Who Do You Love(86)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

Maisie shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe they’re all cows. I think the guy who played Henry James was hitting on me,” she giggled, reaching for Andy. “Is that your jealous bone?” she’d whispered, sliding her hand down his pants. She’d stayed for three nights, during which Andy had enjoyed his teammates’ approval and envy. At least most of them were approving. “Nice upgrade, man,” said James Leonard, a sprinter, and Gary D’Allesandro, who ran the 1500, said, “If she’s got a sister, I’ve got dibs.”

Only Mitch had been dubious, Andy could tell. He missed Rachel. He never had much to say to Maisie when she came to watch them practice, and he’d find ways to be elsewhere when Maisie was at Andy’s place. “She’s beautiful! She’s great!” he said when Andy finally asked if he had a problem with her. “Maisie’s fantastic. I just . . . you know,” he’d said, staring at the ground, “Rachel was great, too.”

Andy agreed. He missed her . . . but by then it was too late. She was in New York City, back to what he bet she thought of as her real life, and that knowledge felt like a stone on his chest, something heavy that had fallen and that he’d have to carry for the rest of his life.

•••

Summer came, and he flew to Sacramento for the Olympic tryouts. Even with his life in turmoil, his times kept getting better, as if pain was pushing him around the track, narrowing his focus until he couldn’t see anything but the finish line. He wanted to call Rachel when he was named one of the two runners who’d represent the United States in the 5000-meter race in Athens, but Maisie had been there, hugging him, holding his hand, smiling for the photographers, almost like she was trying to make sure that she’d be in every shot. If Rachel saw the news, she probably saw Maisie, too.

He bought plane tickets for his mom and Mr. Sills, sending them to Greece three days early so they could get settled in, see the ruins, treat it like a vacation. Maisie paid her own way. “See you at the finish line,” she’d said. He knew the drill—how the athletes would be bused from the airport straight to the Olympic Village, where they’d sleep, eat, and, in the case of the single men and women, hook up. Andy wasn’t interested in any of that. When he wasn’t eating or sleeping, he was running the race in his head, imagining his competitors, picturing himself powering past them in the first lap and leaving them farther and farther behind.

Thirty-five men ran the two heats for the 5000. Only fifteen of them qualified for the finals. Andy’s time, thirteen minutes and twenty seconds, put him right in the middle of the pack, which was perfect—he hadn’t burned himself out and run his best race in the qualifiers; he still had something left for the main event.

“Good luck, brother,” said Tim Fine, the other American runner who had just missed qualifying for the finals. The rest of the field were Kenyans, Algerians, Moroccans, Ethiopians, guys who were twenty-one or twenty-two, tiny and light and looking like they’d been created specifically for speed. At five-ten and 160 pounds, Andy felt like a giant at the starting line, and was one of only three men in the field who hadn’t been born in Africa. Then he’d shut down his mind and focused entirely on his breath. The sunny, slightly breezy day didn’t matter, nor did the people in the stands, or his coaches, or his teammates, or all the memories of what had driven him to this place. When the gun went off Andy came charging onto the tracks, and the only thought in his head was I will not be denied. Hicham El Guerrouj, the presumptive favorite, hung back in the middle of the pack, biding his time until the last half mile, when his kick took him right to Andy’s heels. He stayed with him up until the last two hundred meters, when, with his legs on fire and his body screaming at him to stop, Andy pushed even harder and crossed the line first, a mere fifth of a second before El Guerrouj. The whole race had taken just under ten minutes.

The rest of the day was a blur. His coaches shouted praise in his ear and someone handed him an American flag, which Andy wrapped around his shoulders as he trotted his victory lap. He hugged El Guerrouj, who was crying, and someone led Maisie and Lori and Mr. Sills down to the edge of the track to watch as the winners mounted the rostrum and were crowned with wreaths, and the medals were placed around their necks. Andy touched the medal, running his fingers over the engraving. He still couldn’t believe that he’d done it, that he’d gotten what he dreamed of, that he’d won. He felt like he was made of light and air, untethered from all his old shames and sorrows, like he’d been elevated to some plane above other people, with their everyday jobs, their little joys and frustrations, and he’d never have to come down and live in the world again . . . and then, in that moment, a malevolent voice spoke up in his head, in a whisper that sounded like the rattle of old pennies in a beggar’s cup. What if it isn’t enough?