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“So, you mean to tell me you punched him and went to cuddle with Aretta?”

I glared at his smug grin through my sunglasses. “Yes, Liam, I went to meet Aretta but for other reasons. And I don’t cuddle.”

“Yeah, right, as if I didn’t catch you cuddling Evey last month,” he said, opening the door of the café, the scent of freshly ground coffee wafting in my nose as I followed my friend.

“She is my little sister.”

I missed her a lot because I had to leave San Diego for NYU, and then I couldn’t spend as much time with her as I would like to. But I made it up to her and my parents every time I visited them. I met Liam again at NYU. He had applied for the same swim program that me and Rio had, so it was no surprise to find him there. Soon, we talked out everything between us, and since then, we have been good friends.

We sat in the corner booth, because we didn’t need to draw attention to ourselves, and ordered breakfast.

“So, how serious is HR?” He asked, sipping on his black coffee.

“As serious as HR can get when they find their athlete punching a reporter and threatening to cut his arm.”

He grinned at me, but his grin slipped off when he looked down at the styrofoam cup. I knew something was bothering him. His shoulders were tensed, and he couldn’t look me in the eye.

“What is it?”

“Did you check up on that model?”

Sighing, I raked a hand through my hair and removed my sunglasses. “Her name is Emma. I haven’t, actually. I will call her today.”

He glared at me with his piercing grey eyes. “You could ask her to tell what happened, you know? You wouldn’t be—”

“And then what?” I clenched my jaw. “They harassed her for fuck’s sake, Liam. I will not ask her to tell the media what happened if she’s not comfortable with it. I punched him so I will deal with it.”

He stared at me for a moment, studying me, and nodded. “Okay. But how did it feel to punch that jerk?”

I grinned, “I wish I had done it before.”

We laughed and ate eggs and bacon. We both were starving after our morning swim practice, but I knew I would let Liam take the lead at this Olympic. As we talked about swimming, modelling gigs and the endorsement deals, I realized I hadn’t told him about the volunteering work I had to do.

“I have to volunteer for community service, or HR will cut off my sponsorship and endorsement deals,” I said, waiting for his reaction.

“Of course, they would, Ethan. Remember Lee? They cut him loose because of a scandal. And this is big.” I knew what he meant. “People are still talking about it even though it happened two weeks ago.”

“I know. That’s why I need your help to find me any service, so far what I have come up with doesn’t fit with swim practice. Now is not the time to miss any of them.”

I thanked the waitress when she cleared our empty plates from the table as Liam thought about it. After a moment, he grinned at me, “Did you search for any swimming related volunteer work?”

Now I knew where to look.

* * *

After breakfast with Liam, I was back in the home I had bought as soon as I came back to San Diego. It was love at first sight. It was a two-story house, with a backyard pool and a small place for a barbecue. The lower floor had a large glass door which led to the pool and backyard. I remembered when I didn’t have furniture for the house, I would sleep on the couch looking out of those glass doors. This home was my sanctuary.

I kept my car keys in the bowl and went upstairs into my room to check any emails. I also researched for any volunteer work related to swimming. I told Elliot about it, and he said that his assistant would send me the list before evening.

Ignoring Aretta’s missed call, I took a quick shower and changed into sweatpants. My eyes went straight to the locked drawer in my closet. My jaw clenched and my pulse increased even thinking about it.

I shouldn’t. But I needed it right now.

It was as if her words, her diary had invaded deep into my brain, my heart and my soul, that I knew I would forever be tainted with the memories we had spent together.

With a heavy heart, I unlock the drawer and take her diary in my hand, already feeling the weight of her words on my body. I remembered the first time I read it on the flight from San Diego to New York. I had to rush to the washroom and puke out the breakfast I had. It was not because it was disgusting; it was because I had hated myself for not being the guy she could trust to tell me all about it. Later, I had realized that it was not my fault. None of it was. It depended on her, whether to tell me about it. We were just teenagers, high on love.

Taking a deep breath, I sat on the edge of my bed, my body already feeling stiff and foreign. I opened the old leather and flipped through the pages with blurred ink smattered across a few of the pages with her tears. I felt out of my body. As if I was nothing but a floating head in the room watching someone open the diary of his ex-lover because even after six years, he was not over her.