Page 144 of Oh, Flutz!

“Hey, well,” she says, the barest break audible in her voice. “At least I have you to call me out on my bullshit, no?”

Even her jokes make me want to die. Just the fact that she’s trying this hard. I look down at the floor, then scoop up the bottles of painkillers and the rest of the stuff we picked up at the pharmacy from the nightstand. “What else are partners for?” I say, the words coming out traitorously thin.

The worst part is, I hate myself for doing this to her. Even though it’s not fair to myself. It makes me sick, ignoring her, making her feel like this. Hurting her. Even though she hurt me.

“Bryan…” Something about the look on her face, in the sound of her voice, makes it obvious what she’s trying to say. What she’s trying to do.

I clear my throat. “I’m gonna go, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No, please listen to me. Please. I know there’s no reason for you to—”

“You’re right about that.” I say flatly, and pretend to miss the way her face falls.

But she doesn’t give up. Of course she doesn’t. That’s not who she is. This is the girl who almost snapped her neck from a faulty harness so she could keep drilling the jump she messed up on. This is the girl who skated through withdrawals because she refused to let it beat her. This is the girl who came back, even though she knew it would hurt. This is the girl.

“I kept trying to skate, but the ice felt empty. I kept expecting to turn and see you there. It feltwrong, Yasha.”

The dam has clearly broken. There’s no stopping this now. I feel the crippling ache rise in my chest again, and I shake my head, flopping back down on the bed, putting my head in my hands. “Don't call me that. Just don't.”

“You were right, okay?”

I scoff. “What?” I don’t even know if I want to know what she’s talking about. I drag a hand over my face, closing my eyes so I don't have to look at her.

“That night. You were right. I was a coward. I was running away, from this place, from you, from my feelings, from the first real good thing in my life in a really long time. But you were wrong about one thing.”

I can’t ask what she means. I don’t want to know. I can’t ask.

“You were wrong when you said I didn’t need you.”

You ever feel like a wound that can’t stop opening? I open my eyes, and I look at her, at this girl with tears in her eyes, this girl that’s done nothing but raise my hopes and crush them ever since she crashed into my life. I don’t know whether she’s the knife or the wound. I don’t know whose fault it is, either.

Because whichever one she is, I’m a walking opened stitch, some kind of pathetic gaping mouth where the rest of me should be, tearing myself open like I love it. Like it’s the only thing I know how to do, even though it hurts every time like it’s the first. Maybe she’s the knife, and maybe that’s why I can’t stay away from her. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe we’re just two horrible things instead of people. Maybe we’re the same. And that’s never going to change.

“Why areyoucrying?” I snap, and Katya immediately inhales sharply, biting her lip and eyes wide, trying so hard to stop—and just like that, all the anger collapses.

I reach for her, and take her in my arms, burying my head in her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Bryan, I’m so sorry. For all of it.”

I bite back tears. Why did it take us this long? Why was it so hard? “It’s not your fault.” And it’s true. I’m not just saying it.

“It is.” She pulls away, starting to hide her face, but I gently pull her hands away, cupping her face with my own.

“Like someone I know once told me,” I tell her, “Not everything always has to be your fault. And I didn’t believe her either, by the way,” I add, and Katya laughs tearfully. I brush my fingers across her cheeks, wiping away the tears, leaning my forehead against hers. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

We just lie there for a while, sitting together in peaceful silence.

She feels like that. Like somewhere I can finally lay it all down. And not in the way that I’m unloading it onto her, weighing her down with my shit ton of baggage, but because she makes me feel like I can do it at all.

We had practice ice booked for this afternoon, but with her back and what the doctor said, it was pretty clear we weren’t going to make it anyway. So we’re just recovering.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Katya whispers eventually, into the silence, her hair spilling across my chest.

I take a strand between my fingers, toying with the ends.

If you’d asked me a month ago whether I thought I’d ever forgive her, I don’t know what I would have said. It isn’t an easy question, and the answer’s even less easy. Because, like a lot of things, it isn’t that simple. You can’t just decide to hate someone forever, especially when you love them. Especially not when, as much as you hate to admit it, you can understand why they did what they did.

And especially because, if there’s anything I learned after my dad left us, it’s that you can’t ignore a problem forever. You can’t just keep swimming until you’re out at sea. Otherwise you’ll never get back to shore.

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