Page 138 of The Comeback Summer

The day before the Down & Dirty, I sleep later than I have in months. Maybe years. And it isglorious. Waking up to full sunlight streaming in my curtains, stretching out in bed like a starfish.

But then the anxiety hits me. Not so much about the race—although I’m not looking forward to scaling the fifteen-foot Ladder of Doom, balancing on slack lines, and swinging on monkey bars over mud pits—and not even because after the event, Libby and I will decide what to do with our company.

I’m nervous about seeing Josh. Scared to face the conversation we need to have. Scared to see where we land in the fallout.

He’s posted on the Instagram account he created for me nearly every day, sharing pictures and videos of the reef, his research, the kids, and his team. I appreciate that he’s making an effort to stay connected despite the distance.

But the posts are a daily reminder of how passionate he is about his career, and I can’t silence the nagging sense that this will always be his priority. That even if I compromise forus—which I would; that’s what makes a partnership—he won’t do the same for me.

It’s not that I want Josh to give up his dream for me. I just wish his dreamwasme.

It’s a silly, romantic wish. Not something I’d expect from myself. But I suppose, deep down inside, even a crime junkie like me wants a happy ending.

There’s a new post from Josh today—which surprises me, because he’s flying home. It’s just a video, no caption, and he must have taken it last night and uploaded it later. He’s in almost total darkness, the light from his phone casting deep shadows around his eyes and mouth.

“Hey, Banana,” he says. His voice is muffled, but it’s still the voice I love, dark chocolate with a hint of gravel. “We’re heading home tomorrow, and I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about you, about my mom, and the future and...”

He runs a hand over his face and my heart tugs when I see the exhaustion lining his features. I wonder if he’s been drinking; Josh after a few drinks becomes silly and fun, but Josh after lot of drinks turns contemplative and maudlin.

“Sanchez smuggled on some rum he bought at port,” he says, answering that question, “and we drank it after the kids went to bed and... it was a bad idea. Tomorrow’s gonna suck.”

He sounds defeated—so unlike himself—and I stiffen with worry.

“I can’t figure out how to make it work between us,” he continues. “I want to convince you to come with me wherever I end up, but if you do, I worry you’ll end up resenting me, and if I stay in Chicago for you, then I’ll resent you. I don’t want to do that to each other. So, who gets priority? Me or you? My career or yours? My dreams or yours? I don’t know. I don’tknow. I’m so fucking sorry, Hannah. But I can’t see how to make this work—”

The video ends abruptly, and I’m left holding my phone in my hands, a hollow sensation spreading through my chest.

I bite my lip and let the pain wash over me. This is what I’ve been anticipating. But a blow still hurts even when you’re expecting it.

I’m not going to break without him, I remind myself. But right now, it sure feels like it.

•••

AN HOUR LATER,I’m finally pulling myself out of bed when a text pings on my phone.

Great Scott:So this happened

He’s sent a picture of his foot, propped up on a lime-green pillow.

Hannah:What’s wrong?

Great Scott:Blister

Squinting, I zoom in on the picture. I can barely make out a red spot on his big toe. I’ve run entire marathons with far worse injuries. Still, I try to be sympathetic.

Hannah:Ouch. Put some moleskin on it and you’ll be ok.

Great Scott:No can do. Can’t put any weight on it without severe pain. Probably a brewing infection, tbh.

I roll my eyes. I’m about to type a less-than-sympathetic reply when Libby bursts into my bedroom, phone in hand, hair sticking up all over like a bird’s nest.

“Did you see this? Freaking Great Scott.” She groans and flops down on my bed. “At the literal last minute, too!”

“We’ll figure it out—”

“How? We can’t compete with only three people!”

It’s true—the obstacles are designed for teams of four. Two pairs, to be specific.

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