Page 26 of Where We Belong

I’m lying flat on my back, eyes on the high bar, out of breath andthisclose to blowing a fuse.

I can’t do it. My old bar routine is too rough for my current body. Even with all the PT in the world, I’m still not back to where I used to be. Every time I go through my final full rotations around the bar, I remember the feeling of hearing something crack as I fell onto my neck, of lightheadedness overcoming me as I wondered whether I could still feel my feet, of waiting to see if I’d lose consciousness and possibly never regain it. And then my shoulder gives out, and I get to where I am now. Sprawled on my back, ribs screaming in pain, breath stolen out of my lungs, and quite literally, pathetic.

Which is to say, this is a recipe for disaster in a competition.

With a groan, I push myself into a sitting position. I don’t have enough time before my first one to get this routine right. No way. I’d need at least four months to get this right, not a meager four weeks, and certainly not on top of all the routines I have to perfect. Dusting my hands on my thighs, I pull my legs onto the low bar so I can dangle upside down, knees holding me in place and arms falling loosely over my head. When I was younger and felt confused or angry or sad, I’d get into this position and wait until blood rushed into my head and I could focus on something other than my worries. It always worked.

Already starting to feel my head getting heavy, I run through my old routines. There’s one I did a few years ago, when I attended my first world championship in France. It didn’t win me a medal, but it also wasn’t that clean. If I get it perfectly, I might not get the highest score for difficulty, but I’d be able to master it, at least. The dismount is a double layout, which I know I could do any day. I’ve been doing those since I was fourteen, and they never came close to killing me, which is a nice point in their direction. Maybe I could add a full twist in it to make the dismount a little harder while still knowing I can perform it, even under stress. With the time I have left, it’s pretty much the only good option I have. Then I’ll use my current floor and beam routines, and I’ll need to think more about what I want to do on vault. Usually, I’d do an Amanar, which is a back handspring onto the vault table followed by a straight salto with a two and a half twist. However, with the way my shoulder is hurting right now, I’d probably be better off choosing a slightly easier skill so I don’t risk messing it up because I’m exhausted from my other routines. My orthopedist told me a few months ago to start slow, and that’s pretty much as slow as it could get for me without throwing in the towel.

I swing myself so I can land on my feet, then stand in front of the set of bars. I could start working on my old routine right away, but I’m bone tired. I glance at the clock, which shows it’s past 1:00 a.m. Probably a sign to go home. Tomorrow, I’ll start working on it.

I go grab my stuff in the staff room, then exit the gym, careful to lock the door behind me. The parking lot is empty—obviously—so I rush to my car while constantly checking over my shoulder, just in case. I don’t waste time entering my car, but just before I pull the driver’s door closed, my phone rings in my bag. I pull it out, seeing Josie’s name on it.

“What took you so long!” I say as a greeting while locking myself into the car.

“I’m sorry,” my little sister says. “School has been keeping me busy.”

I twist my lips to the side, not wanting to say how it feels like a knife to the gut every time she goes days before calling me back. Sometimes it feels like she’s the only person I have in the world, and while it wouldn’t be fair to put that on her, I can't stop myself from feeling hurt by it.

“It’s fine,” I say. “So long as you’re good, I’m good.”

“Yeah,” she says in a voice so low it’s suspicious.

“What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Jos. What’s wrong?” Goosebumps cover my skin from the frigid air inside the car, so I turn the engine on and put the heat in full blast. “Is it Kyle?”

She hesitates before she says, “Mom asked me not to tell you.”

I grind my teeth and count to three before speaking. I know Josie doesn’t see our mother the same way I do, and I don’t want to influence her one way or another. She’ll grow to form her own opinion of her. But Jesus, what kind of an idea is it to ask her youngest daughter not to tell her older sister what’s bothering her?

“You can still talk to me.”

“Promise you won’t tell Mom.”

“I promise,” I say.

Josie sighs loudly. “She has a new boyfriend.”

This time, I have to move the phone away from me so Josie doesn’t hear me swear. Repeatedly. When I bring the phone back to my ear, I ask, “Is he…nice?” I hope my voice doesn’t sound as raw as I think it does.

“I haven’t seen much of him with school, but he’s moving in tomorrow, so—”

“What?” I shout before clearing my throat. “What do you mean he’s moving in?”

“Apparently he doesn’t have a job right now, but he’s working on some big project and just needs a place to stay for a while.”

Of course. Of fucking course she’d do that.

Fighting with all I have to keep my calm for the sake of my sister, I ask, “But he’s been okay to you for now?”

“Sure,” Josie says.

“Okay. Good. Now listen to me, Jos, okay? You don’t forget to use the lock I put on your bedroom door. Ever. You hear me? You need to be careful about it.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says breathily. Then, “Should I be worried?”

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