Page 31 of The Last Five Yards

“Well, that one’s hard to forget. You color-coded my refrigerator when you visited, remember?” Reese laughs, quiet and genuine.

Maren lets herself laugh too, just once. It sounds strange in her own ears, like it came from someone she used to be.

The pool is alive with noise. A few of the older boys are seeing who can stay under the water the longest. One of them is counting loudly while the one who is being timed goes underwater. But every time he goes under, his friends go under too and make faces at him, trying to make him laugh. Shrieks of joy and splashes bounce off the tiled walls.

The silence between Maren and Reese is different. Not comfortable, not uncomfortable. Just suspended, like the space between sets when the water is still.

Reese breaks it first. “So, how are things?”

Maren’s eyes stay on the pool. “Busy. Coach Hensley’s finally retiring, so that high school position opened up. I’ve got an interview next week that I still need to schedule.”

Reese smiles. “You’ll be good at it.”

Maren shrugs, her throat tight. “We’ll see.”

A splash lands near the first row of the bleachers, mist catching on her legs. She wipes her hands on her shorts, more to steady herself than to dry them.

For a moment, neither of them move. Maren becomes hyper aware of everything around them, the feel of the bleachers underneath them, the sound of someone smacking a kickboard against the water, the smell of sunscreen hanging in the air. Maren is unsure where to go from here. Does she lie and say everything is great? Does she tell the truth and share that she is feeling totally lost with Coach Hensley leaving?

She hasn’t decided yet. When she hears the unmistakable call of her name, glancing around the pool, she sees a group of swimmers who are chanting her name. The chorus of voices hits her like sunlight, bright and saving herself from this conversation.

“Catch up later?” She says as she is already heading down the bleachers.

Reese nods, still smiling, and that small knowing look is enough to make Maren’s chest ache in a way she doesn’t have a name for.

She takes off down the deck, kicking off her slides, pulling her shirt over her head as she moves. The fabric sticks to her skin before she can peel it free, revealing the swimsuit she’s worn under her clothes all along. Her shorts come off next, tossed onto the bench, and then she is running straight for the water.

The dive slices clean through the surface, a rush of cold and silence swallowing her whole. For one long second, there is nothing but her muffled heartbeat and the hum of the filters. The cool shock slides over her shoulders and down her spine until it burns away everything heavy.

When she breaks the surface, the kids cheer. She joins them, splashing and laughing until her sides ache. She ducks beneath the lane lines and reappears on the other side of the group, the echoes of their laughter chasing her across the lanes.

Everything fades to the background. She forgets about the interviews, the distance, the smell of cucumber and melon still lingering in the air. Her only thoughts are to enjoy the Free Time herself.

On the bleachers, Reese watches with an expression that is somewhere between awe and nostalgia. Maren feels it even without looking, that shared pulse of memory neither of them has a name for.

When practice ends and the kids begin to climb out, Maren stays in the water a little longer. The room settles into the soft buzz of the lights and dripping water. She tilts her head back, floating eyes on the ceiling where the covered skylights dull the last of the afternoon sun. It is quieter now, just the gentle lap of the water against the gutter.

She tips her head back and thinks. No matter where she goes next, this will always be the place that taught her how to stay afloat.

13

The Banquet

Reese walks into the small gym across the hall from the pool locker rooms. She’s with a few of her old teammates, the sound of their laughter still echoing down the hallway. All chatter stops the second they reach the doorway.

The gym is unrecognizable.

Blue streamers hang from basketball hoops like jellyfish tentacles. White and clear balloons cluster along the walls. Near the podium, there is one of those cardboard cutouts where you stick your head through; this one has King Triton wearing an Everton coach polo.

Reese blinks. “This was… a choice,” she says, fighting a laugh.

Across the room, Maren is crouched near a long row of crock pots, wrangling power strips like it is a new competitive sport. Her clipboard rests on the table beside her, and a whistle dangles from her wrist. She looks up, catching Reese’s eye.

“I guess you could say that,” Maren replies. “Coach didn’t give me any direction on what he wanted, and the summer theater camp did The Little Mermaid. So, I outsourced.”

Reese laughs. Really laughs. For a second, the sound seems to surprise them both.

“No one will ever accuse you of being inefficient, Clarke.”