Chapter Thirteen
Maren
The problem with saying tomorrow is that tomorrow arrives.
Rude.
Uninvited.
Extremely punctual.
By ten Saturday morning, I had reorganized the skating archive folder twice, checked the Senior Night export queue three times, and moved the puck on my desk from the left side to the right side and back again.
This was not avoidance.
This was workflow refinement.
Possibly.
The archive folder sat in front of me.
SKATING ARCHIVE — MAREN REVIEW
Hazel had found three additional boxes in the alumni storage room.
Patty had delivered them with the solemnity of a woman handing over evidence.
Old photos.
Contact sheets.
Event programs.
A flash drive labeled JR DEV MEDIA / SHOWCASE WEEK in permanent marker.
I had not opened it yet.
Because I was waiting for Carter.
Also because I was terrified.
Both things could be true.
At ten oh-two, Carter knocked on the open media office door.
No coffee.
No joke.
Navy hoodie.
Dark jeans.
Hair still slightly messy like he had run his hand through it too many times and then lost the argument.
He stood in the doorway.
Not entering.
Learning had made him inconveniently attractive.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
He looked at the boxes.
Then at me.
“You still want me here?”
Direct.
Good.
Terrible.
“Yes.”
He entered.
Closed the door halfway, then paused.
“Open or closed?”
My chest tightened.
“Open.”
He nodded.
Left it open.
No comment.
Good.
We sat on opposite sides of the table.
Between us: one archive folder, two boxes of photos, one old flash drive, and three years of everything nobody had said correctly.
Carter looked at the label.
“Junior development media clinic.”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked up.
He winced.
“Sorry. I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
His face shifted.
“Do you?”
“I understand.”
A small smile.
Not smug.
Warm.
The office settled.
I hated how much I liked that we could do this now.
Clarify.
Correct.
Try again.
I opened the first box.
Photos.
Lots of them.
The good ones existed.
That was the first shock.
Not one.
Not two.
Dozens.
Me on the ice with one arm lifted.Me mid-spin, face focused.Me laughing beside another skater.Me adjusting my laces.Me reviewing a shot list with a camera around my neck because even then, apparently, I was doomed to organize everything in reach.
I stared at a photo of myself landing a jump.
Not perfectly.
But cleanly.
Strong.
Whole.
Carter did not speak.
That helped.
I picked up the photo.
My fingers touched the edge like it might vanish.
“I forgot this part,” I said.
His voice was quiet.
“I didn’t.”
I looked at him.
He was looking at the photo, not me.
Good.
Safer.
“What do you remember?”
He took a breath.
“That you worked harder than anyone and got angry when people called it natural talent.”
I almost smiled.
“Because that is lazy praise.”
“I know.”
“You did not then.”
“I did. I just teased you anyway because I was an idiot.”
“Accurate.”
He accepted that with a nod.
“I remember you tying the blue ribbon before every run-through.”
My throat tightened.
“I said it was for balance.”
“You said your left side had leadership issues.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Small.
Unplanned.
His face softened.
I looked back at the photos quickly.
Not because he did anything wrong.
Because my own reaction scared me.
We worked through the first box.
Quietly.
Sometimes I explained who was in a photo.
Sometimes Carter remembered things I had not expected him to remember.
The volunteer coach who always carried peppermint tea.
The faulty rink door that stuck during the coldest mornings.
The way the media clinic students fought over the good lens.
He had paid attention.
That hurt.
In a different way.
Because careless people were easier to hate.
Carter had not been careless because he never saw me.
He had been careless with what he saw.
Worse.
Better.
Both.
Halfway through the second box, I found the sequence.
The showcase.
My stomach knew before my brain did.
The blue dress.
The overhead lights.
The start pose.
The turn.
The jump.
Then the fall.
Not video.
Still images.
Frame by frame.
I stopped breathing.
Carter noticed immediately.
“Maren.”
“No.”
He went still.
Not coming closer.
Good.
I spread the photos across the table with hands that were suddenly cold.
There I was.
Airborne.
Beautiful, maybe.
Then tilted.
Then wrong.
Then down.
The final photo caught me on the ice, one hand braced, face turned away.
It looked less humiliating than memory.
That was the second shock.
The fall had been ugly.
Yes.
But not monstrous.
Not ridiculous.
Not worthy of years of shame.
Just a body missing the landing.
An athlete falling.
A girl getting up.
The cruelty had not been the fall.
It had been the room afterward.
I sat back slowly.
Carter did not say anything.
For once, silence was not a test.
It was space.
I looked at the last photo again.
“I thought it looked worse.”
His voice was rough.
“I made it worse.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
No argument.
No softening.
No turning away from the cost.
I opened them.
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
His eyes were on the table.
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
The words were not enough.
They were also not nothing.
I picked up the photo of me airborne.
Before the fall.
My body strong.
Focused.
Committed.
“I want to use this one,” I said.
Carter looked up.
“For the archive wall?”
“Yes.”
His expression shifted into something like relief.
Not because of himself.
Good.
“Good.”
“And this one.”
I picked up the landing photo.
Not the good landing.
The fall.
His face changed.
“Maren.”
“I do not want the only record of it to be something people laughed at.”
He swallowed.
“Okay.”
“I want the whole sequence.”
His hands clenched once on the table.
Then relaxed.
“Okay.”
I studied him.
“This is not punishment.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me.
“I understand.”
Better.
Always better.
“I want it because falling was not the part that broke me,” I said.
His face went still.
“The laughter was.”
“Yes.”
“And I am tired of pretending the fall is shameful because the room made it ugly.”
Carter’s eyes shone.
He looked away.
Not to hide.
To handle it.
That mattered.
When he looked back, his voice was quiet.
“You should use it.”
“I will.”
The flash drive waited.
I hated it.
Carter did too.
I could tell.
His gaze kept returning to it like it might bite.
“Do you want to open it?” he asked.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think I should?”
“I think you get to decide.”
Very healthy.
Very annoying.
I picked up the drive.
It was smaller than it should have been for something that had carried so much weight.
“I have built it into a monster,” I said.
“That makes sense.”
“And if it is not?”
“Then that might hurt too.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
No joke.
No rescue.
No pushing.
I inserted the drive.
The folder opened.
Video files.
Raw footage.
Interview clips.
B-roll.
And one file labeled:
SHOWCASE_FALL_CLIP_EDIT.mp4
My stomach turned.
“There it is,” I said.
Carter looked like he wanted to break the table.
He did not move.
Good.
“I do not have to watch it,” I said.
“No.”
“I can delete it.”
“Yes.”
“I can archive it.”
“Yes.”
“I can use it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
I clicked once.
Not opening.
Selecting.
My finger hovered over the trackpad.
Then I opened the raw footage folder instead.
Carter exhaled.
I pretended not to notice.
The raw clip was longer.
Full routine.
Not the edited fall.
Not the cruel version.
I pressed play.
The screen filled with old light.
Old ice.
Old me.
I was better than I remembered.
Not perfect.
Not future-Olympian.
Not untouchable.
But good.
Strong.
Musical.
Committed.
Carter was visible near the boards in the background, leaning forward like the rest of the rink had blurred.
I watched myself skate.
Really watched.
I watched the speed.
The turns.
The concentration.
The jump.
The fall.
My body hit the ice.
The old flinch moved through me.
But the clip kept going.
That was the difference.
The edited version stopped at humiliation.
The raw version continued.
I pushed up.
I finished the routine.
Not cleanly.
Not easily.
But I finished.
At the end, I stood there breathing hard while the room clapped.
Not everyone.
Enough.
My younger self smiled once.
Small.
Shaky.
Alive.
The clip ended.
The office was silent.
I covered my mouth with one hand.
Absolutely not crying.
Possibly.
Carter’s voice was barely there.
“You got up.”
I nodded.
Because speaking was not available.
“You finished.”
I nodded again.
He looked wrecked.
So did I.
The difference was that I did not feel destroyed.
I felt furious.
At the clip.
At the room.
At him.
At myself for believing the worst version was the whole truth.
Furious and relieved.
Same family.
No.
I turned to Carter.
“I got up.”
His face crumpled a little.
“Yes.”
“I forgot that.”
“I am sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making the fall louder than the getting up.”
That was the best worst sentence he could have said.
My eyes burned.
This time, I let them.
A few tears.
Silent.
Mine.
Not his to fix.
Carter stayed seated.
Hands flat on the table.
Breathing like staying still hurt.
Good.
Let it hurt.
I wiped my face.
Then replayed the final thirty seconds.
The getting up.
The finish.
The shaky smile.
I exported that segment.
Saved it in the archive folder.
Carter watched.
“What are you naming it?” he asked.
I typed:
MAREN_FINISHES_ROUTINE_RAW_CLIP
Then stopped.
Changed it.
MAREN_GETS_UP
Carter looked down.
His throat moved.
“Good title.”
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
The office felt different.
The air had shifted.
Something old had left.
Not everything.
Enough.
I looked at Carter.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“You saw me get up.”
“Yes.”
“And when people reduced it to the fall, you let them.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He took the hit.
Good.