All that had been revealed as the flimsiest kind of lie when Mitch O’Connell, a runner from North Carolina State, had come sprinting into the weight room, going all-out even though it was an easy day, saying “Something’s happening in New York City.” He knew that Rachel was there, and he’d been desperate to reach her, desperate to know that she was okay. Her parents had given him her number—they’d been, he thought, too terrified to tell him no—and she’d picked up on the first ring, and he’d talked her over the bridge, into safety, and realized he’d never stopped loving her at all.
For a week, she’d stayed in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, at her boss’s house, and she and Andy had talked every night for hours, the way they had as teenagers, or in college, when they’d stay up all night in her bed. When she went back to Manhattan they’d kept talking, with Rachel describing how the air was full of ash and how it stunk of burned plastic, how the streetlamps and walls were plastered with signs for the missing, photographs of loved ones who’d worked in the towers, and how the newspapers were full of stories of husbands and wives, parents and children, all praying that there’d been survivors; that somewhere, in some hospital bed, lay their husband or their mother, suffering from amnesia, not even knowing his or her name, but alive. She described scenes of people weeping on the streets, strangers hugging each other; of five-star restaurants sending pans of food to the firehouses and police stations and people starting college funds for the children of the men and women who’d died. “Everyone wants to do something,” she’d told him, “but nobody knows what to do.”
“Come here,” he told her over and over, until finally, in the middle of October, she’d decided that maybe a vacation would be a good thing. Andy had started counting the days, wondering what she looked like now, what he’d look like to her, whether things could still feel the same.
At last he stood by the baggage carousel in the Eugene airport. He’d wanted to go to the gate, but after what people were calling 9/11 there were new rules about airports. He was holding a dozen roses—not red ones, which she’d never liked, but apricot-colored, the petals tipped with orange. He’d been watching travelers coming down the escalator when he felt a hand on his shoulder and smelled coconut-scented shampoo and familiar perfume. He turned, and Rachel stood there, smiling. Her cheeks were rosy, like she’d been spending time outside, and he could see freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. She wore jeans, a light-blue button-down shirt, a colorful embroidered belt, and boots like the ones he remembered from her trip to Philadelphia. Diamond studs, also familiar, twinkled from her earlobes. Her hands were tanned and strong, and she looked not older, exactly, but more confident, not looking all around at the new place where she’d landed, but looking right at him with a smile.
“Hey, stranger,” she said. “Do I get a hug?”
He took her in his arms, feeling the gentle swell of her breasts and belly against him, in a far more intimate embrace than she’d probably planned. Before he could enjoy it, she stepped away. She pointed out her suitcase and her duffel bag on the carousel. He scooped them both up and walked her to the car he’d borrowed from one of the trainers in order to go get his girl.
After she’d remarked on the beauty of the Willamette Valley, the cool air and the pine trees, and how clean it all smelled after New York, she settled into the passenger seat, smiling at him. “I’ve seen your name in the papers.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, suddenly shy and at the same time eager to know what she’d read, which pictures she’d seen.
“My mom and my brother keep up with you. You almost made the Olympic team last year, right?”
He nodded. “It was always a long shot.”
“But you can try again in 2004?”
“That’s the plan.” She was wearing dark-red lipstick, which was different. When he’d known her she’d worn lighter colors. He wasn’t sure whether or not he liked it. Then he asked himself why it mattered what he thought about her makeup. She lived in New York City; he lived in Oregon. She probably had a boyfriend and had just been too polite to tell him, and even if she didn’t, it wasn’t like there was the possibility of this being anything besides a friendly visit. Still, his brain conjured up his bedroom. Specifically, his bed, with its fresh sheets and freshly laundered comforter. He imagined Rachel’s hand in his, Rachel’s voice in his ear, saying Hurry. Hurry.
He squirmed in his seat, giving his nylon warm-up pants a quick tug. Rachel ducked her head. Do you think it’ll always be like this when we see each other? she’d asked him once, during one of his Beaumont visits, maybe the time when he’d driven for almost two days with only a three-hour nap to see her, all the way to Virginia in his teammate’s cousin’s old Tercel. It had been five in the morning when he’d gotten to the Gamma house, too early to ring the bell, and he’d thought he’d look like a stalker or a vagrant if he fell asleep in the car. He’d been sitting behind the wheel trying to figure out where to go when he heard a tapping on the window, and there was Rachel in her bathrobe, one finger pressed to her lips. Shh. When Rachel started talking it took him a few seconds to realize that she was actually there; that this was real Rachel and not dream Rachel, the one who apparently had lived in his head since college, and maybe even since Atlanta.