KATERINA
Today marks the fifth day since I said “I do” to my brother’s teammate.
I wake up to an empty apartment.
Scottie left yesterday morning for a four-day road trip—Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton—apologizing like he wasabandoning me on a deserted island instead of going to do his actual job.
“I hate leaving right now,” he’d said, standing in the doorway with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”
“Scottie, I’ll be fine,” I’d told him, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to show how tired I am from waiting to get the callback from the auditions and stress and pretending I’m not terrified of my father’s last message.
“I know you’ll be fine,” he’d said. “But text me anyway. If you’re bored. Or hungry. Or can’t figure out the thermostat. Or you just want to complain about people. I am an excellent complaint receptacle.”
He hesitated then, like there was something else he wanted to say, some last-minute confession or reassurance, but instead he’d just smiled and then stepped into the hall with a slight wave.
Now he’s in Canada, and I’m alone in a glass box in the sky.
I force myself out of bed and into a routine. I shower and then pull on leggings and a practice top. I twist my hair into a bun that pulls at my scalp in a familiar, comforting way.
When I check my phone, there’s still nothing from Pacific Northwest Ballet. The website says callbacks will be posted “next week.” We’re three days past the audition; it feels like three months.
I refresh the page anyway. Still nothing.
There is, however, a notification from the WAG group chat, which has been buzzing at a steady, chaotic pace since Juliet added me.
I open it.
Vivi:Game night at Penelope’s place. Watching the boys play in Calgary. Wine, snacks, screaming at the TV. Who’s in?
Peyton:I’m in. I’ll bring chips and dip.
Cammy:I’ll be there. I need to yell at refs. I’ll bring the wine.
Isla:I’ll bring cookies. The good kind.
Vivi:Kat. You coming?
I stare at her message longer than is reasonable.
Game night.
I’ve been to post-show dinners, galas, donor receptions—rooms full of people in expensive clothes trading shallow compliments and secrets with the same fake smiles and hidden agendas.
I’ve never been to “game night.”
I’ve never been invited to something casual and loud and purely for fun. Growing up, hockey was just Luka’s thing. Then ballet consumed everything. I saw his scores, not his games.
The alternative is sitting here alone, refreshing the PNB website and replaying my father’s text in my head until my chest feels hollow.
My fingers move before I talk myself out of it.
Me:What time?
Vivi:6pm. I’ll send the address. You’re coming. No backing out.
My phone buzzes a second later with the address and a string of heart emojis.
Well, that’s settled.
