Page 99 of Ice Dance

His words rang in my aching bones.

We cannot be together. Ever.

I strode from the bathroom, retrieved my coat from the guy at the door, and asked him to call me a taxi. I waited outside, in the cold, watching sleet melt on the gravel, getting colder and colder inside. The taxi came, and the ride back to my apartment passed in a blur. I’d gone numb, hollowed out, so I couldn’t feel anything anymore. In my apartment, I tore off the jacket before switching the light on, then went straight to the bathroom.

My face in the mirror told me everything my body refused to. Wide eyes, pale skin, shocked, heartbreaking, terrified.

My hands shook when I swept my hair back.

We had a month left until the competition. In two days, we were flying back to Montreal for the final stage of training. Costumes, choreography, pulling it all together. And after that, I’d never have to see Ren Hasegawa again.

Tightness squeezed my lungs in my chest. I tried to breathe around it, but the pressure grew barbs and dug in, hurting my every inhale. This wasn’t normal. I pressed a hand to my chest. “Calm down.”

“Calm down,” he’d said, as if I could just switch it all off and be okay, like he could.

I panted, wincing. Why couldn’t I slow my breathing?

I grabbed the countertop, hunched over. My heart hammered. I could feel it under my hand, alongside my straining lungs.

Shit.

What was this?

Was it bad?

Thumping in my head, my ears, deafening.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. Dylan . . . Call Dylan. But the pills . . . My phone slipped from my fingers, clattered to the floor.

The room spun.

Cold skin, colder body.

Both hands on the counter, breathe, breathe.

Slowly, eventually, the pain eased, my breathing slowed, and the room stopped spinning.

Wrecked and wretched, I bent, picked up my phone, stumbled to my bedroom, and collapsed onto the bed, still breathing, still alive. I closed my eyes and wished it all away, the hurt, the shame, the guilt, and my stupid, stupid heart for loving a man who wasn’t capable of loving me back.

THIRTY-FIVE

REN

I had not planned on seeing my father again for as long as he lived, but the gala had put him in front of me. I’d had no choice. The last thing I’d needed was Camden having some kind of emotional breakdown in such a public setting. I’d known the night had been difficult on him, but I couldn’t think about that, not with my father there.

I’d spent the evening discussing potential opportunities. People were watching. It mattered who I stood with, who I talked to. It mattered that the Olympic committee were there.

Camden should have been there too.

I regretted my words in the corridor, but they hadn’t been wrong. I could not give him what he wanted from me. It was better we both understood that now. The whole frivolous relationship had been a mistake. Whether I wanted him or not was irrelevant. I did not get to want. We did not get to live in a fantasy world where we were free to share our lives together. This was the real world.

Camden needed to understand that.

The event finished late. My father would call me, he’d said, then touched my shoulder and squeezed, pride in his eyes for the first time in a decade.

Back at the apartment building, I’d left the elevator and stopped on the landing, considering turning right to Camden’s door. But I’d said all that needed to be said, and it was probably better we didn’t see each other until tomorrow. Nothing could soften the blow I’d delt, and trying would only make it worse.

The following day, Camden was distant in training. Cold, cut off.