn, it was obvious that Owen was going to win. Just like he’d gotten Kelsey. Just like he’d taken over Rhys’s whole goddamn life.
Rhys glided to the finish, seeing the Orioles slam one by one into the wall as he leisurely slid into last place. One of them leaned over the lane line to shake his hand, but Rhys shook his head and pulled himself out of the water. He walked over to the stands, picked up his swim bag, and flung it over his shoulder, ignoring the St. Jude’s guys who gathered around him. He saw Coach’s face turn tomato-red in anger in the stands, but he didn’t care.
“Duuuudes!” The Oriole team began chanting maniacally from the stands. “You’re awesome, St. Dudes!!!” Rhys squinted down at the still blue water in the pool. It reminded him of Kelsey’s eyes. He couldn’t be here anymore.
Coach ran up to him. “Sterling, what the fuck was that?”
“I quit,” he said. His voice cracked as it echoed off the concrete walls of the pool, and he realized everyone was staring at him. He didn’t even care. Being in the same room with Carlyle was just too fucking much. His chest felt tight and rage coursed through his veins. He walked off the pool deck and into the locker room, his flip-flops squelching against the wet floor. The other team was still jeering.
“Guys. Meeting. My office. Now!” Coach bellowed, his voice echoing off the tiled, windowless walls.
“Coach?” Owen was standing to the left of him, still dripping from the race. S
omeone had to do something. Owen felt a shiver run down his back. It was his fault that Rhys had had his melt-down in the first place.
“Everyone in my office, now,” Coach repeated in a low growl. One by one, the guys huddled in the tiny, damp-floored multi-purpose office in the back of the locker room. No one seemed to know what was happening, or if anyone should go out and look for Rhys. Owen glanced around at the uncertain expressions of his teammates, but no one would catch his eye. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the floor.
Coach burst in and slammed the door shut. The room suddenly felt a hundred degrees hotter. “This is not the team I signed up to coach. If I wanted drama, I’d become a fucking theater teacher.” He slammed his hand against the cracked plastic laminated desk and began to pace, his Adidas slides making suctioning sounds as he weaved around the team. “Do any of you know what the fuck is going on with Rhys?” Coach looked at each member of the team. Owen held his breath. Would one of the guys explain the full story of why Rhys quit? If Coach knew that he stole Kelsey… Owen sighed heavily.
“Carlyle?” Coach barked, his eyes resting directly on him. Owen felt a blush rise up his chest.
“No, Coach. But don’t worry, we’ll pick it up,” he said. What else was he supposed to say?
“You guys better,” Coach said, stomping toward the door. “Carlyle’s our new captain. Better rest up, because next week will be hell.” He stormed out of the office, then popped his head back in. “You guys can lose the rest of the meet by yourselves. I’m not going to watch. Just fix the fucking suits before I see you again.”
Owen stared at his teammates. They were all still in a state of shock; Chadwick and Ian’s eyes were wide and terrified. Owen stood and moved toward the door. None of the guys followed him. “Guys?” he asked, his voice wavering and uncertain. Chadwick set his wide-eyed, terrified gaze on Hugh.
“Get back out there, you homos. Let’s finish the meet!” Hugh yelled, sounding much more sure of himself than Owen did. He took one of Coach’s orange whistles from a pencil cup on the desk and blew it loudly. One by one the guys began to slowly stand.
“That’s more like it!” Owen cheered as they shuffled back onto the pool deck. See? They just needed to regroup, and they’d be fine. “Let’s get back out there!”
Aye-aye, Captain!
o makes a uniform decision
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Date: Friday, October 15, 6:00pm
Subject: St. Dudes
Hey guys,
I put in a rush order for new suits—and double-checked the spelling! I’m picking them up on Sunday at Paragon Sports on Eighteenth at five. Let’s make it an official swim team outing and then have a “conditioning” practice with brews? We need to put the loss to Oriole behind us and focus on the season ahead.
Peace,
Owen
as long as they have each other…
“My life sucks,” Avery announced loudly on Friday evening as she stomped into the Carlyles’ penthouse apartment. She slammed the door and threw her beige Miu Miu trench on the blue velvet wingback chair in the foyer that basically acted as an overpriced coat hanger.
“Hello?” Avery called again when no one answered. Someone better be home. All she wanted to do was order pizza, eat as much fattening food as possible, and forget about Metropolitan and lip glosses and bitchy assistants for the weekend.
“Hi!” Baby popped her head up from the gunmetal gray Jonathan Adler couch in the center of the gigantic living room. “Join the club—my life sucks too,” she called.
“What’s your problem? You just got back from vacation.” Avery eyed her tiny sister critically and stomped over to the couch. Baby’s hair was haphazardly piled on top of her head in sort of an Amy Winehouse–style beehive, and she wore baggy shorts and an oversize T-shirt, but somehow she looked like a supermodel instead of a drug-addled mess.
She was surrounded by the small, leather-bound photo albums they’d brought from Nantucket. Avery grabbed one of the albums lying by Baby’s feet and quickly paged through it. It was from the summer between eighth and ninth grade, when they’d spent every afternoon on the beach. In all of the photos, Baby was smiling, usually with several guys looking on. Avery picked up another album, this time of the triplets when they were toddlers. Even a picture of them when they were just three showed Baby running out of the frame. Typical. Avery was obsessively into creating lists and plans, while Baby just sort of floated through life.
“Mrs. McLean isn’t too happy with me.” Baby smiled ruefully. “I have to go to twenty hours of therapy. She’s making me.” Baby shrugged. “My first session was today.”
Avery plopped on the couch, causing their cat, Rothko, to meow loudly and run away. Was she supposed to feel sorry for Baby? Because she didn’t. In fact, she felt totally exasperated by her. Of course her sister could ditch school for a week and just get a slap on the wrist and mandatory therapy.
“What’d the therapist say?” Avery finally probed, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“I’m apparently overdependent on men and haven’t fully completed the detachment process from our dad, whoever he is.” Baby rolled her dark brown eyes and lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Wasn’t therapy supposed to make you feel better about yourself?
“Oh,” Avery said blankly. “How are you going to fix that?”
“I have no idea.” Baby tried to force herself to smile. She picked up another photo album, desperate to find some type of clue into her inner psyche. So far, she had nothing. Maybe that was her problem: She never thought about what she was doing, whether it was running back to Nantucket or flying to Barcelona, she just… did it. And usually there was a guy involved. Was Dr. Janus right? Was she using boys to hide from herself? She shoved the photo album and it fell to the floor with a clatter.
“Hellooooo?” The thin, singsongy voice of their mother, Edie Carlyle, called out from the foyer. Edie was in her mid-forties, and if not for the laugh lines etched on her tanned face, could have passed for the triplets’ older sister. She had dark blond bobbed hair currently pulled into tiny twists, and wore a bright pink hand-dyed peasant skirt with a furry brown sweater that looked like it was made from gorilla hair. “Oh good, you’re here!” She clapped her hands together excitedly.
Yippee!
“I’m going on a date with Remington. Of course, I told you about him.”
Avery and Baby looked at each other. Back in Nantucket, their mother had never dated, preferring to be wholly engaged in her art—which could either refer to her children or her weird 3-D chicken-wire sculptures in their backyard.
Seeing the confused looks on her daughters’ faces, Edie went on. “Don’t you remember, darlings? My high school sweetheart? Oh, it was just so wonderful! Absolutely out of nowhere he showed up at the collaborative in Red Hook last week, and I could not believe my eyes. He looks very different now, of course, but just as handsome as ever….” Edie’s blue eyes glazed over at the memory of her high school love. “I was an artist, he was destined for business school, and in the end we went our separate ways. He worked in finance for years and years, but now he invests in the art world, which is how we ended up in the same place! Can you imagine?”
Avery stared at her mother blankly. She really couldn’t. “We’re going to walk to Brooklyn! How do I look?” Edie twirled again and glanced expectantly at her daughters.
“You look really colorful,” Avery finally mustered, grinning impishly at Baby. Actually, her mom looked great. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her so… glowy.
“Oh, you girls are impossible.” Edie’s sterling silver turtle-shaped earrings swung wildly back and forth. “I think I look fabulous,” she crowed as she floated off. “Don’t wait up!” she called as the front door of the penthouse slammed behind her.
“Move over.” Avery rolled off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion. How
was it that her mom had a date and she didn’t? She was a dateless, errand-running nobody. “Did you know they’re calling me ‘the intern’ at work?” Avery asked, feeling extremely sorry for herself. She poked her sister’s arm to make sure she was listening. If Avery wanted to have a pity party, Baby had better be a good guest.
“Well, aren’t you the intern?” Baby shrugged.
“Whatever.” Avery sighed. The rest of the school year stretched ahead of her in week after week of thankless labor. She felt like a pre-ball Cinderella, with no Prince Charming in sight.
“Want to make cookies?” Baby asked unexpectedly, swinging her legs off the couch and wandering toward the kitchen. Avery stomped after her. Cookies would not make everything better.
Unless they’re the jumbo chocolate chocolate-chip cookies from City Bakery, that is.
Baby began flinging open cabinets and throwing the mismatched packages of spelt, granola, and brown sugar that Edie picked up at her favorite Park Slope co-op onto the counter. Edie didn’t trust any of the small gourmet grocery shops dotting Madison Avenue. Avery frowned as she examined the ingredients strewn across the large, stainless steel kitchen island in the center of the room.
“Let’s call this cooking our demons.” Baby winked, imitating their mom’s ridiculous white magic incantations. Avery smiled in spite of herself. Baby was irresponsible and maddening, but she was also her sister and would do anything to try to cheer her up. Avery picked up a half-open brown bag of flaxseed and dumped it in the trash.
“I need chocolate,” she announced. She climbed onto the granite countertop and opened one of the top cabinets, tossing a package of chocolate chips down to Baby.
As the two girls set to work, Avery smiled to herself. Maybe her life didn’t suck so bad. Really, what was so bad about spending a Friday night baking cookies?