“Keep going and you’ll be sleeping with the fishes,” he muttered darkly at Sabrina. Then, louder, “We should go. I’ll, uhm, see you Monday?”
“I’ll have to hog Théo for a few more days,” Sabrina said, her eyes flicking between us with barely concealed amusement, “and then he’s all yours.”
Théo’s flush deepened. “She means I’ll have more free time. To watch Aspen. If you need me to.”
“Right.” I fought the urge to smile. “Of course.”
He was already shoving Sabrina toward the door, kicking her silver suitcase into the hallway with more force than necessary. She went willingly, laughing, but not before shooting me a look over her shoulder—something knowing and a little conspiratorial.
“It was nice meeting you, Derek,” she called out. “Take care of our boy.”
“Goodbye!” Théo practically shouted over her and shut the door behind them before she could say more.
The apartment fell quiet. Aspen padded back to the couch and collapsed with a contented sigh.
I stood there for a moment, replaying the last few minutes. The flush on Théo’s cheeks. The way he couldn’t quite meet my eyes. The pillow comment.
He’d been sniffing my pillows.
I smiled to myself, dropping onto the couch next to Aspen.
26. Théo
Sabrina had completed two out of three steps in Operation GUST before she left Chicago.
She had cried at the curbside, tears streaming down her face as she pulled me into a bone crushing hug. Avery stared at a spot above her head while he unloaded her suitcase from the Jeep and gave her an awkward pat on the back goodbye. I chewed on the inside of my cheek so my own tears wouldn’t fall.
“Call me. Text me. FaceTime me,” she said fiercely, gripping my shoulders. “Every day. I mean it.”
“I will.”
“I’m one plane ride away. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need me.”
“I know. I love you.”
“Love you too, babe.” She kissed my cheek, grabbed her suitcase, and disappeared into the terminal without looking back. Avery clapped me on the shoulder and climbed back into the Jeep, giving me a minute to collect myself. I watched her go until she was swallowed by the crowd.
Now that she was gone, Operation GUST felt like it would fall apart with one burst of wind.
???
On Monday, I didn’t go back to the Frost practice facility. Instead, I went to Coach Miller’s rink.
We set up a schedule—three days a week to start, with room to adjust. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask what I’d been doing during my hiatus or where I was struggling. He just handed me a cup of terrible coffee from the ancient machine in his office and asked what I wanted to get out of skating.
I didn’t have an answer. He said that was fine.
The first session was mostly assessment. He watched me run through basics—edges, turns, spins—making occasional notes in a little notebook. When I moved into jumps, he stopped me after a shaky triple loop.
“You’re muscling it,” he said. “Your body remembers what to do. Stop fighting it.”
Easy for him to say. Harder to do when every jump felt like a negotiation with a version of myself I wasn’t sure still existed.
He had me slow everything down. Walkthroughs. Half-rotations. The kind of remedial work that would have made Renaud roll his eyes but Miller just sipped his terrible coffee and nodded like we had all the time in the world.
Afterward, I stared at my phone for two train stops before I finally gathered enough courage to text Derek.
Can I come over tonight?
