43. Nico
I was shutting my locker when Adrian's face appeared slyly beside it. We were alone—the last of the other skaters had cleared out more than an hour ago—which was why he felt comfortable enough to lean against the neighbouring locker with that look on his face.
“My place or yours?”
“Oh shit, I totally forgot to tell you. My parents have a benefit tonight and I have to babysit Margaux.”
“And you weren't going to invite me?”
“You can come if you promise not to corrupt her.”
“I would never…make such a promise. But I will try really hard. Scout's honor.”
“I'm due at my parents at seven, I'll come pick you up in thirty?”
“See you.”
◆◆◆
My parents' surprise when I showed up with Adrian was worth documenting. My mother's eyebrows climbed nearly to her hairline and my father paused mid-tie adjustment to stare.
“Adrian,” my mother said, recovering first with the gracious smile she’d perfected over years of accompanying my father to boring benefits, networking on behalf of his logistics firm. “What a lovely surprise.”
“Geneviève. Dominic.” Adrian embraced my mother gently and shook both my father’s hand, perfectly polite. “Good to see you again.”
“We didn't realize Nico was bringing…backup,” my father said, still caught on his back foot.
“Margaux would be mad at me if I didn’t bring her new BFF.”
My mother's smile widened into something more genuine. “How wonderful. Margaux will be thrilled—she's been talking about you non-stop since Christmas.”
“The pink hair is a hit with the under ten demographic,” Adrian agreed solemnly.
Margaux appeared at the top of the stairs in her favourite unicorn pajamas, took one look at Adrian, and shrieked.
“You're here! Nico, you didn't tell me Adrian was coming!”
“Surprise,” I said, as she thundered down the stairs and latched onto Adrian's leg.
They started chatting a mile a minute about topics ranging from Captain to a new girl in Margaux’s class.
My parents exchanged a look and my mother touched my arm as they headed for the door.
“We'll be back around midnight. Have fun, mon chou.”
◆◆◆
We were making Margaux's favourite dinner—Croque Monsieur—which I thought was simple enough to match Adrian's culinary abilities.
Margaux was standing on her stepstool, carefully supervising Adrian as he attempted to shred the Gruyère. She had warned him off nicking his fingers twice and looked ready to snatch the grater out of his hand.
“You have to go slower,” she instructed with the patience of a saint. “Like this. See?”
“I'm trying,” Adrian said, concentrating so hard on the cheese that his tongue was sticking out slightly, pressing against his lip ring.
I was assembling sandwiches at the counter, watching them with barely contained amusement.
“Have you really never done this before?” Margaux asked, incredulous.
“Nope.”
“But you're a grown-up.”
“A tragic oversight in my education,” Adrian agreed. “My family had a chef when I was growing up. And now I mostly live off takeout and frozen dinners.”
I nearly dropped the wooden spatula I was using to stir the béchamel. “I'm sorry, did you say frozen dinners?”
“What?” He looked up, innocent. “Frozen dinners are convenient.”
“You're an elite Olympic athlete.”
“Exactly. I need convenience.”
“You need nutrition. Protein. Complex carbohydrates. Not whatever processed garbage you've been—”
“Imagine if this got out,” Adrian interrupted, waggling his eyebrows at me over Margaux's head. “The brand sponsorships I could land. Adrian Zhao, Olympic figure skater, fuelled entirely by President’s Choice and DoorDash.”
Margaux giggled. “That's silly.”
“Your brother thinks I'm silly all the time.”
“Nico's not silly. He's very serious.”
“The most serious,” Adrian agreed, grinning at me. “It's one of my favourite things about him.”
I felt my face heat. Margaux looked between us with the knowing expression of an eight year old who'd just figured something out.
“Do you like like my brother?”
Adrian didn't hesitate. “Yeah, I do.”
“Good.” She nodded, satisfied, and went back to supervising his cheese grating. “Because Nico is the best and I like you.”
My chest tightened. Adrian's eyes found mine across the kitchen, soft and understanding.
“Me too, kid. Me too.”
◆◆◆
After dinner, Adrian attempted to help me with the dishes, which he was almost as bad at as shredding cheese.
Something fragile clattered ominously against something metal as Adrian swished his gloved hands in the soapy water.
Margaux was watching us from her perch on the countertop stool, finger pressed thoughtfully to her chin.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” Adrian asked, swiping his hair out of his eye with a soapy hand. It had grown past his jaw now, the back creeping toward his shoulder blades in cotton candy waves.
“Your hair is so pretty. Can I pretty please braid it?”
“After I help Nicky with the dishes.”
“No, I can take care of cleaning up.” The relief I felt at having a legitimate excuse to kick him out of my mother's kitchen was immense. “You guys go. Margaux still needs a shower before bedtime so it's perfect.”
They disappeared upstairs and I finished the dishes properly.
Found a slightly chipped plate and turned it chip side down in the drying rack.
Wiped down the counters, swept up the errant Gruyère from the floor, made sure everything was back where my mother kept it.
When I was satisfied with the state of the kitchen, I went to find them.
Adrian was sitting on the floor in front of Margaux's vanity and she was perched on her little pink tufted bench behind him.
She had given him four braids that started at the crown of his head and stopped midway on his skull, joined together in the centre with a pink tie.
She was now carefully adding little pink rhinestones into the strands using some sort of handheld bedazzler.
“Wow,” I said and meant it. “I didn't know you could braid hair like that.”
“I braid Captain's hair all the time. Doesn't Adrian look like a faerie prince?”
“Yes. Gorgeous.”
“Thank you, Nicky.” Adrian winked at me over Margaux's head. “Margaux, do you think you could do my hair for the Olympics?”
“You're going to the Olympics?” Wide eyed wonder.
“Don't get ahead of yourself,” I said.
“I'm manifesting, Nicky. Let me manifest.”
“You can manifest after you qualify.”
“That's not how manifesting works. You have to envision the outcome. I'm going to be standing on that podium with braids and rhinestones and a gold medal.”
“The ISU has costume guidelines, Adrian.”
“Hair isn't a costume. Hair is self-expression.” He tilted his head so Margaux could place another rhinestone. “Tell your brother I look amazing.”
Margaux nodded solemnly. “He looks amazing, Nico.”
“Do you have a passport, Margaux?”
“Adrian Zhao…”
“What? I'm just curious.”
I swatted him on the arm and he laughed, pivoting smoothly to ask about Captain, which Margaux would happily talk about until the sun came up.
She launched into an elaborate account of Captain's favourite treats and his fear of butterflies while Adrian listened with what appeared to be genuine fascination, and I leaned against the wall watching them with a feeling in my chest I didn't trust myself to name.
◆◆◆
We tucked her in at nine, which involved three stories, two trips to the bathroom, and a lengthy negotiation about whether she could stay up just a little bit longer to show Adrian her riding medals, which then evolved into tugging him toward her tower of tennis trophies.
“You can show him all of them next time,” I promised.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She looked at Adrian for confirmation.
“I'll be back,” he said. “And you can show me everything.”
Satisfied, she finally settled under her covers. Adrian bent down and let her hug him goodnight, her small arms wrapping around his neck.
“I like you,” she whispered, loud enough for me to hear. “You're nice.”
“I like you too, kid. Sleep well.”
“Goodnight, Nico.” She yawned. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Margaux.” I kissed her forehead and we slipped out, leaving the door cracked the way she liked it.
◆◆◆
We collapsed onto the couch downstairs, exhausted in the way only an evening with an eight year old could make you.
Adrian sprawled across the cushions, pulling me down against him until I was tucked into his side, my head on his chest. He took a few selfies, then turned the camera around to capture the back of his head, examining her work from every angle.
“She did a good job.”
“She really did.”
“I'm definitely rocking this at the Olympics.”
I laughed. “The judges will love that.”
“The judges will be too dazzled by my flawless technical content to care about my bedazzled hair.”
His fingers found their way into my hair, playing with it absently. I could hear his heartbeat under my ear, steady and sure.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“For what?”
“For being good with her. For coming tonight. For—” I waved a hand. “All of it.”
“I came tonight for me. Margaux is my new bestie.”
I kissed him because I didn't have words for what that meant to me.
We stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, talking in quiet voices about nothing and everything. He told me about the costumes he was having commissioned for the Olympics—apparently you needed months of lead time for the beading alone.
“Isn't that a little presumptuous?” I said. “Ordering Olympic costumes before you've officially made the team?”
“It's called planning ahead.”
“It's called tempting fate.”
“You're superstitious?”
“I’m a professional athlete. Of course I'm superstitious.”
He laughed, which made me laugh, and then we were both breathless on the couch. We debated turning on the TV to finish the last few episodes of Avatar but neither of us moved to find the remote.
Somewhere around ten I felt Adrian's breathing even out, his hand going still in my hair. I closed my eyes and let myself drift, warm and safe and content.
That's where my parents found us at midnight—asleep on the couch, Adrian's sparkly braids catching the light, my head still on his chest, his arms wrapped around me like even in sleep he wasn't letting go.
My mother took a picture. I knew because I heard the soft click of her phone camera before she and my father quietly disappeared upstairs.
Adrian didn’t stir so I tucked back into his chest and fell back asleep.