Page 49 of Revolve
“What?”
“Say what you want to say,” she snaps, but keeps her arms crossed over her chest like a shield.
Something about the way she stands there, so closed off, pulls at me. I can feel the distance between us.
I watch her carefully. “You’re scared.”
Her eyes flash. “I’ve been doing this my whole life. I’m notscared.”
But I feel it—just in the way her body stiffens when I reach for her, the way she holds herself a little too rigid. “Yes, Sierra, you are,” I press. “I can feel it in the way you tremble when I lift you. And we haven’t even done any real lifts yet.”
“That has nothing to do with you,” she shoots back, but there’s a crack in her words.
“It haseverythingto do with me,” I say, the frustration creeping into my voice. “I’m the one holding you up, potentially putting you in the same position where you fell, and I get it, okay? It probably terrifies you because you think I’d drop you likehedid.”
I watch her face change, her breath catching in her throat, and the panic is instant, like a wave crashing over her. It takes everything in me not to reach for her, to ground her like before.
Coach is still watching, and I can see Sierra closing off even more. Like she’s trapped.
She stammers. “I—it’s a me thing. I’ll figure it out.”
Lidia steps in, her tone final. “Wewill figure it out.”
I turn my focus back to Sierra, my eyes locking with hers. The tension between us is thick, too heavy to ignore. I can see her fighting it, but something’s changed, something in the way her eyes soften just a fraction, the way her lips part, like she’s trying to find the words but doesn’t know how. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll be that for you,” I whisper.
She freezes. And before I can say anything else, she spins away from me, skating off the ice without a word.
THE DOORBELL RINGSincessantly, the chime echoing through the house. Even when I press my pillow against my ears, I can still hearit. With a curse and half-lidded eyes, I roll out of my bed and yank my bedroom door wide.
“Answer the fucking door!” I shout, but my voice only echoes faintly before the relentless ringing resumes. No one’s home; I know, because the usual music from upstairs is absent, and the lingering scent of smoke from failed breakfast attempts isn’t wafting through the house. Even the TV in the living room, which is typically blaring at all hours, is silent.
I don’t bother throwing on a shirt, and I walk out in my boxers. If someone wants to disrupt my sleep, they’re not getting any consideration from me.
Exhaustion lingers in my foggy brain. Business Law has a way of lulling me to sleep better than Ambien. My professor, well past retirement age, seems more interested in a power trip rather than teaching; he grades our assignments based on how many times we reference one of his old cases. Once I figured that out, it’s been smooth sailing, and retaining anything I learn from him hasn’t really been my priority.
Speaking of power trips, when I yank the door open, I’m met with the familiar dark blue of a crisp Tom Ford suit and those cold blue eyes I’m relieved I never inherited. My dad stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, until he gives me an unimpressed once-over.
“Sleeping away college? That’s one way to throw away your life,” he says.
My jaw twitches. “Wouldn’t know. You’re the expert at tossing things aside,” I retort, already fed up with his presence. This is the only place that feels like mine, and having him here feels wrong. He’s had four years to visit. I start to close the door, but he stops me.
My dad balances the box he’s holding on one hand while using the other to hold the door open. “Wait, I came here to apologize.”
“Hell of a start to an apology visit.”
He stares impassively. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Reluctantly, I gesture to the living room, and he steps inside, his eyes taking in the house with that hint of judgment he always carries.
“Where are your roommates?”
“Myfriendsare at practice, so it’s just me.” He hasn’t said anything about the letter they got from Dalton about my suspension. I wonder if my mom even told him. Either way, he’d be happy that I’m done withthat barbaric sport. Though he hated figure skating more.
He doesn’t sit on the couch—probably for the best—so we’re just standing in the living room, him in his suit and me in my boxers. I surpassed him in height a few years after puberty, and that small imbalance felt like a foreshadowing of the catalyst that altered our relationship. It serves as a physical reminder of how much I’ve outgrown him.
“I understand you felt blindsided by our previous call. We should have discussed it as a family first.”
