Chapter 1 #2
“To what? Distract me?” The laugh that comes out sounds wrong, sharp and bitter. I can feel the anger spiraling up in my throat. “How considerate of you.”
“Jules—”
“So, what? Were you actually going to move here? And then just keep lying until—what, until I figured it out on my own?”
“I was trying to figure out what I wanted.”
“What you…wanted?” I’m standing now. “So you just dated two people while you figured out what you wanted. How nice for you.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Garrett? Explain it to me.”
He runs a hand through his hair and it’s such a familiar gesture it physically hurts to watch.
“I love her.”
Three words. That’s all it takes.
I end the call.
My hands are shaking, trembling so hard the phone nearly slips from my grip.
The phone starts ringing again and the buzzing travels up through my palm, insistent.
I decline the call and block his number, my thumb moving automatically across the screen.
Then I sit back down on the edge of my bed because my legs suddenly don’t feel very steady and my ankle is starting to ache, that deep throb that means I’ve been standing too long, that means stress is settling into my joints like it always does.
Three years. We’d been together for three years.
Since my sophomore year at UW when I met him on a spring break trip to Toronto.
Long distance the entire time, but it worked, we made it work with video calls and visits during breaks and all these plans for after graduation when he’d move to Seattle and we’d finally, finally be in the same city.
He was supposed to be here in three weeks. I already cleared space in my closet for his stuff, bought extra hangers because I’m that person who cares about the hangers matching, made room for him in every part of my life.
My phone buzzes again and a text pops up from an unknown number, he must be texting from his work phone now.
I’m sorry. Please let me explain.
I delete it without reading the rest and block that number too.
The meal prep containers are still sitting on the counter, half-filled, Monday through Friday, the same routine I’ve always followed. Go to the rink, teach my classes, eat my pre-portioned meals, maintain my schedule, everything planned out, everything controlled.
I thought I was building a life. Turns out I was just filling time.
My breath catches weird in my throat, that pre-cry hitch that means I’m about thirty seconds from losing it completely, and my nose is already prickling, my phone rings again and I almost decline it automatically until I see the name: Olivia.
My little sister. She’s getting married in February to Owen, her college sweetheart, and they’re one of those couples that are perfect together in this way that makes people smile when they see them, easy and happy and uncomplicated, everything a relationship should be.
Garrett is Owen’s best friend.
Oh God. Garrett is Owen’s best friend.
I stare at the phone, watching it ring, and the screen lights up with her contact photo, both of us at the Space Needle last summer, squinting into the sun.
Olivia probably doesn’t know yet. If she’s calling about bridesmaid dresses or centerpieces or whatever wedding crisis has come up today, she doesn’t know that her future husband’s best friend just blew up my life.
The call goes to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, there’s a text.
Olivia
Call me back! Need to finalize bridesmaid dress orders!!
I can’t call her right now and pretend everything is fine, can’t talk about her wedding and her happiness and her perfect future with Owen while my own relationship is bleeding out on my apartment floor.
Ankle is killing me. Can we talk tomorrow?
It’s not even a lie. My ankle does hurt, a dull ache that’s spreading up into my calf now.
I’ve been on my feet too much today, taught two beginner classes at the rink this afternoon, then stopped by the grocery store on the way home.
The stress fracture has been healing for eight weeks now and my physical therapist keeps saying I’m making good progress, another month and I can start attempting single jumps again, two months until I can consider doubles.
The qualifiers are in March, but I won’t be ready. That dream died the same day I ignored the pain in my ankle for one too many training sessions, and kept pushing when I should have stopped.
Olivia
Okay! Feel better. Love you!
I set the phone down on the bed beside me. My apartment looks exactly how I like it: clean, organized, everything in its place. The bed is made. The dishes are done. My skating bag is packed by the door, ready for tomorrow’s lessons.
Nothing has actually changed.
Everything has changed.
I should finish my meal prep, should stick to my routine because that’s what I do, I maintain control, I follow the plan, I do what I’m supposed to do.
Instead I go to the kitchen and scrape all the food into the trashcan, leave the dishes in the sink, and crawl into my bed even though it’s barely eight o’clock, pulling the covers up over my shoulders until the fabric is tucked tight around me.
I don’t sleep that night. I just lie there and stare at the ceiling, replaying every conversation from the past four months, looking for the moment I should have known, looking for something I missed.
He was supposed to move here in three weeks.
There had to be signs. I’m not stupid. But I was so focused on my training, on healing my ankle, on finishing my degree and getting accepted into grad school, that apparently I missed something massive. We had a plan. I thought we had a plan. I guess it was only my plan.
At 2 AM I get up and go to my closet, flipping on the light and pushing my clothes back until they fill the empty space, and the hangers scrape against the metal, harsh and final. There. Like it never existed.
At 4 AM I give up on sleep entirely and start getting ready because I need to do something, need to move and feel like I have control over something, even if it’s just my appearance.
The water runs hot enough to turn my skin pink and steam fills the tiny bathroom until the mirror fogs over completely.
I dry my hair and smooth it into a bun, my hands moving through the familiar motions automatically.
Minimal makeup, just enough to look like I haven’t been crying.
Leggings and a sweatshirt, the fabric soft and worn from too many washes.
I look at myself in the mirror and see the same person I was yesterday.
Same dark hair, same serious expression, same everything.
He said he loved her.
Not “I’m sorry.” Not “I made a mistake.” Just “I love her.”
Like it was that simple, like three years with me could just be erased by a few months with someone else.
The rink opens at 6 AM for open skate. I grab my bag and leave before I can think better of it.
The ice is the only place where I can actually breathe right now.
I’m not supposed to do anything intense, doctor’s orders are still no jumps, no hard landings, just basic skating while the fracture fully heals. But I need this, need to feel my blades on ice, need the cold air in my lungs, need something that makes sense.
The rink is empty except for a few early morning recreational skaters doing lazy laps around the edge. I lace up my boots, pulling the laces tight enough that they bite into my fingers, and step onto the ice. The cold hits me immediately and everything else falls away.
This is where I’m in control. Not of my relationships or my future or anything else in my life, but here, on the ice, my body knows exactly what to do. Push off. Glide. Turn. The physics of it are simple and unchangeable. If I lean wrong, I fall. If I do it right, I fly.
I start with basics. Crossovers, feeling the familiar pull in my hip flexors as I cross one leg over the other. Figure eights. Building speed, feeling the burn in my legs, testing my ankle. It holds. A little tender, a little weak, but it holds.
A simple waltz jump, just enough height to test the landing, and my ankle protests, a sharp twinge that shoots up my shin, but it’s manageable. I do it again. Cleaner this time. The repetition is soothing, gives my brain something to focus on besides the endless loop of last night’s conversation.
I love her.
I push harder. Faster. The wind whips against my face, stinging my cheeks, and I can feel tears starting to form but I don’t know if it’s from the cold or from everything else.
A single salchow, one rotation, landing solid enough that I know I’m pushing my luck but I don’t care, I need to prove something to myself, need to prove I’m still capable of something.
The sun comes up while I’m skating, pale winter light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the ice.
I’ve lost track of time. My legs are shaking and my ankle is screaming at me, each landing sending sharp protests through the joint, and I can’t think about Garrett anymore because I’m too busy remembering how to breathe between movements.
I stop at center ice and my lungs burn, sweat has broken through my layers despite the cold, dampening the fabric against my back and the tears have dried on my face, leaving my skin tight and itchy.
The ice doesn’t care though. It just holds me up.
After a while I skate off and unlace my boots, my fingers clumsy with cold and exhaustion. My ankle is swollen, pressing against the inside of my skate, which means I’ve definitely set back my healing timeline. My physical therapist is going to be pissed when I get to therapy on Wednesday.
Worth it though.
My phone has seven missed calls from another unknown number and three texts from Olivia.
Olivia
Jules seriously call me back
Are you okay?
You’re worrying me If you don’t respond I’m calling Mom
I take a breath and type out a response.
I’m fine. Sorry, fell asleep early. What’s up with the dresses?
Her response is to immediately call me.
“FINALLY. Okay so the bridal shop needs our final measurements by Wednesday...”
I let her talk about satin versus chiffon, about hemlines and alterations and the absolute horror of trying to coordinate five bridesmaids into matching shoes. I make appropriate noises at appropriate times. She doesn’t notice anything is wrong.
Why would she? I’ve spent three years perfecting the art of sounding fine for everything.
When she finally winds down, she adds, “Oh, and Garrett texted Owen this morning. Said he’s not moving to Seattle after all? What’s that about?”
My throat closes up completely, tightening until I can barely swallow. “It’s a long story, I don’t really want to talk about it right now, Livi.”
“You sure? I’m here if you want to, you know that?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Okay, well, anyway, can you get your measurements to me by tomorrow? The shop is being super annoying about their timeline.”
“Sure. I’ll send them tonight.”
“You’re the best! Love you!”
“Love you too.”
I end the call and just sit there in the empty rink with my skates in my lap and my ankle throbbing with each pulse of my heartbeat and the knowledge that I’m going to have to smile through my sister’s wedding in February while Garrett’s there as best man.
Garrett will be there. At the rehearsal dinner. At the ceremony. At the reception. There’s no way to avoid it without explaining why.
And I’m not explaining why. I’m not going to be the sad older sister who got dumped and made Olivia’s wedding about my drama.
I’m not going to cry at the rehearsal dinner or make things awkward or be anything except exactly what I’m supposed to be: the perfect maid of honor who has her life together.
My phone buzzes. Another unknown number.
I block it without reading the text.