Two Seconds

Seven & Eight

PART SEVEN

The second the interview was over I shot up from my seat ready to get the hell out of there. I could feel myself slipping and I just needed to find a quiet space to collect my thoughts before I faced everyone.

Barging out of the studio door I knocked straight into Aston’s back, not looking up as I slipped past him and went off down the hall.

“Jess wait!” he called after me as I ran down to the toilet.

“Leave me alone!” I called back, pulling open the door of the toilet and going to shut it behind me. I didn’t make it though, because as I yanked the door towards me a trainer appeared in the gap, propping the door open.

“Let me in,” the voice said calmly.

“Who do you think you are just trying to stroll in here?” I retorted, my breathing ragged as I tried to avoid the onset of tears I was feeling.

“Your friend!” Aston said.

“You’re not my friend, you hardly know me!” I cried.

“I just want to make sure you’re ok!”

“Aston, I’m fine,” I said.

“No you’re not, let me in,” he argued, pulling the door until I gave in and let go, turning away from him as the tears began to streak down my face. I heard the door snap shut behind him and the lock turn, but in my stubbornness I attempted to ignore his presence.

“That tattoo is horrible,” he said, reaching his hand out and putting it on my shoulder gently.

“No, it’s motivating,” I told him, shrugging his hand off as I wandered to the mirror.

“What happened?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why are you being such a bitch to me? You don’t even know me! I’m trying to help you,” he countered.

“You don’t know me either, why do you think you can just walk in here and act like my friend?”

“I…”

“Aston, I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big girl. I can handle these things on my own.”

“Can you though?” he asked with a frown, “Listen, I know more about Athletics than you think, I used to race too and have always followed the British team at least a little. I know you didn’t race in 2009 or 2010 because you were sick.”

“So,” I said with a shrug.

“Do you wanna talk about what you were sick with?” he asked, alluding to what kept me out of competition for two solid years after my Beijing disappointment. I was only just getting back into the swing of things over the last year or so, 2012 was supposed to be my big comeback. “I know you were in rehab,” he said.

“Who told you that?” I asked with a raised brow, rage in my eyes.

“Dirk,” he shrugged.

“What a dick,” I sighed, turning back away from Aston to grab a towel to wipe my eyes with. I ran the tap for a minute as I took deep breaths, and then wetted the towel so I could wipe away my streaking mascara.

“What happened?” Aston asked me again.

“Please just go.”

“Just get it off your chest,” he said, “I know you want to.”

“No!”

“Tell me,” Aston said, “Or I’m not letting you out of this bathroom.”

“I’ll scream.”