Here we go. “It’s great to see you, Mom,” I say, ignoring her question. “Dad.”
Mom shakes her head, her bob of blond hair fluttering with the movement. Before she cut her hair, people said I looked like a mini version of her. I still see so much of myself reflected back at me—heart-shaped face, sky-blue eyes, long thick lashes.
“Are you sleeping, Bean?” Mom asks undeterred by my attempt to skip the discussion. She’s the only one who calls me Bean, a nickname I earned by jumping around so much as a kid.
I slouch in my seat, any hope for a conversation not revolving around my health gone. “Uh-huh. Every night.”
She frowns at my dejected tone. “So you’re doing well?”
I parrot the answer I told Matt when he returned from his road trip. “I’ve been submitting my homework on time. Making my bed. Falling asleep before midnight.”
I leave out the mention of boys, because romantic relationships are a sore subject for us Harrises after the one I had with Matt’s teammate. The summer I turned eighteen, when Garrett came home at the end of the season nursing a broken heart, I was no longer Matt’s younger sister; I was a woman he found attractive. He also recognized what no one else did—that I was slowly drowning—and helped me, albeit in a destructive way.
My family didn’t like our age gap and how he taught me how to self-medicate. Even if those “medications” helped me get out of bed during bouts of depression and allowed me to push myself to my absolute limits in gymnastics all day. After extensive therapy, I understand how problematic our relationship was but I also know he never meant to cause my downfall.
“That’s our little nerd,” Charlie says with a laugh. Because he’s closer to me in age, we developed a relationship I’ve never had with Matt or Ryan. Ever the popular kid in school who never took it seriously because he had his eyes set on the NHL, he loved to needle me for being a perfect little student.
“And exercising?” my mom prods, reviewing her mental wellness checklist.
“Jesus, Mom,” Charlie mutters.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Matt jumps in. “Finley spends a lot of time at the gym.”
My mom pinches the skin at her throat. She’s about to fire off another question when Dad asks Matt, “Is she sticking to her routine?”
Like I’m not here. My hands fold into fists, nails biting my palms.
“Yes,” Matt and Gemma say at the same time. They look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them before Gemma continues. “We eat breakfast before she heads to school and have dinner together every night, sometimes watch a movie if she doesn’t have too much homework.”
I sigh. “And Matt’s got security cameras in the kitchen if you want a compilation video of me taking my pills twice a day. My GPS data will also confirm I’ve been keeping up with blood and urine labs for Dr. Warren to confirm my lithium dosage is on point.”
Ryan pulls in a deep sigh. “I hate to do this, but I gotta run to practice.” Of course, the emotionally unavailable brother wants a quick exit from this awkward ass conversation. “I’ll see y’all next week.”
“Ryan,” my mom says, but he’s already left the call.
Silence sets in, and my mom eventually picks up where she left off. “We want what’s best for you, Bean.”
Dad nods beside her like a bobblehead, muttering something I can’t hear but would bet money repeats her words.
I remain silent. The less I say, the better. I hate lying to them, but if I don’t, I’ll never be able to make my own decisionsandkeep my parents in my life. Their opinions on a return to gymnastics are crystal fucking clear. Finding out my secret would drive a wedge between us until I quit again, and I refuse to do that.
“Can we talk about something else?” Charlie asks. I love him for trying to steer the conversation away from me.
“Hell of a game against Dallas, Matt,” Dad says, maneuvering us to safe ground. For them.
I have a complicated relationship with hockey. This game ruled over everything else for most of my life. My parents sacrificed their time to take my brothers to practices, workouts, and games, all in pursuit of the elusive goal of playingprofessionally. I either got dragged along or left with other family members, cutting into my time to develop friendships and hobbies.
Gymnastics gave me purpose, but my parents viewed it as a time-filler for the longest time. When they realized how serious I was about the sport along with my natural talent, their support increased, but the damage was done. I’d known for too long I was fourth in my parents’ list of priorities, all because my brothers wore knives on their feet and chased a saucer across a sheet of ice.
“I’ll see you at the game next week,” Matt says, pulling me out of my thoughts. I missed the entire conversation.
Panic seizes me at the idea of seeing my parents next week. “Wait—y’all are visiting?”
Everyone’s gazes snap to me, but no one says anything. I’d let on I hadn’t been listening.
“Matt leaves tomorrow for a game in Boston,” Gemma replies. Elodie sleeps on her shoulder. Damn, I’d love a nap right now.
My parents have never missed a game any of my brothers have played in Boston since it’s only a two-hour drive from our house in Maine.
