CHAPTER 83
Ana
DUSTING THE CORNER of this one pesky stain on the diner’s counter and a nightmare comes waltzing right through the front door.
Troy. Xavier. Mason. Andre. Conrad. Louis. And even Brennan, who no longer even lives here.
Breathe.
By the time my hands have started to shake again, the rest of the flashback—all the way from Tatiana’s visit and olive oil threat—unwinds before my eyes.
The night at the diner in high school.
When Troy entered with all his friends. Right after Natalia’s birthday party.
“What happened to you? Did you put fruit in the blender without the top on, again?”
He had laughed. Laughed at the way I arrived to the diner in my blue-stained dress, and I’d remembered how devastated I was. That he couldn’t find it in his heart to pull himself together and not be cruel the one time I really needed him to.
“No, asshole. I didn’t.”
“Woah. It was a joke.” He snorts, flicking his gaze down to my dress.
“Leave me alone.”
“God, same old uptight, Ana. When are you going to relax a little?”
And the fucking asshole walked away while tears welled in my eyes, at the way the girls had treated me earlier that night, at the way he reduced everything to me being uptight, and when he could’ve stopped there, he didn’t.
All his friends, the same friends he’s decided to walk in tonight with because why not, were there with him that night.
Drunk, rowdy, trashing the whole place that I had to clean up entirely myself when the manager that evening had to assist with organizing timecards.
Meanwhile Claudia didn’t bat an eye at Troy’s behavior when she found out because he’s a Larsson, and that’s self-explanatory.
The reminder, the awful memory seeps through, and before I know it a buzzing sting pools at my spine.
Troy strides up to me, while his friends slip into a booth.
I quickly take a deep breath to collect my breathing, for him to not see the trace of my frantic state, especially since that was when I was way younger and I refuse to show that level of weakness to him these many years later.
Not after he behaved. Not after he moved on the next day, week, month, years later without an apology like nothing even happened.
“Here, let me help you.”
I dart from underneath the counter with seven sets of shiny utensils, Troy’s face oblivious.
“I don’t need your help,” I reply, trying to keep my voice calm. “Just go sit with your friends, and I’ll bring you your menus.” His brows pull together in frustration, but I snap. “Go. I’m busy.”
_________
Troy
What the hell did I do?
I still can’t figure it out.
Even when Ana returns and I ask her the question that I shoved deep in my throat earlier.
“I didn’t know you had a shift tonight,” I tell her, not knowing at all what this is about but this seemed like a good place to start.
“If I knew you were working and you’d be bothered by us coming there I wouldn’t have let us go.
” I hear myself rambling but she’s not exactly interrupting me so I continue, “Brennan missed the diner so we went. Is that why you’re upset? ”
“No, Troy,” she says, heading toward the stairs like she’s about to ignore this the same way she’s avoided every other valid moment I’ve tried to bring up lately. “I’m not upset. It’s fine.”
Yeah, no.
I speed up to the staircase, shifting around to move in front of her.
Because I’m fucking tired and want to know what’s going on.
“Something is bothering you,” I say. “And for whatever reason since the diner you look even more upset. At me.”
Those last two words change everything in her face, enough to where she takes a soft exhale, brings her eyes finally to mine, and looks at me. Her brows creased like a part of her thinks I’m messing with her.
“You really don’t remember?”
Uh, obviously fucking not.
“No,” I reply anxiously.
“In high school, sophomore year. You and your friends came to the diner,” she says, while I try and process what she’s sharing with me, confused at why I don’t remember a thing, her voice growing in anger, “you laughed at me when I showed up with my clothes all ruined. You were very rude. You all looked a bit drunk.”
Drunk, in high school, at the diner?
Her sophomore year, my senior year.
Shit.
I vaguely remember going to the diner afterward with my friends, but I vividly remember the conversation that led to that decision.
Ana and Ethan had just won the gold medal for pairs skating at the PyeongChang Winter Olympics, while Violet and I had placed second. Got the silver. And my father wasn’t too thrilled.
All that time wasted and just for second place, Dad had said when I handed him my first Olympic medal.
Because anything other than first meant you lost.
And Gustaf Larsson never accepted a loss.
Only a month after the Games, I came home to find my father with the tenth girlfriend it seemed he’d moved on with since my mother’s death just three years before.
I was enraged, Xavier drove us all to a party—because I called him up and needed an escape to not fucking lose my mind—got shitfaced, and we went to the diner, where any recollection on the rest of the night fades.
And I thought that would somehow be payback to my dad who never noticed when the people closest in his life were starting to slip away, showing warning signs, but it didn’t do shit when Violet and I finally won the Gold.
“Huh, they used to be shinier before...”
My father runs his cold hands across the bright metal, handing it back to me. His voice echoes as he drifts into the corridor toward his bedroom.
“It should’ve been for hockey. You should’ve won it for hockey.”
In that moment I knew that nothing, no impressive accolade—if it had to do with figure skating—would impress my father.
And apparently I hurt Ana in the process.
The idea—and not even knowing, remembering—I did that starts ripping at my chest.
“I’m very sorry for being rude to you,” I say, feeling my hands start to shake like they haven’t since high school. “Honest to God I don’t remember what I said or what I did, but I promise I didn’t mean it. I was having a really tough time that year, and that night wasn’t a good moment for me.”
“It wasn’t a good moment for you?” Ana laughs out, her voice clearly in pain. And I hate that it’s because of me. “That night was hell for me.”
We reach the guest room and walk right in, and—fuck.
A box rests on the bed. I put the box that I thought would be a nice surprise, on her bed. But it’s clearly not and before I can make it disappear with a time machine, her hands are already lifting the lid, and I see it, her whole face drops onto the floor.
_________
Ana
The Dior dress we saw in Milan.
It’s in the box.
He got me the dress.
Floral stitching. Fine crystals. One-of-a-kind couture.
It’s breathtaking.
“Why did you get me this?” I say, my mind racing.
“You don’t like it?” he asks, hearing the nervous undertone from our conversation still lingering in his voice.
“This is expensive,” I reply, ignoring the question.
Checking the tag once was enough to remember the hefty price. Nearly the cost of my annual rent.
One dress.
The gift feels like a face slap of the wealth I never had.
“It’s not about the money,” he says because he’d never understand.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I say, breaking a little, “when you have an endless supply of it. Is that why you trashed Rudy’s in high school that same night?
” His eyes flinch, stunned like he also doesn’t remember that detail of the evening.
“I had to clean everything by myself the whole night. You think with a few consolation gifts all is forgiven between us?”
“No. No, I don’t think that. I’m sorry for doing that to you. And I’m sorry that I was so wasted that night I don’t even remember that I hurt you. If I remembered, I would have come the next morning and fixed it.”
“Ha, like pay for the damage, right?”
“No, Ana,” he grits out. “I would’ve helped you clean the mess I made.
And if you had already cleaned it up, I would’ve offered to help out another way.
I know I was a dick, but it wasn’t aimed at you.
” His face seems torn like he can’t believe he did any of those awful things, and when I start believing that he really doesn’t remember, that he really does feel bad about it, the truth negates everything I’ve felt for almost a decade now—the way learning about sides of him I never knew existed has.
My head starts to spin with a sudden, unmanageable level of pressure.
“I didn’t get you the dress to make up for the times I was a jerk to you,” Troy says, his gaze landing over my face. Close. It’s way too close. “I wanted you to have it because I thought it’s what you wanted.”
It is what I wanted.
“Well, you thought wrong,” I blurt out, telling myself to stay strong and not give in. Don’t throw it all away for your rival. He’s supposed to be your rival. “I can buy my own things. So you can take it back. Thanks, though.”
I rest the dress in the mountains of tissue paper, watching it slide out my hands before finally closing the lid.
His eyes turned away from me, he says, “Are you ever going to forgive me?”
The question covers my legs in goose bumps.
“Forgive you for what?”
“You tell me,” he snaps, lifting his gaze to my face, the swift fall of his green eyes on me cutting my heart in two. “Clearly I did something so awful to you before and you’re still holding onto it.”
He thinks all of this, my behavior, my pressure, it’s all because of him.
And the thing is, there were multiple moments where Troy frustrated me to great lengths, but for every one of those moments, I dished it right back to him probably tenfold.
Keeping my eyes over his face longer than I’d like, I start to remember those moments, one by one, the diner incident, out-skating each other, passing periods, our endless insults, times where I felt hurt by his behavior, the anger I once felt—looking at his face that’s covered in concern and agony now—I realize, it’s no longer there.
Maybe it’s no longer about a grudge.
And it’s just about him.
Now that I know him better he’s well…great.
And, me? I’m not doing so great.
I don’t deserve him like this, not with a sadness I’m holding in, not when it’s unclear if it’ll ever leave me, not when none of this is his problem.
“You didn’t do anything that I’m still angry about,” I say, hoping it finally gets through to him. “I just can’t accept this gift.”
I pick up the box, handing it back to him as he stares at the white square like I just smashed his heart and returned it to his palm.
When he walks away without even a glance back at me, I have the strong urge to sink onto the floor and cry.