Page 16 of Revolve
Sierra gags. “He’s my best friend’s dad. So, no, I do not mean DILF.”
I pause for minute. I had no idea Kilner had a daughter at Dalton. But I shake off the thought, focusing instead on the way Sierra grimaces. “That hasn’t stopped anyone. Pretty sure it adds to the fun.”
“Are you speaking from personal experience? Slept with a lot of your best friends’ dads, have you?” She smiles like she finds herself funny.
I stare at her mouth for an indecent amount of time. Too indecent even for me. “You’re smiling, Sierra. Are you enjoying my company?”
“It’s either this or I sit next to the guy spreading the plague all over the waiting room.” The sick guy groans loudly when I glance over at him.
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” she says. “I’ll bruise your fragile ego.”
“You’d do a lot more damage than just a bruise, baby.”
She raises a brow. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Yes.” I grin. “Is it working?”
“Ms. Romanova, your prescription is ready.” The receptionist’s voice cuts through Sierra’s heated green gaze. Sierra takes the prescription, avoiding eye contact as she tucks it in her bag.
“See you around,Romanova.”
“Walk into traffic,Donovan,” she says in a singsong voice, tossing a razor-edged grin over her shoulder.
I’m still laughing when the door closes behind her. Summer strides back in, her arms loaded with textbooks, which she unceremoniously dumps into mine.
She watches me curiously. “What’s got you smiling so much?”
EIGHT
SIERRA
“YOU SHOULDN’T BEskating alone,dochen’ka,” my dad says as soon as I make it back from the rink a few blocks away from my parents’ house. In the winter, I would skate on the frozen pond in our backyard, but after my accident, they never froze it again. It was their way of dealing with my accident, but sometimes I miss it. The quiet, the late-night skates, the feeling of stepping out of my house and onto something that felt like home.
I slept like a caged bird in my old room last night, and I couldn’t help but wonder why I even bother coming home. But it’s because I’m forced to. A few months ago, when I broached the subject of returning to campus with Scarlett, my parents were hesitant. It took lots of convincing and a promise to visit them every week. Promises I’m regretting right now.
My dad pulls away from our hug, only for my mom to squeeze me. I’ve had to become used to this new violation of my personal space since the accident. I don’t resist them anymore, not since they told me how hard it was not getting to hug me. My mom said she’d take walks to the opposite wing of the hospital while I was in surgery, not realizing it was labor and delivery. Every time a baby wasborn, music played; she counted sixteen chimes. Sixteen lives entered the world while she thought she was losing hers.
“Lidia’s not always available,” I explain. “I have to practice, Papa. You two know that better than anyone.”
You’d think having skaters for parents would make this whole comeback easier, but they’ve gone soft. My parents coach young skaters, so they’re off on random days of the school week. I’ve been to only a few of their performances, one being in Aspen when I was four. That’s the trip where I became obsessed with skating. It wasn’t the performers who caused that reaction, it was seeing my parents skate together on the empty post-competition ice. The passion between them was palpable and nearly suffocating.
When I was born, I messed up my mom’s pelvis to the point of no return. Skating became painful, so she retired, and my dad didn’t hesitate to follow. So I promised myself that if they had to give up figure skating for me, I would make it all worthwhile. I’d be worth it to them.
“You shouldn’t be on the ice without her, Sierra. At least not without a helmet,” my mom says. I haven’t worn a helmet in ages, so doing it now would just prove their point.
I move into the breakfast nook of the kitchen, letting my dad ladle me soup. The temperature drops a degree, and my mom goes full cold-prevention mode.
She takes my hand. “As much as we want to put you in Bubble Wrap, I know you. You’re my daughter, and just like me, you want to prove everyone wrong.” I feel a stab of guilt. “But you have to be safe. Don’t put this pressure on yourself.”
“I’m not.” I only wake up screaming some days. No pressure at all.
“Then we are looking forward to seeing you back out there,” my dad says.
My stomach churns. Expectations rising, and my body not being able to perform, or my brain not letting me, makes me worry. I have to trust my body when I can’t even look at it. PTSD and anxiety trailafter me—label after label. I can’t just be myself without these words following, as if it’ll help the next person understand whether I’m too much or palatable enough.
Suddenly, my mom perks up. “Oh! I forgot to tell you that I ran into Justin yesterday.”
