Page 12 of Unsteady

Because she’s big talk and no action when it comes to her husband, my mom only smirks up at him and nods. “Yep. Craving some biscuits and chocolate gravy.”

She doesn’t utter a word about what we both know. That my dad doesn’t snore. That she's become a light sleeper since she found me nearly suffocating through a panic attack in my sleep months ago. That tonight she woke up to the sounds of muffled cries and probably nearly gave herself a heart attack when she realized I was on my goddamn stomach again.

My dad wrinkles his nose, because as much as he loves anything my mother does and would gladly eat raw meat if she served it to him, he hates chocolate gravy with a passion.

“Well, then what are we still doing here? The oven preheating alone takes an hour.”

They both stand and start for the door, but pause and wait for me. My mother is all masked concern, now smiling and love-sick half in my father’s arms.

But my dad’s eyes are relentless as they take stock of my every muscle, seeing too much and yet nothing all at once. Does he see a stranger where he once saw a twin?

“I need a shower, and I’ll be down,” I say, shutting my eyes and then the door before I can hear anything else, desperate for a break to just be empty without the pressure of pretending I’m not.

* * *

Seeking any feeling, even pain, has clearly become some sort of hobby of mine, as I find myself at the rink by five a.m. two days later. Even earlier than my last little visit.

I follow my dad’s directions again, flipping on the overheads and saying a quickgood morningto the night shift manager, grateful for Max Koteskiy’s celebrity status providing access to slick, fresh ice and an empty rink.

I get through my warm-ups off ice easily, stretching slowly to release all the tension from my horrid night of sleep.

But, sitting in the vacant locker room, it only takes a wave of dizziness to completely derail my focus. My vision goes blurry, hands clenching around nothing as I release the laces that were nearly wrapped around my fingers. I try to stop it as I feel the panic mount, leaning over to hang my head between my knees, forearms pressed to my thighs to keep me somewhat upright. A shiver works down my spine as I fight against the squeezing in my chest, the fear mounting as my eyes blink fuzzy again.

I close them.

“This is pathetic. Stop it.”

But speaking the words out loud does little to drown out the sound of my own screaming,“I can’t see,”like a broken fucking record in my head.My hands reach up and cradle my head as the pounding of my temple rises to a sickening level, and my eyes won’t open because I’m too damn afraid thatthey won’t work.

“Get it together, goddamnit.” I clench my hands in my hair, resisting the urge to slap myself in the face.

“We have to stop meeting like this, hotshot.”

Fuck.

Even the rasp of her voice is enough to pull me back to this side of the living.

I gently raise my head, trying to pull myself together enough to sling a smile onto my ashen face.

Without thinking, my eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear away the fog. Still, I see her clearly. Her face is calm, forehead relaxed and mouth set in a sweet little smile—the perfect image of unbothered ease. Except for that tiny divot of her eyebrows and the concern in her gray eyes so deep I could swim in it.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp.

My breathing has already started to calm, distracted by the way she struts around the locker room and makes herself at home, dropping her bag into a corner by one of the long benches.

“Need me to give you mouth-to-mouth?”

The flirty taunt is so sudden it works like a cold water shock to my nervous system. Everything settles, my focus turning away from my half-on skate and wholly onto her.

Her muscular legs are wrapped in smooth black fabric, a school issued athletic long sleeve shirt, tight on her upper body. Her hair is down today, thick and straight with fringe dripping from behind her ear that has my fist closing to prevent reaching out and tucking it back.

Instead, I try to focus my eyes on the cluster of freckles beneath her eye.

“A-are you flirting with me?” The words slip out fast, my voice nowhere near to sounding normal, still breathy and weak and I almost want to take it back because I’m a hollow shell of nothingness and she’s so goddamnfull.

“Me? Flirting with the hot hockey player who keeps showing up in my space?” She smirks down at me, pulling one of the headphones out of her ear, the cord dangling in her hand. “I’d be stupid not to.”

She’s so upfront, be it anger or teasing, so brutally honest in the face of my weakness that it settles something in me.

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