I jolt awake whensomeone grips my shoulder to shake it.
Gemma stands beside the chair in the guest room where I fell asleep after Kennedy left. Zach Briggs’s temporary room. I now know the last name of the boy from two years ago after watching video of the hit that landed him unconscious.
“Have you been here since this morning?”
“What time is it?” I ask. I muscle into a sitting position and glance at Zach, who’s still soundly sleeping.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep here. I planned to stay for an hour, wake Zach again, make sure he’s fine, then go on with my day. So much for that plan. I can’t afford to miss even one workout or I won’t make it back into my sport.
“Two,” Gem replies. “How long have you been here?”
I clear the sleep from my throat. “Kennedy and I woke him up four hours ago. I was going to do it again, but I must’ve drifted off. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”
I regret the words when Gemma squeezes my forearm and asks, “Are you… feeling okay? I know you’ve been busier than you’re used to.”
After my diagnosis, my parents forced me to take a year away from school to focus on my mental health. I reenrolled in college last year, taking one class then ramping up to two. This semester, I'm carrying a full course load and work weekend mornings at a café run by Gemma’s friends. I like the structure. Before my diagnosis, my life had been highly scheduled to allow me to compete in elite gymnastics and attend high school.
“Never better.” I force a smile while answering my least favorite question.
My parents used to hover over my shoulder, wanting to know every grade, how much I slept, the food I consumed, whether I exercised. They allowed me to attend college out of state only because Matt agreed to make sure I stick to the regimen that keeps my brain healthy, monitor my mood, and look for changes in my behavior.
Entering the gymnastics world again is a risk, but it’s one I should be allowed to take—a gymnast’s shelf life isn’t long. If I want a comeback, I can’t wait.
Her eyes narrow. “You would tell me if you weren’t?”
“Of course,” I reply automatically.
Gemma’s assessing gaze remains on me. “You’re a terrible liar, Finley.” Before I can refute it, she continues, “You know you can trust me?”
My chest tightens. I always wanted a sister, and Gemma becoming part of our family is like winning the sister-in-law jackpot. If I didn’t know about her devotion to my brother, I might confide in her. No one outside my new gym knows I’m training to compete at the collegiate level. I wish I had someone other than my coach to share with, but I’m too worried it will put my comeback in jeopardy.
“Thanks, Gem.” I walk to the hall, already mentally planning how to make up for the lost training time. “I’m going to the gym before dinner, all right?”
Nobody could accuse me of lying. If they want to knowwhatgym I visit, they should ask more questions.
“I’m not your brother, Fi. You don’t need my permission.”
I stuff every last shred of guilt about lying to her deep, deep down. She’s gone out of her way to help me adjust to living here, eating dinner with me every night and getting me a job at the Courtside Café. My relationship with Matt will survive this lie. When Gemma finds out, we might not recover. We don’t have a lifetime of history together.
She pauses, weighing her next words. “Matt wasn’t at his best last night. Zach’s like a little brother to him… he was worried, but he shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
My brother should apologize himself.
“I know. But, um, thanks for saying it.”
What would anger Matt more—me lying about gymnastics or me blowing his teammate during his wedding reception? I never want to find out, so I screw my mouth shut.
“Dinner’s at six,” she tells me. “Taco night.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I work myself to the bone for the next several hours, eating into the time I set aside for an English assignment. Unlike homework, I can’t do gymnastics at any time of the day. At least not without worrying my coach. I told Veronica about my bipolar disorder for my protection. She can watch for signs I’m slipping into unhealthy habits, which includes over-training. She gave me the key code to the gym so I can train non-risky elements during off-hours to accommodate other obligations.
I’m strolling into the kitchen, thinking about my schedule tomorrow. With my assignment done, I’m ready to jump back into my TV show with a late-night snack… maybe pretzels or ice cream—
I let out a yelp, my hands flying to my mouth to smother the sound before Gemma or Elodie hear. I fumble for my cell phone, and I turn the flashlight toward the ground.
Zach lays on the floor, cradling his head in his hands. Milk spills from an upturned glass and, I suspect, has soaked his University of Palmer City basketball shorts.
