Page 169 of The Unfinished Line

My heart sped up when I found him looking directly at me.

Leaning over the mic, his brow glistening in a nervousness uncommon of him, he credited me for my bravery. He told me I was his best friend—not only the most beautiful woman heknew—inside and out—but also one of the most talented actors he’d ever had the pleasure to work with. He called meauthentic, brilliant, and obstinately hardheaded.And said he wouldn’t want me any other way. And then he stepped off the platform stage, kissed me on the cheek, and walked out of the room.

The next day,Time Magazineran a story with him on the cover. The title—Elliott Fleming: #loveislove.

I texted him and gave him shit for upstaging me. He texted back that it was payback for landing top billing on the third movie. And we promised to catch up—a double date—soon.

Two weeks later, I flew to Venice to begin principal photography on the contemporary retelling ofAnna Karenina. My only regret filming the tragic Tolstoy prose in the historically enchantingFloating City, was that I would miss the Olympics. I’d wanted to be there for Seren. And even more importantly—for Dillon.

My consolation, however, was that her mam and Sam were there for Dillon, and Dillon was there for Seren.

Over the three days that Seren competed, I would sprint to my trailer after being released from set. There, I would plant myself—still in full makeup and costume—in front of my iPad and watch the equestrian rounds.

Épée was on fire. Seren was crushing it.

When the president of theFEIfinally placed the gold medal around her neck, I found myself unable to breathe as she stepped off the podium and went directly to Dillon. There had been a lot of media coverage over Dillon’s retirement, with sympathized viewership lamenting her unfortunate end to her quest for gold. It was safe to say the sporting world had been rooting forSinclair Squared, which meant a lot of heartstrings were given a firm tug as the two sisters embraced over the railing. With Dillon’s lips pressed against Seren’s ear, I couldn’t tell what was said between them, but it was Seren who wascrying. I watched through blurry vision as Dillon leaned back and shook her head, tapping first the medal, and then Seren’s heart.This is yours, she seemed to be saying. And then, more clearly:I’m okay. It was she who reached up to wipe the tears off her sister’s cheeks.

The following weekend I sat on break in the glorious mezzanine ofTeatro La Feniceand watched Elyna Laurent decimate her competition.Superhuman, the commentators raged as the Frenchwoman sprinted to a blazing finish.Unstoppable, they called her.The next great generation.

My heart thrummed when I answered Dillon’s call that night. I wasn’t sure how the day would affect her. How she would handle Elyna’s unquestionable dominance. Her shattering of the Olympic course record.

It hurt, she admitted over the long-distance line. I could hear the melancholiness in her voice, and my soul ached to hold her. She told me Elyna would have beaten her anyway, even if she had never been injured. That she was, without question, the superior athlete.

I didn’t argue. She wasn’t looking for sympathy or wanting me to dispute her. She just wanted to talk. And so we did, well into the hours of the Italian morning. I didn’t care that I had an early call time. We spoke until sunrise, and when I hung up, I sent her a photo of the mist rising over the canals.

A month or so earlier, not long after Leeds, she’d reached out to Elyna. I’m not sure if it was on the advice of her therapist, or if it was just something she felt compelled to do, but I know the topic of conversation revolved around Henrik. Dillon never told me what the two of them talked about. Even on the long, heartfelt chat we’d had the night Elyna won the gold medal, she kept the dialogue between them private. What I did know was, three weeks prior to the Summer Games, Elyna terminatedHenrik and attended the Los Angeles Olympics as a self-coached competitor.

The more shocking news hit the triathlon community a week after Elyna returned to France a national hero.World Triathlonannounced that Henrik Fischer was permanently suspended from the organization. The German, French, and British Federations followed suit with lifetime bans on coaching. Multiple charges had been brought against him in a joint indictment on the allegations of abuse of position of trust, sexual coercion, and child exploitation—a case framed by Elyna, Dillon, and seven other female athletes.

I’d known it was coming—Dillon hadn’t left me in the dark—but I was still awestruck by the sheer volume of women affected and the heinousness of offenses. I was proud of her. Proud of Elyna, who I didn’t even know. It was going to be a long legal battle—years, likely—and would drudge into the spotlight things I was certain none of the victims wished to face in public. But it would stop the cycle of abuse—and that was what Dillon told me finally forced her to action.

In late fall after the Olympics, when I met Dillon in Tetiaroa after completingAnna Karenina, Dillon asked what I thought about her selling her flat in London.

We’d been lying on the private beach looking out over the turquoise lagoon. I asked about her mam—about Seren?

She told me Seren had sprung the news on them that the American rider she’d been dating, Jeremy Hartman, had asked her to marry him. And that she said yes. She would be moving her training business and horses to his facility in Woodside—ironically, less than half an hour from my parents.

I, too, was stunned. And selfishly thrilled. Because I knew it meant Dillon was serious about moving here. About living permanently in the US.

I was still polite and—despite the awkwardness of the conversation while wearing as little clothing as we were—worried about her mother.

Dillon laughed and assured me she was ready to live her life sans the meddling headache of her adult children. And so it was decided—after three years of struggling to keep our long-distance relationship afloat—we finally shared the same bed. The same closet. The same kettle every morning. Her presence in the ridiculousness of that overblown, grossly grandiose apartment finally made the place feel like a home.

The following spring, Dillon took the first steps toward a new career. She’d continued her long-term sponsorship withNikeand joined the company in an ad-based campaign promoting athlete mental health, but she wanted more than that when it came to an enduring shift in vocation.

Around the same time, photography had started on my next movie—The Perfect Strike—based on Mia Hamm. We needed to hire a sports consultant for the film, and I mentioned it to Dillon. A week later, her profession as a freelance athletic advisor for film and television was born. And aside from her telling me I was hopeless when it came to perfecting my form on sprinting, and quipping that I’d have been better cast as the clumsy extra who broke her ankle tripping over the ball, I loved having her connected to my world of Hollywood.

Looking back, there’s no question it’s been a long transition. The journey has had its shares of ups and downs. I still worry about her when she is late to call. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the anxiety of how I felt those sickening hours when she walked away from Leeds—when I hadn’t known if I’d ever see her again. But she’s more open now about her feelings. She tells me when she’s low. She usually lets me in. And she’s yet to break a promise to me—and I keep that, for comfort, in my back pocket.I give her space knowing parts of her are—and maybe always will be—healing.

We are sometimes like ships in the night, passing reluctantly, both of us ferried along by our careers. But so far, we’ve made time for the important things—just the way she had, by flying in on a redeye to make it to the Academy Awards.

So I guess I couldn’t begrudge her the few hours of sleep she’d gained over me while I lay there, rehashing the last two years.

My thoughts gradually shifted to the day ahead—the cameras, the press, the interviews that cared less about the work I’d come to represent and more about what I was wearing.

But, what did it matter?

I already knew I wasn’t going to win. I was up against Cate Blanchett, who was nominated for playing the role of some English billionaire businesswoman. How was I supposed to compete with that? It annoyed me that I’d even taken the time to jot down keynotes on a longshot acceptance speech, knowing it would never come to pass.

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