The One That Got Away Read Online Free PDF

injury or global apocalypse.
    Crushing an impulse to hide until Danny gets up, I hoist myself out of bed and shuffle downstairs in my PJs. The kitchen is awash in sunshine, and the eat-at counter is neatly set with three places. Precisely folded paper napkins under all three forks waver in the breeze from the open window. Eamon is standing behind the counter, slicing up a green pepper, and greets me with a smile. I feel irritated that he has not somehow become uglier overnight.
    “Hey! What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing at the enticing array of eggs, ham, and veggies spread out on the steel counter in front of him.
    “It’s the least I can do for you guys, for putting me up for the weekend,” he says. “Coffee?”
    I stretch out both hands for the mug he passes me, and take a cautious sip. “Well thank you, but where did you get it all? Danny and I are lucky if we have an old withered apple in our fridge.” I plunk down on one of the counter stools opposite him and steal a strip of pepper.
    He realigns the pepper strips into a perfect row and begins dicing them with controlled little flicks of his wrist. “Actually it was one withered apple, three cartons of takeout, and a couple half-empty bottles of wine. I went out for a run and stopped at that corner market on my way back.”
    “You’ve already been out running? What time did you wake up?”
    “Around six-thirty. Can’t sleep later than that unless I’m sick or hungover. My body doesn’t know how to sleep late—too many years of getting out of bed at four or five to go to practice.”
    “It must be weird not to be doing that anymore,” I observe.
    “It’s weird as hell. It took a while to catch up with me, ’cause I was so busy with appearances and whatnot after the Olympics. But when I got back to Berkeley in September, I felt like I should be getting back into my normal routine, but instead it was like, okay, now what? I’m still working out every day, but it’s the first time since I was a kid that I’m swimming without any particular goal. Other than trying not to get fat,” he adds.
    I snort. Danny has been whining about getting back to “competition weight” for the last seven years. “That’s got to be disorienting.”
    “Yeah, it is. I can’t say I don’t miss it, but it was definitely time to move on to something different.”
    “Why not coaching?” I ask, reaching for more pepper.
    He shoves the neatly diced pepper aside and reaches for a new one. “A lot of reasons. I wanted a break from the grind, but mostly I think I’m still too close to it. If I started coaching right now, I’d be jealous of my swimmers for still being able to compete. I don’t want to live vicariously through other people.”
    While he talks, I watch him go to work on the second pepper, his hands deft and quick and precise. I’ve never seen anything like it. Of course he would have the right kind of muscle memory to excel at knife skills.
    A memory bobs to the surface of my brain: lying on my side in my bed at five-thirty in the morning, Eamon stretched warm and satin-skinned against my back, my arm extended in midair. I had made the mistake of teasing him that swimming looked more like brute force than a microprecision sport, which had prompted a six-minute demonstration of the proper arm position for a freestyle catch. My self-conscious laughter faded as he patiently corrected me again and again, adjusting the angle of my wrist, massaging my tensed fingers until they relaxed. A quick kiss atmy temple, then his soft voice: “Raise your elbow—tiny bit more—let your hand drop—more—yep. You’ve got it.” Satisfied, he curled his arm around my waist and rested his cheek on mine.
    I was enchanted. And now that infuriates me. Unwilling to look at him, I jump up from my stool and throw open the door to the fridge as if I urgently need to top off the milk in my coffee.
    “And besides,” he continues, oblivious, “I can always coach down the