CHAPTER 86
Troy
IN THE MIDDLE of the night a strange, tickling sensation curls at my feet.
Flicking my nightstand on, I notice the feline’s green eyes staring back at me.
Pointing in the direction of Ana.
Ana’s legs.
No, Ana’s feet.
Not wanting to wake Ana, I scoop Mishi into my arms, running my fingers along her back until I feel her start to drift off, awake for the rest of the night—no matter how hard I tried to sleep and convince the morning could wait for—wondering what’s underneath all those bandages.
My stomach unfolds with poisonous guesses until the softest flicker of light washes into the room through the curtains.
_________
Ana
“Morning,” I say with a soft smile as I walk into the kitchen the next morning.
“Hey,” Troy says, while scrambling a pan full of eggs and roasted potatoes.
He grabs two plates, setting them down at the island before he brings a tiny bowl of mashed potatoes for Mishi, who eagerly follows after him.
A warmth fills me by their exchange, but it’s quickly replaced by the nerves, dropping my palms into my lap when I feel them start to shake.
Tomorrow’s the day.
When we’re almost done with breakfast and I lift off my seat to go get changed for the rink, Troy’s voice sends a shiver down my spine.
“Can we talk?”
Those three words never ended well.
I turn back around, trying to stay optimistic though, maybe this time’s the exception and all.
“Yeah,” I say.
He nods, gesturing for us to sit on the barstools again, which totally deflates my hope of this not turning into something catastrophic.
And he stares at me like he doesn’t want to offend me, and that isn’t helping.
“What?” I ask. “Just say it.”
“Are your feet alright?” he says it like he was holding his breath to ask that.
“Of course they are,” I say, feeling myself start to bite my lips by the question. “Why would you ask that?”
“I saw the bandages over them later last night,” he explains. “They were covered pretty deep from the bottom so I couldn’t really see underneath.”
“They’re fine. Just some cuts from skating.”
“Can I see please?”
The question feels like an attack.
Without any warning.
So I laugh like he sounds crazy to even ask me.
“Ana, please,” he begs, “I’m trying to help.”
“We were good,” I remind because we were. “Why do you keep doing this?”
It’s like he’s trying to tell me why through his eyes but hates that he has to spell it out, and I’m clearly not understanding so he just sighs, but he. Keeps. Pushing. Me.
“I’m worried about you,” Troy nearly coughs the words out, like it was bottling up inside of him, paining him now to have released it. “Fuck, I’m trying not to worry but—I’m worried, okay?”
“You have nothing to worry about. I’m fine,” I say it this time through clenched teeth.
“Please let me see your feet.”
“No.”
“I can’t practice with you if I don’t know if you’re injured or not.”
“I’m not injured, Troy. Stop it.”
“Then why won’t you show me?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Are you embarrassed, Ana? Because I’ve seen a whole lot worse.”
My chest feels like it’s being stabbed, holding onto the edge of the counter as the sting hits.
“Are you really bringing up sex right now?”
Now he laughs. With a giant shake to his head.
“Unbelievable,” he says, annoyed. “I was talking about shit I’ve been through that you don’t know anything about. So if there’s something wrong with your feet. Or I don’t know, if you’re sick, just tell me and we will fix it together.”
“We aren’t fixing anything together because there’s nothing to be fixed. I’ll see you when I get home.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, touching my arm like he knew. He knew that would soften me up a bit. “Please don’t do this.”
How incredibly selfish of him to think I want to do this, like any of this isn’t crushing my very spirit and soul.
“Just talk to me. I’m begging you. Please.”
Do not cry.
Do not cry.
Do not let him see you cry.
I didn’t cry.
Good.
I tug my arm away and head to the rink alone.
_________
Troy
When I saw Ana’s bandages last night and my heart dipped to a level it’s only ever reached one other time in my entire life—when the casket of my mother was being pulled away from us at the graveyard—I knew this could never be a game. Not anymore.
I didn’t go to practice. Couldn’t.
Couldn’t lift her in the air knowing she’s hurt. Couldn’t throw her in the air knowing she’s hurt.
Couldn’t pretend through our demanding routines and just play along. No. This is serious shit.
Instead I stayed home, spent a whole lot of time soaking towels and washcloths that might help with her pain, and then the other, longer half of the day worried sick for her.
And my heart jumps then comforts right in place when the door finally unlocks and she’s here. Alive.
I know she’s upset with me, her eyes giving away that fact.
And even though it doesn’t look like I tried not to give a shit about her—with the less than 12 hour shift—I did, I tried but the idea of her being in pain rewired everything in my brain somehow and now we’re here in my living room with a whole lot of unresolved shit on the fan.
Even with the attempt, I wasn’t surprised when she left the cloths untouched at the counter.
When she passed by me without a hello.
Not even after she shut her door, came downstairs for barely a glass of water and some leftover pasta that wouldn’t even make a full meal, and locked herself in there until it was midnight.
Which I only decided to check on her since the air was feeling a bit nippy and thought she could maybe use an extra blanket for her feet.
When I slide through her door, she’s already sound asleep and hearing that temporary peace in the air above her gives some strange silver lining. Like for a second things might not be as bad as they seem—they rarely ever are.
As I’m thinking this, tucking the edge of the covers for them to reach her toes, my gaze lands on the patch of scar tissue peeking through one of the bandages that’s popped out a bit.
Some deep purple uneven spots. Then patches of brighter red, more fresh wounds.
Panic starts to cram up my throat.
If that’s any indication of the pain underneath the rest of the tape, then that means she’s been skating on bruised feet for some time now, meanwhile I was too busy poking fun at her posture like a jackass to even notice.
Staring at her feet once more, feeling like I’m invading her privacy all of a sudden when she quickly shifts in her sleep, I nudge the blanket until it better protects her ankles, leaving the guest room with my heart still in there.
_________
“We have to go in like an hour, so make sure you grab your coat.” I hear Ana call from the stairs. Her brows pull together in confusion when she walks into the living room and sees me sitting on the sofa the next morning.
Still in my pajamas.
“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” she asks, confused.
I sigh, knowing it’s the right thing to do but still dreading the conversation all the same.
“We can’t go,” I say.
“What,” she blurts out, “what do you mean we can’t go?”
“I mean, we’re not going, Ana. Look at you.”
She stares at me in disbelief.
“Very funny, Troy. Now go get dressed.”
“Okay, maybe I should rephrase that. I’m not going. And if I don’t, you can’t skate.”
Her eyes turn furious, but honest to God I don’t know any other way to get through to her than take myself out of the equation, forcing us to stay home and for her to rest.
“Is this some sick joke? We are going. You are coming with me.”
“No, I’m not. You’re sick, Ana. And you need to rest.”
“I’m,” she stutters, blinking, “I’m not sick. What are you talking about?”
“Look at your feet.” She doesn’t. “Look at your hands.” They’re still trembling but she doesn’t glance at them either.
Then I see it in her eyes, the desperation.
She darts right to me, touching my arms like it’s fair for her to do that.
“Please, Troy. We can’t miss this. We worked so fucking hard for it. We’re almost there, please come with me. I need you.”
For a second I feel myself starting to reconsider but snap out of it when by some inexplainable force I cut through her watery eyes and my kryptonite.
“No,” I reply. “I’m sorry. But I can’t go.”
“Please.”
“No,” I say it so quick just in case my brain gives in and betrays us both.
But it upsets her, I see it by the way her back straightens like she thought my answer would change and all that was just her act to convince me and it failed.
A scarier, unrecognizable version of her starts to shapeshift before my eyes, and it breaks my heart.
But I stand my ground.
“If you don’t skate with me today,” she threatens, “then I won’t skate with you at the Olympics.”
The corner of my eye twitches, my jaw tensing if she thought she could get through to me so maliciously.
“Don’t,” I reply, folding my arms across my chest. “You think I care about some skating competition more than I care about you? I’m not going to skate with you when you’re clearly in pain. And if that makes me a fucking asshole to you, I’ll live with that.”
She tries to feel something, I see that by the way her eyes sparkle before she kills it off, before she grabs hold of my arm and dim blue starts to drown.
“I’m sorry,” she begs, “I didn’t mean to say that.
I didn’t even mean it, I didn’t mean to threaten you.
” But she did. “I—please, Troy, if you skate with me just today,” God, I’m so tired of hearing that fucking word—just today, just for a few more minutes, just another hour, just sex, when all of it means nothing…
, “I promise right after I’ll rest a little.
I won’t go to practice for a bit, please just come with me today and I’ll listen to you. ”
I wouldn’t have given in.
I tried to convince myself that there wouldn’t be a thing that she could do, a word that she could try to say, that would change my mind.
But a tiny drop falls out the corner of one of her eyes. One she wipes away so quick, thinking I wouldn’t see it.
And the realization hits that I’ve never seen her cry. Since she was five, and I was seven, I have never seen her cry.
I just made her cry.
It’s hard to convince myself that this was me doing the right thing not when she looks even more miserable now.
“Okay,” I say it so quick just in case my heart gives out.