Page 8 of On the Edge

If he’d come back four years ago with a good excuse, I may have listened—but I promised myself then that one year was enough time to obsess about where he was, if he was okay, and if he was coming back. Wasting any more than a year on him was pathetic, so I willed myself through it then and every day since.

“Making things right is literally impossible.” I don’t say what I’m really thinking—there is nothing you can say to undo the damage you have done. I don’t need to give him the satisfaction of knowing how completely he destroyed me.

I pause and consider the amount of time we’d spend together if I were his physical therapist. “And there’s no way the two of us could ever have the kind of partnership you’ll need with your PT. Take that idea you have about us working together and put it out of your mind. I won’t try to get you taken off the team, but I’ll never work with you.” I start to shut the door, but he puts a hand on it, just enough for me to stop and listen to his parting blow.

“Jackson, you’re not going to throw away your whole career just because I’m here.” He lifts one eyebrow like he’s challenging me to disagree, and I just want to wipe that look right off his face. If he thinks his newly minted place on the team affords him more weight in this decision than my years on the team combined with my years working there, he’s insane.

It’s notmycareer that’s at stake here,I think to myself as I slam the door in his face and slide the deadbolt into place.

* * *

I listen to his retreating steps down the hallway, left with nothing but questions. Hundreds of them that I’ve collected over the years, and a few new ones that have sprung up with his reappearance today. Questions Nate could have answered, but because I don’t ever want him to know how badly he hurt me, I refused to let him explain.

I make my way back to my couch and close the folder with Nate’s medical files, setting them on the ground. Even though I know they might have some of the answers I’m looking for, they aren’t what I need. Only Nate can tell mewhyhe walked away from a seven-year relationship over a seemingly minor argument we’d had many times before. What made that night, that fight, different? It wasn’t relationship-ending stuff, it was typical figure-out-your-future-together stuff.

I glance at the oversized wooden clock on my wall and do the math. It’s still only 4:30 a.m. in Italy. Marco won’t be up, and yet I eye my phone wondering if I should just call him anyway. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. He’s started his daily training sessions on snow now and he’ll need his sleep to recuperate. I can wait another hour or two.

I lose track of how long I lie there, memories of Nate and I running through my head. Part of what makes it so hard is that most of the memories are good. Really good. Finally, I pick up my phone that’s been resting on my stomach and dial Marco.

His voice is groggy when he answers.

“Did I wake you? I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. And despite how badly I need to talk to him, I mean it. I know how important it is for him to be well rested. I’d never want to put his training in jeopardy.

“S’fine,” he slurs, like he’s still trying to get his vocal cords to rise to the challenge of speaking.

“Something big happened, and I knew you’d want to know.”

“What is it,Bella?”

I sink deeper into the pillows of my couch, wishing they could swallow me whole and transport me into Marco’s arms. “Nate’s here. In Park City. Somehow when I was in Italy he weaseled his way onto the team. Josh retired, and now I’m supposed to train Nate, and I’mfreaking out so badright now.”

“You’re saying all these words,” he says, “but they don’t make sense. How could Nate have made the team? He hasn’t competed in ... wait, has he been competing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But somehow, he made the team. And he’s living in Josh’s condoright down the halland now I’m supposed to be his physical therapist. I can’t do that. There’s no way.”

Marco pauses, the line silent except for the background noise of his sheets rustling. I picture him sitting up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, and rubbing his thumb along his forehead where it meets his hair, like he does when he’s stressed. “Let us approach this logically. I mean, maybe this will be a good thing for you?” His voice, soft with his Italian accent, is so hopeful.

“A good thing.” My voice is dead, the emotion completely missing. I take a bolstering breath. “I punched him today, bruising my knuckles in the process, and my hand is all wrapped up in a splint with ice. That was within the first thirty seconds of seeing him. Can you even imagine what will happen if we have to work together?”

“Maybe you will finally learn the reasons for ...” The lilt of his accent rattles in the back of his throat. “Everything?”

“You are supposed to be on my side, here!”

“I am always on your side, love. But I’m also not going to lie to you. Your hatred is eating you up inside. It’s preventing you from moving on ...”

“Ihavemoved on,” I insist.

“Are you sure about that? Because moving on also means letting go. Your hatred is like an obsession, and holding onto it gives him power over you.”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I am not obsessed with him.” The words are barely loud enough to hear.

“I said you’re obsessed with hating him. And maybe if you find the answers you need, you’ll finally be able to let go.”

“I let go a long time ago, Marco.”

“Hmm,” he replies, and I can picture him shaking his head.

“What are you doing now?” I ask, suddenly desperate to change the topic.

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