Chapter 36
Danny and Emily have been buying ice cream bars for twenty-six minutes.
Sasha knows this for a fact, because he’s checked his phone at least twenty-six times.
He’d tried talking to Patty, he’d really tried; but between Patty’s ridiculous questions about Russia (“So, what’s up with all those dashcam videos?
Are Russians just, like, crazy drivers?”) and his rambling monologues about something called “cryptocurrency,” the conversation started to feel physically and even almost spiritually painful, Sasha’s soul shriveling up inside of him as he fought to keep his expression attentive.
He must not have done a good enough job, because eventually Patty said, “Be right back, man,” and slipped away to take Emily’s empty spot next to Jess. The two of them promptly started arguing, or flirting, and Sasha wasn’t surprised when Patty never returned.
So now he’s sitting by himself, scanning the crowds for any sign of Danny or Emily and trying not to look too obvious about it.
He’s also debating whether or not it would be rude to ask Danny—whenever he gets back—how much longer they’re going to stay at the beach, because they’ve been here for hours.
The sun’s slowly roasting him into submission, the mid-afternoon heat making him feel lethargic and stupid.
Danny’s friends are all chattering away, but he can’t make sense of what they’re saying, their voices melting like butter in his brain.
He stops bothering to translate, relying instead on sporadic eye contact to make it look as if he’s still listening.
Finally, Danny appears in the distance, like a mirage on the sand.
Lightheaded with relief, Sasha squints at him, noticing that he’s deep in conversation with Emily—heads bent together, walking close.
They break off before rejoining the group, and Sasha assumes that whatever they were talking about must have been private, maybe something Emily didn’t want overheard…
Or maybe something Danny didn’t want overheard.
Sasha doesn’t know where the suspicion comes from, or why he can’t shake it off. Doesn’t know if he’s reading too much into the fact that Danny isn’t looking his way, going over instead to Patty and Jess.
“Oreos,” Danny says, handing one of the ice cream bars to Patty. “And Jess, Patty said you like butter brickle banana…”
Sasha puzzles over the phrase “butter brickle banana” until that, too, liquidates in his brain, right as he realizes he’s being watched. Something draws his gaze to Emily, and their eyes meet for a split second; then she smiles, nodding at him like they’re sharing a secret.
Like she fucking knows.
He freezes, the sun’s scorching rays forgotten as an icy chill sweeps down his spine. Danny wouldn’t do that—would he? But then what the hell was that nod from Emily?
“Hey. Sash.”
An ice cream bar waves in front of his face.
“Want it?” Danny asks as Sasha stares up at him. “I got a banana one, too, if you wanna be healthy—”
“Danny,” Sasha says as quietly as possible, so no one around them can hear. “Did you tell Emily?”
For a split second of silence, Sasha can still pretend the answer is No, of course I wouldn’t do something so stupid. Then the first cracks of guilt appear on Danny’s face, and Sasha stops breathing, stops seeing anything other than red, blood in his ears and rage in his chest.
But he can’t make a scene. He can’t scream like he wants to, though he might if he stays here a second longer.
So he stands up. Wipes the sand from his trunks with shaking hands. Looks Danny in the eye, thinks Fuck you as fiercely as he can, and walks away.
“Sash,” he hears, and then: “Shit—Em, can you hold these?”
Sasha has no idea where he’s going, or what he’s planning on doing when he gets there, but he’s too furious to care.
He storms past umbrellas, towels, and sandcastles, all of it blurring in his vision like a drunken kaleidoscope, his thoughts splitting and spiraling into thousands of worst-case scenarios.
Emily could be telling everyone right now, and there’s nothing he could do to stop her…
Danny scrambles after him, breathlessly making excuses.
“Sasha, wait! She already knew! I didn’t—”
Alarmed, Sasha slows down just enough to let Danny catch up. “What do you mean, she already knew? How?”
“She said she got this, like, vibe when she saw me waking you up earlier,” Danny answers sheepishly. “I guess I was being kinda obvious? So she asked if we were together, but like, she’s not gonna tell anyone—”
“She asked?” Sasha echoes in disbelief. He can’t remember what a “vibe” is, but it sure as fuck doesn’t sound like Emily actually knew. “She asked and you said yes?”
“I—”
“So now if anyone asks, you say yes?”
Danny flushes, even as he tries to defend himself. “No, it’s not like—”
“We talked yesterday about this.” Sasha’s getting angrier by the second, the more it hits him how careless Danny’s being with the one fucking thing Sasha asked him to keep safe.
“Yesterday you said you are not telling. Today you tell your friend. Maybe tomorrow you tell another friend, or Instagram.”
“Sasha, I won’t. I promise—”
“I don’t believe you,” Sasha cuts him off.
That’s the worst part—that he has no way of knowing if Danny can keep his promise this time, or if they’re going to be having the exact same conversation again in another day or two.
He certainly can’t take Danny’s word for it, because Danny’s word doesn’t mean anything anymore. Not when it comes to this.
“Sash…” Danny looks like he’s at a loss. “I’m really sorry.”
Sasha doesn’t want Danny’s useless apology.
The damage is done, and “sorry” can’t fucking fix it.
Nothing can. But he has no idea where to go from here, either, especially since he’s staying with the Hartmans for another week.
Is he just going to not talk to Danny for the rest of it and risk his parents noticing?
How would that work at gymnastics, when they’re supposed to be coaching and training with each other?
And even if he could manage it… does he really want to waste the only time they have left together until Worlds in the fall?
No. He doesn’t.
But he’s fucking pissed at Danny for putting him in this position, where he has to accept what happened in order to make peace. He’s also tired and hot and probably a little sun-stupid, and he’s nowhere near ready to forgive Danny just yet, or pretend that everything’s fine in front of his friends.
“What can I do?” Danny’s voice is soft, almost pleading. “Is there, like, anything I can do to make this better?”
Sasha finally stops walking. “I am leaving,” he says, and Danny turns as white as the seashells at their feet. “You can stay with your friends. I will take Uber.”
“You—oh.” Some of the color returns to Danny’s face. “I thought you meant—Jesus. Never mind. All right, yeah. I get it. Just… let me drive you.”
Sasha shakes his head. He’s not going to make Danny bail on his friends, and he’d rather be alone anyway.
But Danny doesn’t back down. “No, seriously, if you show up by yourself, my mom’s gonna think I ditched you, and then she’s gonna freak out and ask, like, a million questions.”
Danny has a point, so Sasha reluctantly gives in, though he’s a little bitter about the fact that now Danny cares about discretion.
As they head back, he wonders again if Emily’s said anything to the others, despite Danny’s assurances to the contrary; and the closer they get, the more he slows down, afraid of what they might be returning to.
He doesn’t think they’d be in physical danger, since the group seems to have accepted Emily; but he knows from locker-room experience that his teammates, at least, can sometimes be indulgent about lesbians in ways that definitely don’t apply to gay men.
He’s not sure if it’s the same for Americans, if Patty and Scott and CJ would suddenly be repulsed by him and Danny, and he starts to worry that maybe they shouldn’t stick around to find out.
“Sasha?” Danny asks, which is when Sasha realizes he’s stopped moving, his toes curling into the sand. “You okay?”
For a moment, Sasha seriously considers asking Danny if they can just go, right now, without telling the others. But all their stuff is with their towels, and if they’re going to have a problem, well… maybe it’s better to know sooner rather than later.
Yet walking those last few meters to Danny’s friends feels like he’s sixteen years old again and trying a Kovacs for the first time, chucking the double back flip over the high bar and scared out of his mind, convinced it would end in disaster.
Barely able to see or breathe, heart in his throat, sending silent prayers to a god he didn’t fully believe in.
Patty’s the first to notice their return, and his posture immediately changes, spine straightening as he opens his mouth. Sasha braces himself—
“Yo, Danny, are you guys gonna eat your Balboa bars?”
“Patrick, you literally just ate two of those things, how are you still hungry?”
The sound of Jess and Patty’s bickering is like the soft thump of that safe landing in the foam pit, relief whooshing through his stomach, not even caring that he didn’t catch the bar because he was somehow still alive.
Everyone’s too busy rolling their eyes at Jess and Patty to pay any attention to Sasha and Danny—everyone, that is, except for Emily, who’s glancing worriedly between them.
Sasha looks away when her gaze lands on him.
“Uh, excuse me, Jessica, I’m pretty sure it was one and half, because someone made me give them—”
“Oh my God, it was like one bite. Like, maybe two…”
Danny clears his throat. “Uh, guys, we’re heading out. Sasha just remembered he has a phone interview.”
Sasha tries not to wince at the excuse—it’s past midnight in Moscow. But no one seems to suspect anything, other than Emily, whose brow furrows as she hugs Danny goodbye. “Talk later?” she murmurs to him, which Sasha pretends not to hear.