Page 25 of Parallel

“It doesn’t have to be Manassas, but we would get so much more for our money there. We should at least go look at the model when I get back.”

“When you get back? You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Day after tomorrow. I told you about it—Albany, and then down to Miami.”

Is it unreasonable to expect him to stay home under the circumstances? Perhaps. But this, combined with the fact he hasn’t even asked about my test results, has me feeling separate from him. As if we are no longer part of a team, but two entities that merely coexist.

I’m in bed, nearly asleep, when he finally slides in beside me. I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t think Jeff was hot. He was Rocton’s star football player, and I’m still the envy of half my graduating class for landing him. But tonight, when he starts to tug at my shorts and those wiry chest hairs of his are scraping my back, I feel repulsed. And that’s a first in all our years together.

I remove his hand. “Sorry. It was a long day. Dee was pissy about me being out this morning.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, kissing the back of my head. “I forgot to ask. Everything good?”

Nick wouldn’t need to be reminded, whispers that traitorous voice. I banish the thought, but something surly and petulant remains behind. It leaves me unwilling to tell him the whole truth, because he hasn’t earned it. “Yeah.”

Eventually his breathing deepens, turning into small snores, and I realize I haven’t taken the meds Nick prescribed. I creep from the room and pop the pills into my mouth before I can change my mind. But instead of returning to bed, I curl up with my laptop on the corner of the couch and do something I absolutely should not: I search for Nick’s name and click on images. There are thousands of Nick Reillys in the world, but only mine was a top college swimmer, and those pictures are the last thing I should be looking at right now: Nick, shoulders arched as he does the butterfly. Nick, standing with teammates in nothing but a Speedo, a medal around his neck. Jesus, those abs. My stomach spasms at the sight of him.

And since I’m apparently determined not to do the right thing tonight, I click on a video. The NCAA 400 Freestyle Relay. “Nick Reilly, of UVA, beginning the last lap at a serious disadvantage,” the sportscaster says. “Three seconds behind Paul Diering of Syracuse. I see no way for UVA to win the race at this point.”

But then something miraculous happens, something I know will happen because suddenly I’m certain I was there, sitting in the bleachers, screaming my heart out. Nick starts to catch up.

“But the race may not be over yet!” the announcer shouts. “Look at UVA. That’s Nick Reilly, using that powerhouse kick we’ve come to expect from him, and he’s—oh my God—he’s really gonna do it. Look at the way he cuts through the water…”

I don’t even have to watch—I remember all of it. The way Nick comes out of the turn an arm’s length behind the guy from Florida State, the way he consumes that difference and then surges. I was hoarse from screaming after that meet. I watch as he wins, leaping from the pool to be surrounded by ecstatic teammates.

I have absolutely no memory of meeting him in college, but I know I was there. I remember him searching for me, pulling me in for a soaking wet hug. The camera shows no hug, of course, and when it pans to the bleachers, the place I sat is occupied by someone else…someone I knew well—Nick’s mom. The sight of her hurts. She is, I think, another person I once loved but lost.

I set the laptop on the table and pull the throw blanket over me in frustration. It was bad enough when I remembered being in London with Nick, but now I’m remembering times that predate that…and it feels like I was happier in all of them than I am now.

Which means a situation that was already fucked up has gotten worse. “I really hope the drugs work,” I whisper as I close my eyes.

I do not plunge into dreamless sleep. Instead, I go someplace where I am young. Nick’s kitchen, in his parents’ home. He and his brother have both been sent to their rooms for the fistfight that erupted at the table, and only his mother and I remain behind.

“I don’t know why they were fighting,” I tell her. “All three of us can fit in the treehouse at the same time.”

She gives me a weary smile. A smile I have seen often of late. “The problem is that there are two of them and only one of you.”

It takes me a second to understand what she’s really trying to say—that the fight wasn’t over the treehouse at all. It makes me nervous. I just want everything to stay the same.

“I don’t want them to fight,” I tell her. The three of us have been best friends since we were little, and now they’re going to ruin everything.

She sighs. “It’ll end eventually.”

“When?” I ask.

Her smile is sad. “When you decide between them.”

13

NICK

My arms slice through the water, fast, but not fast enough. I’m trying to run away from all of this, but the harder I push, the more Quinn fills my head. After we hung up yesterday, I did my best to shake the whole thing off. She’s already taken, and so am I. I couldn’t be with her even if that weren’t the case.

By the time I’m done, I’m so tired I can barely push myself out of the pool. But Quinn remains front-and-center in my brain. I can’t seem to outrun her.

I don’t allow myself to call her until after lunch. The moment the clock strikes one, however, I’m in my office with the door shut, dialing her number. It feels an awful lot like the first time I called a girl as a nervous thirteen-year-old.

“It’s Nick.” I pause. “Nick Reilly.”