Page 17 of Unsteady

“Morning,” I call, getting a happy smile shot my way as she settles herself on the barstool next to where I’m standing.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks, yawning despite the clear, hidden check-in her question poses.

“Good.”

It isn’t a lie. I got a full night's rest, a rare occurrence that I’m trying to convince myself has nothing to do with distracting thoughts of a certain figure skater.

“Good.” Mom smiles. My father steps up behind her, setting the steaming cup in front of her and kissing the top of her head, massaging her shoulders.

“What is it today?” I ask, leaning towards them.

“I think… a flower?”

My father frowns. “It was supposed to be a heart.”

“It looks like a big mushroom blob,” my mom says, her tone affectionate.

I laugh, a real one that makes both of my parents look up at me. There’s a guilt that chases away the good almost immediately. Have I been so empty, even with them?

“I’m late,” I say, jumping up and grabbing my bag from beside the door.

“For an empty rink?” My mom smirks.

“I—uh, yeah.” Not bothering to explain, I grab my keys and head out to the garage.

* * *

I half expect the rink to be empty when I enter, that Sadie really is just a figment of my imagination, invented so I don’t feel so goddamn alone in my anxiety and nothingness.

What I see on the ice only starts to prove that claim.

She skates with that same energy I remember from before, all passion, like watching live fire on ice. None of her movements look that fluid, all punchy between delicate dance moves that look like some hybrid powerful gymnast-elegant ballerina, but it works.

Music is playing over a small Bluetooth speaker in the corner, the beat heavy and loud, not what I’ve imagined from her. Her phone is upturned on the bench, so I touch the side, lighting it up where I can see the song title, “Run Boy Run,” scroll across the top. I try to stop myself from reading below the music, but spotting a text from “DO NOT ANSWER,” I can’t stop myself.

Please Sadie I need your…

The rest of the message isn’t visible. Something wrestles in my stomach, making me nauseous at the endless implications. Even looking back at her, gliding on the ice, I can’t get over the overwhelming urge to lock us both in this quiet open rink forever, never having to face anything outside of it.

I’m psychotic. I guess nearly dying on the ice didn’t take away my control freak mentality.

She’s going fast, spinning backwards and leaning like she’s prepping for a jump, which she makes three turns in the air, before slamming down hard enough to slide on her ass towards the curve of the corner boards.

I’m over the boards before I realize, skating to her and stopping short like some strange reverse of that first day she saved me—only I’m still the one panicking.

“Sadie?”

My voice feels hollow, my hands numb.

She blinks up at me, pushing up slightly. “Hey, hotshot.”

Relief blares through me so quickly, I nearly join her in laying on the ice.

“You went down pretty hard. You okay?”

“That was easily the fall that hurt theleastthis morning.” She smirks, a gentle curve of her lips that makes my stomach drop and the back of my neck heat.

And I can’tnottouch her; I grab her biceps and lift her gently, until her skates are steady beneath her body.

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