10. Nico
Adrian was already gone by the time I woke up.
The blanket was tossed over the back of the couch like he had flung it off in a panic. The water and ibuprofen were still there, untouched. His boots and jacket were gone.
The only evidence that Adrian Zhao had slept in my apartment was a faint impression on the couch cushion and the lingering trace of something sweet and herbal in the air.
I stood in my living room for a moment, taking in the scene.
Then I opened every window, which was irrational given that it was November, and started cleaning.
There was really nothing to tidy but I needed to do something to keep my mind occupied.
I wiped down the coffee table, put the water glass in the dishwasher, and returned the coaster to its rightful home.
Straightened the throw pillows and put a crease in the centre of each one.
Punched the couch cushions back into shape with a little more force than necessary.
Okay, part of that might have been because of last night.
Would he even remember last night?
Part of me hoped not. The drunk rambling, the way he'd looked up at me with those glassy eyes, the words that had tumbled out of him without any filter—it would be easier if he didn't remember.
Easier to pretend it hadn't happened. Easier to go back to the familiar antagonism that didn't require me to feel anything complicated.
Part of me—a smaller, quieter part that I did not want to examine—would be disappointed.
He had left without saying anything. I didn’t even have his phone number to text him. Should I get it from Sabrina? Asking her for it felt too weird.
Why should it be weird? I didn't need to think about the fact that last night, watching Adrian dance with Sabrina—watching his hands on her hips, watching her laugh against his shoulder, watching them move together like their bodies already knew each other—I had felt something hot and irrational twist in my chest.
What was wrong with me? I just couldn’t stay away from the wrong—
I stopped that thought before it could finish.
I didn't need to think about Théo right now. I didn't need to think about how I had a type, apparently, and that type was complicated men who were bad for me. Jealousy. That's what it had been. Jealousy I had no right to feel about a man I barely knew and mostly found irritating.
Beautiful. I like looking at you.
Goosebumps broke over my skin.
I closed the windows and went to get ready for brunch.
◆◆◆
Brunch at my parents’ was at eleven, which meant I had exactly forty minutes to shower and dress and assemble myself into something presentable.
My parents lived in North York—a detached brick house on a quiet street that still smelled like childhood to me.
Every time I pulled into the driveway, I was simultaneously 21 and 6, simultaneously an Olympic hopeful and a kid who used to practice crossovers on the pond out back until his mother called him in for dinner.
After Aurora, my mother had wanted me to move back home. She’d said it gently, practically—just for a little while, mon chou, until you’re settled—but I’d heard what she meant. Where I can watch you. Where I can check on you at 2 a.m. Where the bathroom door doesn’t lock.
We’d had a family session with Dr. Priya about that.
A hard one. I’d told them I needed to live on my own.
That being monitored—however lovingly—made the anxiety worse, not better.
That I needed them to trust me to ask for help when I needed it instead of hovering and waiting for me to break again.
My mother had cried. My father had sat very still and nodded.
They’d agreed, reluctantly, to let me keep my apartment.
It was a work in progress. For all of us.
I parked in the driveway at 10:58. Checked my hair in the rearview—fine, presentable—and went inside.
The front door was unlocked. It smelled like warm vanilla and crêpes.
“Nico!”
Margaux hit me at approximately hip height—a compact, furious little body with our mother’s dark hair and our father’s stubborn chin and an energy level that suggested she had been awake since dawn and had already exhausted every adult in the house.
I caught her and lifted her onto my hip and she wrapped her arms around my neck.
“You were gone forever,” she said into my shoulder.
“It’s been six days since you last saw me.”
“Forever.”
“How was tennis?”
Her face lit up immediately. “Coach Sarah says my backhand is getting really good. She says I could do a tournament in the spring if I want. Can you come watch?”
“Let me know the dates and I'll be there.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I set her down and she ran back toward the living room already talking about something else—a horse at her riding lesson named Captain who only liked her and no one else, a detail she delivered with the absolute certainty of someone who had not yet learned to doubt her own significance.
I watched her go and felt the thing I always felt when I looked at my sister—a protectiveness so fierce it sometimes scared me.
Margaux was eight and fearless. Good at tennis. Getting better at riding. Her swimming teacher said she had natural coordination. She was, in other words, exactly the kind of child someone might look at and think she’d be a beautiful skater.
Thank God she’d never shown any interest.
It would have been awkward to explain to my family that even though I was considered one of the greatest skaters in my generation, I didn’t want my little sister anywhere near the sport.
I knew what it cost. I knew what the machine looked like from the inside—the pressure, the performing, the way expectation piled up so gradually you didn’t notice until you were buried under it.
Margaux was going to play tennis. Ride horses. Swim. Do whatever made her happy. And nobody was going to look at her and see a legacy in the making.
I would make sure of it.
“Ah, you’re here. How are you, mon chou?”
My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway with a crêpe pan in one hand and the expression she’d been wearing for the last six weeks—the one that pretended to be casual maternal interest but was actually a full body scan for warning signs.
Geneviève Fontaine was a beautiful woman in her late forties who shared her brother’s cheekbones and his sharp eye without any of his coldness.
Warm where Renaud was measured. Expressive where he was contained.
“I’m fine, maman.”
“Hungry?”
“Yes, can I help with anything?”
“I’m almost done. Come sit and tell us about your week.”
I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the counter while she sliced strawberries.
My father was already at the coffeemaker, pouring me a cup without asking—fixing it exactly like I liked it, adding one packet of sweetener and a splash of almond milk.
The small acts of love that Dominic Fontaine specialized in, the kind that didn’t require words or grand gestures, just the actions of a man who paid attention.
“How was your first week back?” he asked, setting the mug in front of me.
“It was fine.”
“Fine?” my mother echoed.
“It’s a work in progress. A little rusty on the ice but that's expected. Just need to work on my conditioning.”
“I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard. How are you sleeping?”
“Much better. The new medication is helping.”
That part was mostly true. I was sleeping. Not well, but more than before. Dr. Priya had adjusted my dosage and the nighttime panic attacks had thinned out from nightly to a few times a week, which counted as progress even if it didn't feel like it.
“And you're eating enough? You look thin.”
“Maman, I always look thin after time off. The muscle comes back fast.”
“And how about that new skater your uncle took on?” she asked, eyes still on the strawberries. “Have you run into him yet?”
Of course Renaud would tell them about Adrian but not me.
“Yes, Adrian Zhao was there my first day back,” I said, keeping my voice easy and unbothered. “A group of us actually hung out last night. Sabrina organized a night out—nothing crazy, just a few people from the program.”
I didn't mention the club or the volume of alcohol consumed or the fact that I'd driven Adrian home because he was too drunk to remember his own address.
I didn't mention carrying him up three flights of stairs or unlacing his boots while he slept on my couch.
And I certainly didn't mention the word beautiful said in a voice that had kept me awake long after he'd passed out.
Relief softened their faces. Their son going out with friends. Their son doing normal things.
My father set down his coffee. “And you have what you need? Your uncle isn’t stretching himself too thin? Spreading his attention?”
That was the real concern underneath it. I hated this walking on eggshells like I was too fragile to deal with any stress. They’d stopped asking about scores and started asking about sleep.
“I’m getting what I need, papa.”
My parents exchanged a look that probably communicated volumes to each other but they didn’t voice it out loud.
The truth was messier. My uncle had made a decision about my future while I was in a treatment facility. I had come home expecting to resume my place as his champion and instead I’d found Adrian Zhao warming up on my ice like he belonged there.
The truth was that it hurt. But it wasn’t a hurt I could explain at this table without unspooling everything else and I’d worked too hard to keep that contained.
My mother held my gaze for a moment. The knife set aside on the cutting board.
“Nico.”
“I’m okay, maman. I promise.” I reached across the counter and squeezed her hand. “I’m not where I was. I’m doing the work. I have my therapy appointments, I’m taking my medication, I’m sleeping better.” Mostly true. True enough. “You don’t have to watch me like I’m going to break.”
“I’m your mother. Watching you is my job.”
“I know. But I need you to trust me too. We talked about this.”