Deep End

03 | Cold Waters

CHAPTER-03: Cold Waters
Rae: Conversations with my therapist involving potential social anxiety usually result in the rest of the session becoming one of denial, hours upon hours of deep, and endless introspective contemplation.

——<<>>——

。• . 。• . 。§ • . 。• . 。• .

Weeks Later || 9:47pm

RAE'S POV:
My performance at start-offs had inexplicably found me.. Here. At a luxurious dinner called Ricco's, the diner at which I was to meet with the celebrities of my dreams, be offered the position of my dreams, and.. Accept it (like I would in one of my dreams).

At Least that's what Coach instructed.

Some part of my inexplicably wishes this was a dream too. Just another alternate reality I could wave away anytime I wanted.

Initially, it's a little daunting. Aside from the fact that it seemed unlikely that celebrities of the Traid's inaccessibly-high caliber would meet in such an over-crowded space and unhesitatingly run both risks of exposing their identities to the general public, and having at least a third of the lesser-inebriated inhabitant's phones and germ-infested hands thrown their poor faces.

I could feel my inner suppressed hyper-germaphobe itching to crawl out at just the thought.
Coach, his arm looped between mine, slides a quick note and ambiguous check to the tall, pretty female receptionist and nods with a friendly smile like your average, mentally stable, profoundly normal person.

I try to do the same when she asks conversationally, "And how're y'all doin' tonight?" But my voice comes out in a small croak that's easily overlapped by Coach's confident—firm, yet innately kind tone.

The same kindness-diluted authority he assumed when giving us our pre and main sets, or reproving us constructively to enforce collaboration and professionalism—along with hard-work and skill among our teammates.

"We're doing—"

"Great, thanks. You?"

His smile is infectious—only I seem to be innately immune.

The pretty receptionist hands us our receipt.

"Wonderful—it's a nice night out, no?" She makes knowing eyes at Coach and I and implies with her pretty eyes—(even her accent is pretty)—that we were a cute couple?

Reading her isn't hard but I wonder if I read wrong—

Wattpad doesn't really get you far in the expanse of social reading comprehension.

Screw you, Sam.

Instead of denying the excruciatingly obvious non-verbal claim Coach shoots her a cheeky grin,

"Very."

He buzzes with suppressed laughter as he notices my sullen glance.

and slides the note across the countertop and murmurs something soft and—beautiful in Italian that placidly reminds me of my undying love for foreign languages and how sweet they sounds rolling off other's tongues—And all the times I'd begged Damien to read me lengthy Spanish stories on chilling nights when I couldn't sleep, back in our long-forgotten high-school days.

He stuffs the receipt in the back-pocket of his sleek black pants and gives her a little wink before he pushes through the crowd, dragging me along with him like a wet cat.

He ruffles my hair gently as we ascend up the stairs, "You look beautiful tonight, Rae." He smiles a little sadly, "You're mom would be so damn proud."

I can't cry. Not now.

I nod once, gravely—before forcing a small, dissimulative smile out of myself.

"Whatever happened to 'Kiddo'—or addressing my ass by anything but my full government name?"

I ask half joking, half curious; but I'm smiling.. softly—more so than I really want to be.

"That's just the thing—you're not a kid anymore, kiddo." We stop at a small entrance, beyond which placid sounds of cutlery clashing against porcelain and soft voices laughing and talking resonated through the room like something fresh out of a movie.

"Your ass is growing up without me."

He turns his handsome face away from me and tightens his protective grip on my arm with his own. "It's about time you started callin' me John." He breathes out a low laugh.

I laugh softly, it's a wet laugh; a tearful, sentimental, reminiscing laugh that has me crossed between wanting to strangle myself and cry my eyes out in Coach—John's arms.

I hate emotions. So much.

I hate feeling perplexing, complex, invariably incomprehensible sensations and feelings that I'm simply unable to control, much less appease. They're abstract, anomalous, hindrances that I could, and most definitely would live without.

"I hate to tell you—you're not the most forgettable person." I say softly, idiotically—a little against my alleged free-will, but I wholeheartedly mean and agree with every damn word I'm saying, which is an inexplicably rare occurrence, so, I accept it for what it is and push on.

 He exhales something that's nearly as soft and pathetic as my wet eyes, and the tears I'm trying to stop for the sake of my dignity and first-and-foremost—my double-lift-waterproof-twenty-four-hour-long-lasting mascara.

"Damn right I'm not."

He says, his voice a little raspier and choked from his own sweet but senseless—asinine sentiments.

Oh, if Mom could see me now.

I'd put my phone on do-not-disturb so I could force my social-phobic ass to give my undivided attentions to my hero's in-spite of impending awkward doom, and prepared myself to expect at-least four to fourteen missed calls from dad in the first twenty three-minutes.

With a sharp inhale, a nod, and a strained, teary smile I straighten my posture—and prepare for the longest, most insurmountable performance of my life.