I eagerly take Zach up on his suggestion to watch TV as we eat breakfast, anything to escape the uncomfortable silence.
Zach thought I brought a guyhere—to my brother’s house, to the room next to his. He consumes so much of my brain space, how can henottell? We’ve flirted consistently, and if Gemma and her friends hadn’t walked in on us, I think he would’vekissed me. Since then, he’s been distant. And now he thinks he means so little, I’d flaunt some other guy in his face?
“What do you want to watch?” he asks casually, as if we hadn’t talked about my self-care only ten minutes ago.
He clicks a button on the remote, and the TV comes to life with a show featuring hockey highlights, as if I should expect anything different at my brother’s house. I settle on the couch as close to Zach as I can manage without being in his space. My feet curl under my legs, my plate balancing on my lap.
My heart still pounds with equal parts embarrassment and exhilaration. Zach heard me get off this morning after waking up from a dream about us and thrusting my hips into the pillow I hug while I sleep. Waking up that turned-on, desperate to sate desire, isn’t an everyday occurrence for me… or at least it didn’t used to be.
The timing was perfect because I was home alone—Matt on a road trip, Gemma at the bakery, Zach at the arena. Or heshouldhave been at the arena.
“Whatever you want.” I shrug, still unsure how to act. Apologizing and making jokes hasn’t done anything to dispel the tension. There’s one thing that would, but because of the way I pursued him the first time we met, I refuse to rush him now. He has to choose this and be ready to accept the consequences.
“I’d like to watch you.”
I choke on my OJ. By the time I speak, my voice has fully recovered. “What do you want to watch me do?”
Zach doesn’t look away, and the prolonged eye contact creates a demanding pounding in my core. He chose those words on purpose. He knows what he’s doing. And dammit, I need him to make a move before I lose my mind.
“Gymnastics,” he clarifies, but there’s still a glint in his eye, like he’s fully aware of my thoughts.
I gesture around the room. “Here?”
“Nah.” He holds the remote to me, nodding toward the TV. “Show off for me, Finley.”
Every word out of Zach’s mouth dials up the heat flushing my body. I shift surreptitiously as I reach for the remote, trying to shake off the sensations overwhelming me.
Show off for me. I know exactly how to do that. I choose a video compilation of my silver-medal-winning routines at Worlds the year before I stopped doing gymnastics. Zach’s eyes are glued to the TV, watching me walk to the springboard beside the balance beam, preparing to mount it. I back dive onto the beam in candle position, feet straight in the air, body wrapping around the beam as if it were the bars. That skill took me forever to master, so of course it’s one of my favorites. It also makes me look badass.
The video flips to me preparing for bars.
“You use an excessive amount of chalk,” Zach comments.
“Trust me, there’s no such thing as too much chalk.”
I’m readying for my dismount, swinging around the high bar to build momentum to power the last skill.
“You look so—” Zach starts but I cut him off, not wanting to hear a critique from his lips.
“Thin?” I finish for him.
I can’t ignore the differences between that version of me and the one trying to return to the sport. My body changed a lot in the last two years—two cup sizes bigger, three inches taller, hips wider. All terrible for a gymnast. I don’t judge the weight of people around me, and I know my perception of myself isn’t healthy, but I can’t silence the inner voice.
It’s easier to toss feathers than a sack of potatoes, a coach used to tell me. It’s hard to forget that shit.
“No. I was going to say unhappy,” Zach replies, shifting until his body faces me.
“Oh.”
His gaze burns the side of my face.
“Finley, you look fucking good.” He makes a disgusted sound out of the side of his mouth. “Who put that crap in your head?”
My heart shifts into gear, accelerating from zero to fifty before I can stop it. I can’t hit the brakes, and memories flood my mind—the way I’d hold my breath while coaches moved the weights on the two bars of the scale, the audible sigh they’d let out every time, regardless of the number.
Disappointment became what I associated with my body. I didn’t believe their hyperfocus on my weight was wrong, only that my body would hold me back.
Gaining twenty-five pounds from bipolar medication made it especially difficult to look in the mirror. I didn’t have a gymnastics coach at the time, and internet trolls stopped paying attention to me after I “retired.” They weren’t there to tell me I looked terrible, but I didn’t need their voices any longer. I had my own.
