The competition is fierce, but it feels unbelievable, like I’m alive and doing something incredible—for myself and for my country. Unfortunately, Logan disagreed. I think back to the conversation we had before I left.
“You should be free to see other people while I’m gone, Logan. It wouldn’t be fair to expect you to wait for me.?
??
Logan’s steel-grey eyes pin me in place, the emotions in them indiscernible. “I thought you wanted me to go with you.” Still, his eyes reveal nothing, not hurt, not anger, not anything.
“You can’t just quit your job and follow me around the world. It’s not right and it’s not going to happen, Logan.”
He frowns, those usually loving eyes turning hard. “What do you mean it’s not going to happen? You don’t want me to come with you? Is that it?”
Logan’s tone is getting harsher and louder. A few people in the restaurant have glanced over at us. I should have done this in private, but I didn’t want to be stuck having a four-hour weepy goodbye with tears and begging and whatever.
“Logan,” I hiss under my breath, “calm down. For the first time in my life, I’m doing something for me. To make myself happy. I can’t worry about your happiness as well. That sounds selfish, but it’s true. I need to do this alone.”
“Selfish?” He shouts. “It’s not just selfish. You think you’re better than me, is that it?”
“Shhhhh, please. You’re making a scene.” Now other patrons have turned their entire bodies in our direction to watch the show—and lucky me, I’m the star.
“Making a scene? You know what, Kate… I’ve been waiting patiently for you to get over yourself and this narcissistic streak you have. Go. Go to the Olympics and worship yourself in the mirror everyday since you love yourself so much.” He stands up, his cheeks red and his eyes glassy. He tosses a few bills down on the table. “I’m out of here.”
Choking back tears, I focus on breathing in and out steadily. He’s wrong. So wrong. I’m not doing this because I love myself. I’m doing it because I need a reason not to hate myself.
I’ve got to prove to myself that I was good enough for Dax Davies and still am. That I’m not a nobody from Hackney who hasn’t done a single useful thing with her life.
* * *
My mobile rings from somewhere in the hotel room, the sounds of Katy Perry belting out a line about California Gurls pulling me from a deep slumber.
After faltering for a moment, I find the offending device in my luggage.
“’Lo?” My voice is thick with sleep.
“Have you seen the news?”
“Abby?”
“Kate,” she huffs impatiently, “have you seen it yet?”
“Seen what?” I yawn, climbing back into bed and burrowing under the duvet. January in Sweden isn’t cold, it’s downright arctic.
“Oh my god, you haven’t!”
“Abby, it’s three in the morning,” I complain. “I’ve got a game tomorrow… sorry, today, and need to be rested.”
“It can’t wait, so get up and turn your computer on,” she demands.
Grumbling, I toss back the covers and shiver violently. “I hate you right now. It’s below freezing out and you’ve got me walking around my room nearly starkers, hunting for my laptop.”
“Put on a sweater and suck it up,” she laughs. “You’ll thank me when you see what I’m talking about.”
“Fine.” I open my laptop and boot up the computer. “What do I do?” I ask once my search engine is open.
“Go to E! Online.”
“Abby…” I warn, not liking where this conversation is headed.
“Trust me. Would I want to psychologically scar you?”