I didn’t skate that night.After Luca left, I felt too raw to get on the ice. Bone-deep exhaustion had seeped into my heavy limbs. I knew I’d been pushing myself too much recently.
I went home and cried instead.
I’d never met anyone like Luca, someone so cynical and untrusting.
He’d said some horrible things that played in my mind on repeat all night. Not just because his insults had stung, but because he wasn’t wrong.
He’d caught me out when he’d overheard my conversation with Lily and asked me how I felt about our partnership afterward. I knew I was everything that Luca said I was; my old therapist had called me out on it, but I wasn’t ready to acceptit.
Being nice to people to their face while secretly hating them doesn’t make you nice, it makes you fake…spineless.
I kept my needs and thoughts locked away, rarely sharing them with anyone other than Lily, and even then I struggled. It was second nature to simply agree, nod, and smile, molding myself to people’s needs without a second thought. I hadn’t even been aware I was doing it until I’d seen a therapist about myanxiety and stress. It had been a couple of years ago; I had been dating Mark for six months and my mental health was getting worse—I didn’t know what else to do. I only saw her for three months, and she was brilliant, but she encouraged me to make changes that felt impossible, like ending things with Mark or creating healthy distance from my mum. In retrospect, she wasn’t wrong, but I couldn’t picture pulling away from the people I’d spent so long trying to hold on to. Every session left me feeling like I was falling short of who I was supposed to be. So, eventually, I stopped going.
Maybe that was the wrong decision.
Luca and I were supposed to train together the next morning, but I didn’t want to. Luca’s text the night before had been so out of character that at first I thought it must have been Jack, but then I reconsidered. Jack wouldn’t have done that; it wouldn’t have been believable.
I wanted to accept his apology, especially as I had been wrong,too.
But a small part of me wanted to take what Luca had said and show himwhyI was like this.
Part of me was still angry, too. Standing me up at the press event because I had annoyed him wasn’t a great example of the open communication he expected from me. I understood his frustration, but for someone who preached about being honest, he’d let weeks’ worth of resentment build instead of calling meout.
Being honest with him can’t make the situation any worse, right?
I grabbed my phone from my bedside table and typed.
Matilda: I’m not coming to training today. I don’t want to see you. Skate alone.
OK, I couldn’t send a text that wasthatrude, though it did feel nice to type. I tried again.
Matilda: I’m not in the mood to see you today, but feel free to head to the rink to skate. We have a slot booked.
I reread the message at least five times before clicking send and burying my phone under my duvet.How will he respond? Will he respond at all? Will he go to the rink?The questions bounced around my mind for too long.
Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I decided to work out. I threw on some athletic shorts, a sports bra, and a baggy T-shirt, slipped on some running shoes, and headed downstairs to the gym in my building. It was lackluster compared to any other commercial gym, but it would suffice for a short workout and meant I didn’t risk running into anyone I knew.
As I pushed the gym door open, my phone pinged with a couple of texts.
Mum: You still haven’t explained why Luca didn’t come to the event.
Mum: Do you even realize what you’ve risked? This mess will reflect on me. We’ve built a reputation over decades and you’re one bad headline away from undoing it. Be grateful that the press hasn’t said anything—yet.
Jack had managed to keep it out of the news, then, at least. I blinked away the burning behind my eyes and swallowed the guilt.My mother’s legacy isn’t my responsibility. I told myself the affirmation I’d learned in those few months of therapy over and over again, even if I didn’t quite believeit.
Ignoring the messages, I threw myself into the workout, succumbing to the mental bliss of hating every moment of being there. Forty minutes on the treadmill and twenty minutes of lightweights later, I was sufficiently sweaty and ready to head back to my apartment, shower, and then fill the bathtub until it was almost overflowing and put on a face mask. Was tena.m.too early to pour a glass of wine? Maybe not if it was in the name of self-care.
Once I’d returned to my apartment, I peeled off my sweaty T-shirt and threw it into the laundry hamper. Just as I leaned to turn the shower on, a knock sounded on the front door.
It was bound to be my mother. I still hadn’t replied to her messages, so she must have wanted topry.
I hurried to the door and pulled it ajar.
My jaw slackened, and I let the door swing open.
Luca stood in the hallway, his dark hair tousled and eyes rimmed with shadows. Lines of exhaustion were traced across his face, but they only accentuated his jawline and the curve of his lips.
His gaze flickered over my gym outfit, his eyes heating before they flicked back to mine.
