Annabelle’s old coach, Danielle, took him aside and made Annabelle wait outside the locker room long after everyone else had gotten rides home. She sat there on the shiny wooden bench for ages, holding her old purple swim bag in her lap and running her fingers over her initials, which Mom had gotten monogrammed on the top. She shivered in the air-conditioning and watched the second hand of the clock on the wall. Every time it got close to the twelve at the top, it paused and swung one notch backward before it finished its circle.

Finally, Mom hurried in, squeezed Annabelle tight, then told her to hang on for a minute and rushed into Coach Danielle’s office.

Annabelle watched one minute tick by, then two, then three. She heard bits of the conversation that carried past the closed door. Danielle’s voice, serious.

“He said he took some kind of new medication.”

“A drink or two—not a lot.”

“Some kind of interaction with the medicine.”

“Not okay to drive.”

“Couldn’t let him take Annabelle.”

Then Mom’s voice, too high and tight and squeaky. Thanking Danielle too many times. Apologizing over and over, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Annabelle didn’t hear Dad’s voice, though. He was gone already. He must have slipped out the other door before Mom got there, without even saying goodbye.

And the thing was, she was relieved he was gone, not sad. Relieved she hadn’t had to watch him go.

Soon Mom was back, guiding Annabelle to the car, where Mitch waited with Annabelle’s favorite music all cued up. And as they drove away, she felt the same kind of warm relief she felt when she was snug in bed while rain poured down outside. Relief that she was here with Mom and Mitch, so she was okay.

After that day, Mom only let Dad see Annabelle if he came over to the house, but he barely ever did. And Annabelle felt that safe-and-warm-at-home-during-a-rainstorm relief every Saturday he didn’t show up because, if he was never there, then she didn’t have to picture that ashamed look on his face or think about what it meant that he went weeks without calling.

But he was better now. That’s what his letter said. And as easy and comfortable as everything would be if Mitch were her biological dad, Mitch wasn’t, and she had an actual dad who wasn’t that far away now. Who wanted to see her, so she should want to see him, too. Shouldn’t she?

“Everything okay?” Jeremy asked when she reached the table. He’d finished his food and was reading one of those super-thick fantasy novels he liked so much.

She nodded.

Mitch ended his call. “You ready to get back in the water, Bananabelle?”

For now, she tried to blink away everything except the thought of diving back into the pool.

“Yes,” she said, and after three deep breaths, that image of Dad’s ashamed face was gone. “Let’s do it.”

Because she was a swimmer, just like Colette. DQ or no DQ, this was who she was. She could figure out all the more complicated stuff later.