Page 53 of The Last Five Yards

“Thanks,” Reese says. Her voice is soft and warm.

She pauses, then steps close enough to pull Maren into a hug. It is unhurried and gentle, neither of them moving to let go first. Reese’s fingers grace the back of Maren’s hoodie, then fall away slowly.

Reese steadies herself. “Your number still works, you know.”

Maren nods. “I know. So does yours.”

Reese lifts her gaze. “Then maybe we do not wait five years this time.”

Maren looks toward the lake, letting the morning light fill her vision. “We will see what happens.”

It is not a promise.

It is not goodbye either.

It is simply the truth.

Reese closes the trunk and walks around to the driver’s side. She hesitates before opening the door, like she might add something else, but instead she gives Maren a small nod that is soft around the edges. Then she slides into the car and starts the engine.

The rental pulls out slowly, the tires crunching over gravel. Maren watches the taillights glow faint red in the morning light as Reese turns onto the main road. The sound of the engine fades, swallowed by the quiet of the lake.

She stays there even after the car disappears around the curve. The early sun reflects the water in long, broken streaks. Everything feels still in a way that unsettles her and settles her at the same time.

The cold air presses against her sweatshirt, sharper now without the blanket around her shoulders. She folds her arms across her chest, not for comfort but simply to anchor herself. The lake stretches wide before her, familiar and endless, the same as it has always been. Yet something in her feels different, quieter, steadier, as if the morning has carved out a new space inside her.

Maren steps closer to the edge of the parking lot. The shoreline glows gold where the sunlight touches it, and the water moves in slow, patient waves that seem to mirror her own heartbeat.

She tilts her head back and lets the cold air fill her lungs. It feels like a beginning and an ending woven together.

She does not chase after Reese.

She does not call out.

She does not make a promise she is not ready to keep.

She stands in the rising light and lets the moment be exactly what it is.

III

Homecoming

19

Backstroke

Maren walks into the hall beside the pool. The hum of the fluorescent lights blends with the steady thrum of the pumps, creating a sound that reminds her of a cheap sleep machine. She laughs at herself when she realizes there must be a summer school auto shop class running this year, because the smell of gasoline mixes with chlorine in a way that is almost impressive. One of the parents has propped the doors at the far end open to help the air clear, but the rush of heat that pours in hits everyone with the force of a brick wall.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her keys, a stopwatch, and her watch. She sets them on top of the stacks of registration forms and Otter’s information sheets. The registration table is slightly tacky from the humidity, and the corners of the forms curl upward despite her trying to smooth them flat. The last thing she wants tonight is to chase loose papers down the hallway. She makes a mental note to double-check that she has everything before she heads home later.

Looking around at the parents who volunteered to help and the high school swimmers who lingered after practice to get signed up for the summer, Maren feels a familiar warmth settle in her chest. Every detail feels familiar in a way that settles her shoulders, like this building remembers her as much as she remembers it. She became the head coach of the high school teams ten years ago, but she stayed on with the age group program simply because she loves working with the younger swimmers. She always has. Her friends joke that she officially lives at the pool now. A few have even sent her mail here.

Maren turns to talk to one of the dads about possibly officiating this summer’s conference meet. The Otters have been chosen to host, which means four full days of racing and nearly ten teams, each with close to a hundred swimmers. People have called her an organized superhero in the past, even though she knows this event will take an entire army. She opens her mouth to ask him about it when a loud crash explodes behind her.

She spins around just in time to see a girl, maybe nine, tear through the double doors. One of them slams shut behind her with a hollow bang. She has one flip-flop on and is carrying the other in her hand as she barrels straight toward the registration table at full speed.

She collides with the edge of the table, breathless, and the questions start firing out of her faster than any adult could keep up with.

“Is this where we sign up for swimming? What color are the team suits? Do we get to swim today? Do I have to wear a cap? If I do, will it make my head sweat?”