Page 35 of Fire on the Ice

I hate that I’m wringing my hands in front of me, but now that it’s here, I’m not entirely certain of what to say.

“What happened at the snowboard cross—”

“Hey, I’m sorry about that, okay?”

She reaches for me again, and I stop her. “No, not okay. I believe that you’re sorry, but it’s a bigger issue than oops, I messed up. It’s important to me and I want you to listen.”

“Can I listen after we fuck? Because I’ve been dying, Mais. Especially after watching you skate.” Yeah, there’s a special gleam in her eye, and it makes me feel sexy, wanted, proud. But . . . I can’t. Not yet. “You’ve been the only thing on my mind when I wasn’t getting ready for my race. I . . . I want you. Please.”

She takes a step toward me again, which is when I lose it.

Blaze

“Do you grant the premise that I’m owed as much bodily autonomy as you are?”

“But—”

“Do. You?” Yes, I’ve seen Maisy look fierce before. In her own way, she looks particularly fierce on the ice. How badass do you have to be to contort yourself like a pretzel and fucking smile about it? But this is beyond that. This is her gaze looking as sharp as her skates. Like she’s going to eviscerate me.

“Of course I do.” To say anything else would be hypocritical in the extreme. Everyone should have control over their own bodies to do with them whatever they want. Piercings? Fabulous. Tattoos? Ink your bad self. Dying your hair? Clearly, I’m all for it. Pretty much anything you can do to yourself unless you’re doing it to self-harm? I’m down. And give others permission to do whatever they like, as long as everyone’s consenting and of legal age and all that good stuff.

“If that’s true, you can’t be okay with taking away my choices because they look different than yours.”

It’s possible that the point of Maisy’s chin quivers, but she shuts that down before it can go full tremble. And what she’s just said . . . it renders me speechless. Is that what she feels like I’ve been doing to her? Is that, in fact, what Ihavebeen doing to her?

People telling me what to do with my body—the people who side-eye my hair and my clothes, the ones who shame me for posing mostly or completely nude for magazine shoots but then look at them anyway, the people who tsk at how many sexual partners I’ve had but still want to claim my glory for their own? Those slut-shaming, narrow-minded hypocrites, they infuriate me. Completely infuriate me.

But have I gone too far? Yeah, Maisy and I don’t make the same choices, because she’s way more modest than I am, but then so are 98 percent of people I’ve ever met in my whole life, and she’s more private, too. I’ve never called her a prude out loud, but I may as well have with the way I’ve dismissed some of her concerns, and that’s not fair. I’m as bad as the people I hate.

“I don’t appreciate being used as a pawn in your games. I’ve only ever asked you for two things when we’re together, and that’s for you not to be with anyone else and not to mark me where people could see. Now I’m going to ask you for something else. To keep me out of your press stunts and your attention mongering. I don’t want to be involved in them. If you can’t or won’t, then we’re done here because you talk a good game, but I don’t think you actually respect my choices.”

Bam.I have been hit and hit hard on the track, but this is one of the most painful blows I’ve ever suffered. I’m guessing it’s cut especially deep because it’s true, and I’m finding I don’t like that about myself.

I take a few breaths, because I owe Maisy. I owe it to her to think this through, to figure out if I can do what she’s asking, because she deserves to be respected as much as I do. I do believe that, fundamentally, but when you start to poke at it . . . No, I do, but I need that minute to set myself straight and to allow for the argument. I’m not proud of it and hopefully I’ll get better, but for now, it takes me conscious thought to get there, and I’m really, truly sorry for the position I put her in and for not giving her choice as much weight as my own. That was shitty in a massive way. And you don’t do that to someone you love, which is maybe how I feel about Maisy. Yep, pretty sure, actually, but I’m not sure if that’s how she thinks of me.

“I am so, so sorry. I understand why you’re so upset, and I will do my utmost to be as respectful as your choices as you have been of mine. It’s not fair to hoist my baggage on you, and—”

“Baggage? What baggage? You’re the freest person I know. Most people have got a 747’s worth of luggage they’re hauling around, and you’re that asshole who carries on a bottle of water and a book.”

Maisy cracks me up. She seems so innocent and wide-eyed, and then she says shit like that. But unlike most of the time, she’s wrong about this. “That is so not true. I mean, I really do believe that people should be able to fuck whomever and whenever and however they like, and look the way they want to, and blah blah blah, but if you think I can’t hear the shit people say about me? If you think that doesn’t make me feel shitty sometimes? It absolutely does, so I’m carrying around some stuff, too.”

There’s something I should say to her, but I don’t know if I can hack it. I mean, competing in a dangerous sport at an elite level, sure, but telling someone about my deepest insecurities? No, thank you. But I wasn’t lying when I told Maisy that part of what makes poly relationships work is communication. I should—for once in our relationship—set a good example.

“One of the things I carry is being worried that the people I’m with are ashamed of me. So sometimes when you wanted to keep stuff quiet, it didn’t feel like you were shy and wanted privacy, it felt like you were embarrassed to be with me. Not just anyone, but me in particular.”

The breath Maisy inhales is audible. I might even call it a gasp, if I wanted to be dramatic. Which I usually do, but not now. Now, I’m trying to be earnest. It’s not easy. Even though it’s killing me not to make a joke and move on, I wait for her to say something. Because I want her to—need her to.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I am not ashamed of you. You’re marvelous and I admire so many things about you. My parents can be really shitty about me being queer, and I’m still figuring out how to deal with that, so that’s part of it. But part of it is that I’m shy, I like to keep my private life private. I would with anyone, not just you. I swear.”

She said I’m marvelous. I’m going to turn into one of those cartoon characters whose eyes turn into hearts and beat out of their heads. It sucks that her parents are homophobic wankers, though. I know how toxic that shit can be and that it takes time to work through it. It’s like she said before, but in a way that makes me feel better instead of awful: it’s not all about me.

“Okay. If you could, maybe, remind me of that sometimes. And we can talk about your parents sometime, if that would be helpful. If you can try to keep my sore spots in mind, too, I’ll do the same and this could be even better.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But my point is that you might have to smack me upside the head sometimes, but I’ll do my best to smack myself before you have to. If you think you might be willing to deal with me in the future?”

Hope gurgles inside me like one of those broken water fountains. A trickle, but with volume. It just needs a bit more power behind it to turn it into a pretty arc that a person could actually drink from.

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