We had profiteroles for dessert, and even Andy had a bite. When the check came, Nana said, “Rachel, I’ll see you in the room, if you want to say goodnight downstairs.”
We held hands in the elevator, and I leaned against him, trying not to cry. The next morning I’d be on a plane, and when he was going to sleep in Philadelphia I’d be halfway around the world.
Andy walked me to the fountain where I’d first seen him again. The drive was busy, with valets in uniforms running with car keys, and fancy cars pulling up for the doorman to open the doors and help the ladies out.
“This was so nice,” I said, hating how inadequate the words sounded.
Instead of answering, he bundled me into his arms, pulling me close. His kiss triggered a jolt of pure longing in my body. “How am I going to stand it?” I asked when he let me go. I was starting to cry. I’d been so worried, and it had been so perfect, and now we’d be apart again. “I don’t want to go.”
“We’ll have time,” he told me.
“I have your heart,” I said, and reached into my pocket, and showed him the red paper clip on a chain. I wiped my eyes and hoped my nose wasn’t running. “I have it with me every day.”
“You have my heart,” he said, and hugged me again, and whispered I love you. He gave me one last kiss and then, without looking back, he walked toward the park, out into the vibrant, fragrant night.
Andy
1996
Andy saw her as soon as the bus pulled up to the newsstand in the center of town, thinner than the last time, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with Greek letters, jumping up and down and waving at him. She grabbed him, kissed his cheek, took his hand, and started chattering before he’d had time to pull his duffel out from the storage compartment. “Did you win?”
In the clear late-autumn sunshine Rachel looked like a flower, her pretty face peeking out from her curls, eyes shining. She looked very young, and very sweet, even though, during their phone call Friday, before he’d left for the meet at UVA, she’d been delightfully explicit about what she planned to do when they were in bed.
“Don’t I always?” Andy lifted her in his arms, kissed her nose, her cheeks, her lips, first quickly, then longer.
“Always,” she confirmed, lacing her fingers with his, swinging his arm up and down as she led him toward campus.
As soon as he’d gotten his schedule of meets in September, he’d gone to the map that he’d tacked up over his desk, using his ruler to figure out how many miles each meet was from Beaumont, Virginia, where Rachel was earning a degree in history at Beaumont College. With an eye toward travel, Andy had set up his classes so that the last one finished on noon at Friday, and the first one of the week didn’t begin until four o’clock on Monday. Coach had agreed to let him change his plane ticket, which gave him forty-eight hours to spend with his girl.
“Are they calling you Streak?” Rachel asked.
He shook his head.
“Can I call you Streak?” she asked, then said, “You know what? I’d better not. What if people think I’m talking about your underwear?” She swung their joined hands up and down, let go long enough to wave hello to a pair of girls dressed like she was, then grabbed his hand again.
Andy had gone undefeated in college so far, enough of a feat for the papers to take notice. Lori had sent him the clippings from home: Local Runner Triumphs Out West. A sticky note had been attached to the page. I’m proud of you, she’d written, the way he’d always wanted her to write when he’d been in elementary school, pulling notes from Miles Stratton’s mom out of the trash. When he’d started track in high school his mom had never made it to his meets. It wasn’t until he’d started winning, breaking records, and collecting medals and accolades, All-State honors, and recruiting letters from coaches that Lori had started getting her friend Marie to switch shifts so that she could be there to watch him run.
At first she’d sat by herself, high in the bleachers, maybe feeling awkward in the company of all the moms she’d barely met, the ones who knew to wear the school colors to meets and when to call their sons’ names. Slowly, as the weeks went by and the weather got warmer, Lori had drifted toward the other mothers, joining them as they cheered. Sometimes Mr. Sills would sit with her in the stands, both of them cheering for him, Lori in her high voice, Mr. Sills in his deep one. Eventually, his mother had started sitting right by the track. She’d hand him his warm-ups, tell him she was proud. She’d even called her parents to tell them the news after he’d won States his senior year, and had let them come to his graduation. Where his grandpa had said, “I’m proud of you,” and his grandmother had cried.