Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

I made a fifteen-year plan the day I graduated from high school, and always intended to stick to it: upwards of one NCAA title, med school, orthopedics, engagement and marriage, compulsory happiness.

“Sorry.” I am physically unable to produce a smile. Temporary cranial nerve VII paresis.

The subject line just reads What you need. The body: If you decide to go for it, I think it should be me.

“Chlorine-induced brain damage,” I mumbled.

“I’m starting to suspect it’s part of a Big Pharma conspiracy to force us to seek psychiatric care.” I

“Because sometimes I can’t breathe when you’re around.”

I put my own fear before your feelings, and that’s…the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever done, without a doubt.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” My belly swoops at the endearment. His tone lives somewhere between sympathy and amusement. “If you don’t think that I’m very aware of your presence, always, you have no idea what’s going on.”

I smile sweetly. “And I hope you get explosive dysentery in the middle of a somersault dive.”

“Confidence is not about being able to do shit, Vandy. Confidence is showing up, and trying, and not giving up because deep in your heart you know who you are and what you’re capable of.”