Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
DYLAN
DON’T ASK QUESTIONS you don’t want the answers to.
It’s pretty fucking clear how Sierra sees me.
I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, maybe let the memory of the kiss just linger between us until it got so unbearably tense that she would do it again.
This time I wouldn’t pull back; I wouldn’t care what she thought of me, and I’d give her exactly what I would anyone else.
She knows my reputation, and I’m glad she has no expectations.
The only idea of a relationship I’ve had is my parents.
And I’m pretty sure cheating on your wife isn’t one of the requirements.
It irritates me more that with every one of my mom’s calls that I ignore, they get less frequent, and I end up feeling guiltier.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door before Kian walks in. “Can I use your bathroom?” He’s wearing a pink robe, has a towel over one shoulder, and carries four bottles of shampoos and conditioners in the crook of his arm.
“No.”
Today is the first day I’m actually studying. My professors are piling on assignments, and I haven’t even glanced at them with how drained I am after training with Sierra.
“Oh, come on! My shower isn’t working and no plumber’s willing to come by in this weather,” Kian whines.
I focus back on my Business Law readings. “Use Aiden’s.”
“I’d rather not be haunted by whatever he and Summer have done in there.”
“Eli’s?”
“Too far.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s no way you’re using mine. You know that.”
“You’re so anal about your shower. I thought you were over it being your ‘sanctuary.’”
This is one of those times when I don’t feel bad about all the pranks I’ve played on him. “Reprieve,” I correct. “And the answer is still no.”
He pouts and continues to stare at me, but I don’t let the beam of his gaze affect me. My reading is sixty-three pages, and I’ve read the first page three times.
When that annoying feeling of being watched gnaws at me, I get out of bed.
There’s still some time left before our second half of practice starts, but I’d rather not be stared at for thirty minutes.
I grab my gym bag and pull it over my shoulder just as I point for Kian to exit.
He huffs and walks off. I pull together a quick snack and make sure to threaten him before I leave about using my shower.
At the rink, Lidia gives Sierra and me a ten-minute break after two hours of lifts.
She’s been strict about keeping us to the basics, and it’s obvious Sierra’s patience is wearing thin.
She walks to the bench with a limp, and I can’t help but notice when she winces.
I know it’s from the bruises my hands leave on her abdomen.
Sierra pulls out her phone and swipes through her social media, lingering on those lantern festival videos.
My gaze flits between her and the screen as I try to understand what she finds so fascinating.
They show people gathering for the festival that stretches on for the course of a few weeks.
I used to go with my parents as a kid but haven’t been since.
Now that I think back, I can’t even remember if my dad was there or if his phone went off while in the middle of lighting the lanterns.
I dig into my bag. “Here,” I say, handing her one of the sandwiches I made.
She stares at it in my hand for so long, I drop it in her lap.
Sierra mutters a “thanks” and doesn’t say another word as she takes a bite.
Things with us have been awkward. Tension thrums off her, and I can feel it when I touch her.
She’s more guarded than usual, and we barely talk during the first four hours of practice and the last four when we come back after classes.
Practice has sucked and Lidia’s been angrier than I’ve ever seen her.
Even worse, I’ve seen Coach Kilner walk by plenty of times, and sometimes he stops to watch, and other times he takes off before I can talk to him.
I’m not sure if he’s appreciating my effort or just reminding me of how I fucked up his season.
Lidia claps twice, and just like that we’re back.
Then when I get the hand placement wrong, Sierra takes my hand and fixes it for me. Sometimes, I wonder if she misses him. Last week Justin and his partner, Julia, practiced on one side of the rink while we were on the other. Lidia made sure that never happened again.
I lift Sierra and she grunts, so I immediately put her back down.
“What are you doing?” she hisses.
I look at Lidia. “She’s in pain. I’m not going to lift her until she’s black-and-blue.”
“You okay, Sierra?” Coach Lidia asks. It’s the tenth time she’s asked her that, and each time Sierra gives her the same answer. The same lie. It’s starting to piss me off.
“Fine,” she mutters.
I chuckle, returning to our start position.
“Go ahead,” Sierra says, her voice sharp, daring, but there’s something raw under it. She doesn’t meet my eyes, like she’s bracing herself for whatever’s coming next.
“What?”
“Say what you want to say,” she snaps, but keeps her arms crossed over her chest like a shield.
Something about the way she stands there, so closed off, pulls at me. I can feel the distance between us.
I watch her carefully. “You’re scared.”
Her eyes flash. “I’ve been doing this my whole life. I’m not scared.”
But I feel it—just in the way her body stiffens when I reach for her, the way she holds herself a little too rigid. “Yes, Sierra, you are,” I press. “I can feel it in the way you tremble when I lift you. And we haven’t even done any real lifts yet.”
“That has nothing to do with you,” she shoots back, but there’s a crack in her words.
“It has everything to do with me,” I say, the frustration creeping into my voice. “I’m the one holding you up, potentially putting you in the same position where you fell, and I get it, okay? It probably terrifies you because you think I’d drop you like he did.”
I watch her face change, her breath catching in her throat, and the panic is instant, like a wave crashing over her. It takes everything in me not to reach for her, to ground her like before.
Coach is still watching, and I can see Sierra closing off even more. Like she’s trapped.
She stammers. “I—it’s a me thing. I’ll figure it out.”
Lidia steps in, her tone final. “We will figure it out.”
I turn my focus back to Sierra, my eyes locking with hers.
The tension between us is thick, too heavy to ignore.
I can see her fighting it, but something’s changed, something in the way her eyes soften just a fraction, the way her lips part, like she’s trying to find the words but doesn’t know how. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll be that for you,” I whisper.
She freezes. And before I can say anything else, she spins away from me, skating off the ice without a word.
THE DOORBELL RINGS incessantly, the chime echoing through the house. Even when I press my pillow against my ears, I can still hear it. With a curse and half-lidded eyes, I roll out of my bed and yank my bedroom door wide.
“Answer the fucking door!” I shout, but my voice only echoes faintly before the relentless ringing resumes.
No one’s home; I know, because the usual music from upstairs is absent, and the lingering scent of smoke from failed breakfast attempts isn’t wafting through the house.
Even the TV in the living room, which is typically blaring at all hours, is silent.
I don’t bother throwing on a shirt, and I walk out in my boxers. If someone wants to disrupt my sleep, they’re not getting any consideration from me.
Exhaustion lingers in my foggy brain. Business Law has a way of lulling me to sleep better than Ambien.
My professor, well past retirement age, seems more interested in a power trip rather than teaching; he grades our assignments based on how many times we reference one of his old cases.
Once I figured that out, it’s been smooth sailing, and retaining anything I learn from him hasn’t really been my priority.
Speaking of power trips, when I yank the door open, I’m met with the familiar dark blue of a crisp Tom Ford suit and those cold blue eyes I’m relieved I never inherited. My dad stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, until he gives me an unimpressed once-over.
“Sleeping away college? That’s one way to throw away your life,” he says.
My jaw twitches. “Wouldn’t know. You’re the expert at tossing things aside,” I retort, already fed up with his presence. This is the only place that feels like mine, and having him here feels wrong. He’s had four years to visit. I start to close the door, but he stops me.
My dad balances the box he’s holding on one hand while using the other to hold the door open. “Wait, I came here to apologize.”
“Hell of a start to an apology visit.”
He stares impassively. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Reluctantly, I gesture to the living room, and he steps inside, his eyes taking in the house with that hint of judgment he always carries.
“Where are your roommates?”
“My friends are at practice, so it’s just me.” He hasn’t said anything about the letter they got from Dalton about my suspension. I wonder if my mom even told him. Either way, he’d be happy that I’m done with that barbaric sport. Though he hated figure skating more.
He doesn’t sit on the couch—probably for the best—so we’re just standing in the living room, him in his suit and me in my boxers.
I surpassed him in height a few years after puberty, and that small imbalance felt like a foreshadowing of the catalyst that altered our relationship.
It serves as a physical reminder of how much I’ve outgrown him.
“I understand you felt blindsided by our previous call. We should have discussed it as a family first.”
His words are an ice pick to my solid resolve, but I don’t let him see that.
“After everything we’ve been through as a family, I know this isn’t a Band-Aid solution to our problems. But this vow renewal means a lot to your mother.”
Means a lot to your mother. Not him. The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I wait for him to continue, but he just stands there, staring at me like it’s my turn.
“Is that all?”
He exhales. “Your mother would appreciate it if you would put aside our personal differences and join us in the renewal of our vows. I’ve done some things in the past that I’m not proud of, and I want to start fresh. I love her, Dylan. I love you too.”
“Congrats,” I say. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”
My dad looks at me as though he wants to say more but thinks better of it.
“I brought something for you,” he finally says, acknowledging the large white box in his hands.
He places it on the coffee table, and I see the lavender envelope sitting on top.
“It’s your tux for the ceremony. Your mother picked it out, and wrote you this letter. ”
I stare at the envelope on the box, deciding then that I’ll never open it.
“Your friends are welcome to come. We’ll be sending out their invitations soon.”
Knowing it’s my mom who’s running around, finalizing all the details for their ceremony, makes anger bubble beneath my skin. While he’s out late at night, she waits for him at their glass home, clinging to the same hope she’s had ever since he built this business.
“You don’t need to invite my friends,” I say.
He doesn’t respond, only stares at me for so long that I eventually gesture for him to leave. “I’d prefer it if you confirmed your attendance.”
“And I’d prefer if you never came here with your half-assed apology.”
His jaw tightens. “I won’t tolerate your disrespect. You think you can talk to your mother like that because she lets you get away with it, but that won’t be the case with me.”
“Right, because you’re the only one who’s allowed to disrespect her.”
“Dylan—”
“Next time you want to apologize, try using the words ‘I’m sorry,’” I spit out. “Get out of my house.”
His eyes blaze with intensity, and I know that right here, right now, the only thing left of our relationship will be its ashes.
“Leave. Now,” I say, bracing for his cold response. Instead, he walks out of the house without a second glance. His presence lingers in the air like a sticky film
Just a minute later, the front door swings open again, and I’m about to raise my voice, when Kian rushes inside. “Was that your dad?”