"And what did you say?"
"That you won't."
She looks at me then, and there's something fragile in her eyes. "You believe that?"
I should say yes. Should tell her I'm certain, that we're going to be fine, that love is enough.
But I think about the way Laurent looked at me like I was a kid playing dress-up in a grown man's life.
"I have to," I say finally.
She doesn't ask what I mean. Just reaches for my hand on the gearshift and holds on tight as the highway stretches in front of us, and mountains pass along.
***
My flat looks different when we pull up. I've lived here for a year—bought it to get some space from the federation, from my mother, from everyone who thought they had a say in my life. It's always felt like mine. Small, but mine.
Now, looking at it with Élise beside me and her two massive suitcases in the trunk, it just feels small.
"Here we are," I say, killing the engine.
She nods, doesn't move.
"Élise."
"I know." She unbuckles her seatbelt, opens the door. "Let's go."
I grab her suitcases from the trunk, and we climb the stairs to the second floor. The key sticks in the lock like it always does. I have to jiggle it twice before the door finally opens.
One bedroom. A living area that's also the kitchen if you count the two-burner stove and the counter that's barely wide enoughfor a cutting board. Bathroom so small you have to step into the shower to close the door. And everywhere—everywhere—my mess. Jackets thrown over the back of the couch, gloves and goggles on the counter, training gear piled in the corner. Dirty dishes in the sink from breakfast three days ago. I meant to clean before she got here, but there wasn't time.
I set her suitcases down in the middle of the room. They take up half the floor space.
"I can move some stuff," I say, already reaching for the jackets. "Make room."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You can't even open your suitcase without—"
"Nico. It's fine."
I stop. Look at her. She's smiling now, that bright, wide smile she uses when she's performing. I've seen it enough times to know the difference between this and the real thing.
"It's perfect," she says.
I don't believe her. But I nod anyway, because what else am I supposed to do?
She kneels down, opens the first suitcase. Dresses spill out. Coats. Shoes that look like they cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
"Where should I put these?" she asks, holding up a pair of heels.
I look around. The closet is full of my race suits and jackets. The shelves are stacked with protein shakes and old race bibs I never threw away.
"I'll clear some space," I say.
She nods, sets the shoes down carefully on top of the suitcase like they're fragile. Then she pulls out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
