“It feels impossible. Going back. After everything.”
“I know it does. But I’ve been thinking about that, too.” He reaches into his jacket pocket. “And I hope this isn’t overstepping.”
He slides a piece of paper across the table.
It’s folded once, neatly.
“Her name is Brita Fiske. Finnish but based in Sweden now. I did a season in Norway three years ago, and she was coaching figure skating there at the time - elite level. One of the best technical minds I’ve come across in any sport.” He pauses. “So… I called her. I told her there was someone who might be ready to think about coming back.” He meets my eyes. “She knew yourname, Elida. Immediately. And she was excited. That’s the only way I can describe it.”
Her name and number are written in Jake’s careful handwriting.
“She mentioned video coaching. You’re here, she’s there, it doesn’t have to be a barrier. Not to start with. She wants to talk to you. That’s all. Just talk. But there’s no pressure and if I overstepped, I’m sorry.”
My eyes brim with tears as I sit there with the paper in my hand and the soft light of the restaurant around us.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know. I wanted to help if I could.”
He’s sitting across from me right now with nothing on his face except admiration and the mild hope that he’s done something useful.
I was right to give this a chance.
“Thank you.”
He smiles. “I’m happy for you. You should call her.”
I fold the paper carefully and put it in my pocket.
I don’t plan it.
That’s the honest version. He walks me home and I think about the paper in my pocket - how lovely the evening was and how good he’s been.
“Do you want to come in?”
“Of course,” he says simply.
So, he comes in.
We sit on the sofa and talk for a while, easy and unhurried, and at some point the talking stops and he kisses me and I kiss him back because I want to, because he’s nice and good, and I’ve made a decision and I’m honoring it.
We make love. He sinks inside me with that same gentle care he does everything - watching my face, treating me like I’m fragile and precious. I tilt my hips and he groans, low andhonest, and I’m suddenly so close it scares me. Then he hits it just right and I come hard and gasp, surprised even though I shouldn’t be. For the second time that evening, my eyes fill with tears as Mateo’s face flashes before my eyes.
Jake slows down, worried. “Too much?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “You’re perfect.” And on paper he is. That’s the problem.
MATEO
I almost text first -are you home, can we talk- and then I think: no. This is the kind of thing you say in person.
It’s early enough in the morning that I guess she’ll be at home. I knock.
She answers in her dressing gown.
Her hair is down and she’s holding a coffee mug. For one second before she schools her expression, I see an emotion move across her face - surprise, and underneath the surprise something complicated. I feel the first note of something wrong without being able to name it.
“Mateo,” she says flatly.
