38. Adrian
I debated letting it ring. Blame it on bad reception, a dead phone, whatever.
But my parents still paid my coaching bill and ignoring Umma's calls had a way of generating consequences that were more annoying than the actual conversation.
My sponsorships covered rent, food, and the occasional dumb purchase.
But skating at this level—coaching, choreography, ice time, physio, flying halfway across the world to compete—that tab was still on the Zhao family credit card.
I reluctantly answered.
“Hello, Umma.”
“Hello, Adrian. How are you, darling?” Warm. Polished. The same voice she used on donors and dinner guests. I'd stopped trying to figure out if it was real a long time ago.
“I’m fine. Busy. Olympic trials are coming up.”
“Oh, that’s right. When is that again?”
“January. In Ottawa.”
“Ottawa?” She said it like I’d announced I was competing in a parking lot. “In January?”
“That’s where Canadian Nationals are held.”
“Darling, Ottawa in January is barbaric. All that snow and wind. Couldn’t they hold it somewhere civilized? Vancouver, at least?”
“It’s not really up to me, Umma.”
“Well.” A sigh. “Bàba and I will be in Thailand in January—you know how the cold disagrees with him—but we’ll be cheering you on from afar. I’ll have my assistant set a reminder so we can watch. It’s televised, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Umma. It’s televised.”
“Wonderful. I’ll make sure to tune in.” Now that this part of the performance was over, she went directly to the real reason she called. “I was actually calling about Christmas.”
“What about it?”
“Bàba and I would like you to come spend it with us. I’ll book you a first class ticket, naturally.”
“To Vancouver?”
“God, no.” She laughed like I’d said something absurd. “The Maldives. We’ve rented the most beautiful villa. You’ll love it.”
“I have training, Umma.”
“You’ll be back in time for that.” Dismissive. The way she always was about skating—like it was a hobby I’d eventually outgrow, not the thing I’d built my entire identity around.
“It’s a day and a half of travel. Each way. I need to be sharp for trials.”
“Bàba hasn’t seen you in ages.”
I almost laughed. My father wasn’t interested in seeing me.
He hadn’t called or texted once since I moved to Toronto.
The last time we’d spoken was at my birthday dinner in Vancouver, where he’d spent the entire meal on his phone and then handed me a cheque like that was a substitute for conversation.
“I can’t leave Cam by himself for Christmas. I’ll try to come back to Vancouver the next time you guys are in town.”
“How is Cam?”
Her voice shifted—slightly tighter, the warmth cooling by a few degrees.
Cam was the wound she couldn’t dress up for company.
The six year old she’d left behind when she’d chosen my father’s money over his father’s love.
Every conversation about him carried the ghost of the life she’d walked away from—the man she’d actually loved, the son who looked exactly like him.
Cam never said it out loud but he didn’t need to. He kept her at arm’s length which was more than she deserved. I would have slammed the door in her face years ago.
“He’s good. Working on his next album.”
“That’s… nice.” The pause said everything she never could.
She had never quite figured out how to acknowledge that Cam had built something real and successful entirely without her—without her connections, without her money, without the Zhao name opening doors.
It didn’t fit the narrative she’d constructed about her choices being worth it.
“And Toronto? How’s the city treating you? ”
“Same as always.”
“You know, you really should get your own place. Bàba and I are happy to pay for it. Something in Yorkville, maybe. Or the Distillery District—I hear that’s very trendy now.”
“I like living with Cam.” He was hardly there but she didn’t need to know that.
“Well, if you change your mind…” She trailed off, and I could hear someone talking in the background—my father, probably, or one of their staff members. “I should go, darling. Think about Christmas, won’t you? And good luck with your little competition in January. We’re so proud of you.”
Little competition. The Olympic trials. The thing I’d been working toward my entire life.
“Love you, Adrian.”
“Love you too, Umma.”
I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand for a long moment.
The Maldives. First class tickets. A rented villa that probably cost more than most people made in a year.
And none of it—not a single part of it—was about actually wanting to see me.
It was about appearances. About being able to post photos of the happy family on her WeChat.
About checking a box that said good mother when we both knew the truth was more complicated.
My phone buzzed again. Not my mother this time.
Nicky: What are you doing right now?
Just hanging out at my apartment. You?
Nicky: Christmas shopping. It's a disaster. I need backup.
Where?
He sent me a pin. The Eaton Centre. I was out the door in less than ten minutes.
I found him near a bookstore, a stack of books cradled in one arm, frowning at his phone. He was wearing a camel coat over a cream sweater and his adorable glasses, his hair slightly mussed from the wind, and something in my chest went soft at the sight of him.
“Backup has arrived,” I announced.
His face lit up when he saw me. Actually lit up—like I was something worth being happy about. I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to that. I wished I could lean in and kiss him.
“Thank God.” He held up the stack of books. “Margaux wants the entire Wings of Fire series. There are fifteen of them. Fifteen, Adrian.”
“She has good taste. Dragons are cool.”
“My mother wants a specific cookbook that's sold out everywhere. And my father—” He sighed. “My father is impossible.”
“What does he like?”
“Golf. Wine. Complaining about the weather.”
“Get him a nice bottle of red and a gift card to his favourite course. Done.” I plucked half the books from his arms to lighten his load. “What else is on the list?”
We spent the next two hours wandering through the mall together.
I helped him pick out a cashmere scarf for his mother—a deep burgundy that would go with black or brown.
Found a vintage cookbook at a secondhand shop tucked in a corner of the third floor.
Helped him pick out a boring tie for his father.
Personally paid for the sickest pair of stiletto ankle boots for Kat.
Spending time with him like this felt natural. Shopping for Christmas gifts. Debating wrapping paper colours. Existing in public together like it was normal, like we were just two people who belonged in each other's orbit.
“What about you?” Nicky asked as we waited in line at the register. “Are you spending Christmas with your family?”
I shrugged. “My parents will be in the Maldives because God forbid they experience a Canadian winter. My brother Cam just left for LA. And I will be here.”
Nicky's brow furrowed. “Adrian—”
“It's fine. I was going to order Thai food and watch movies with Cam but he ditched me last minute. So now I'm doing the solo version.” I grinned. “Very light on the family drama. Highly recommended.”
He was quiet for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip.
“Come home with me,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“For Christmas. Come to my parents' house.” He said it quickly, like he might lose his nerve. “It's nothing fancy. Just dinner, my sister opening too many presents, my mother fussing over everyone. But it's—it's warm. And you shouldn't be alone.”
“Nicky, I can't just show up at your family's Christmas.”
“You can if I invite you.” He met my eyes. “I'm inviting you.”
“What would you even tell them?”
“That you're my—” He paused. Took a breath. “That you're important to me.”
Something cracked open in my chest.
“Your mom won't mind a random skater crashing Christmas dinner?”
“My mom will be thrilled. She never got to know Théo as my boyfriend.” He stopped. Made a face. “She really didn’t like him after, you know.”
“She has excellent taste.” I grinned. “And your uncle?”
“He and his ‘special friend’ spend Christmas at their cabin in Whistler,” he said with exaggerated finger quotes.
“Seriously, he’s like fifty-something and still in the closet?”
“He grew up in a different era. He convinced himself that being gay in the elite world of skating would undermine his credibility. That the federation wouldn't take him seriously.” Nicky shrugged. “And now he's been hiding it so long I think he's forgotten there's another option.”
“That's depressing.”
“It explains a lot, actually. About why he handled me and Théo the way he did. It wasn't just about distraction. It was about—” He searched for the word. “Projection. If he couldn't have it openly, why should we get to?”
“Still depressing.”
“Yeah, it is,” he agreed quietly. “So is that a yes to Christmas?”
I should have said no. Meeting the family was a big step. We'd only been trying for a few weeks. This was moving fast, probably too fast, and I had a long history of fucking things up when they started to matter.
But Nicky was looking at me like my answer mattered. Like I mattered.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come to Christmas.”
His smile was worth every terrifying implication.