Page 82 of Revolve
The word lands like a heavy blow that would have knocked me off the podium if Dylan hadn’t been holding me so tight.
Anchor.
It sinks deep, claws its way down into my chest, and gives an unforgiving twist. It was ours. A promise, something we clung to when everything else felt uneasy. But that’s not true. I don’t know if it ever was. Yet the word comes with the memory of each time it was said, and made me feel like I mattered enough that someone would hold me down, keep me steady, stay with me. Now it’s a taunt.
When I look away, I see Dylan glaring at Justin, who immediately looks away, probably realizing he wouldn’t stand a chance defying the six-foot-four hockey player who starts brawls.
After that, the awards ceremony is a blur because the pressure in my chest is unbearable. I drop the flowers on the bench, and Lidia doesn’t stop me when I pull off my skates and head for the door. I go straight for my car, before the rush of people crowds the exit.
“Sierra.” Dylan grips my elbow just as my fingers brush the door handle.
“I’m fine,” I say, sharper than I intend, forcing a breath through my tight chest.
He steps closer, my breath catching and quickening, falling in the silence between us. He’s close enough that I can smell him. Then his fingers trail across the bare skin of my back, dancing along the lace, igniting heat wherever they touch. He hooks a hand around the fabric at my neck, his grip firm before he tugs and it comes undone. The sudden rush of air fills my lungs, and I nearly slump forward against my car, finally breathing again.
“I just need some space,” I whisper.
I see the shake of his head in the reflection of my car window,that helpless, almost resigned movement that makes guilt coil tighter around me.
“You can cry, or scream, or break things if you need to. Whatever it is, you’ve got me to do it with. All of it,” he says.
I don’t move. I don’t think I could if I wanted to.
When I don’t speak, he drops his forehead to the back of my head so softly, I wonder if he’s even there. But when his voice rumbles low, warm against the cold bite of the night, goose bumps erupt on my skin.
“Don’t do this,” he whispers, the warmth of his breath stirring the stillness between us. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
His words hit me like a dull skate blade cutting too close to my throat.
Is this really who I’ve become? A person trapped inside their own mind, too high up in the tower to escape?
“I don’t do this. It was never like this before. Justin never let me—”
“I’m not him.”
“I know.” With that I pull the door handle and slip into the car, closing the door between us. As I drive away, I avoid looking at him in my rearview.
Dylan:I took a house poll, and we’ve reached the consensus that Dale Thunderman is, in fact, hot.
The text makes me smile. Dylan’s been sending me his random thoughts since last night, none of them having to do with the competition or my outburst. He also sends pictures of himself. I expected him to be angry or hurt—both would be valid. But he doesn’t make me feel guilty in any way; he’s treating me like he always does. As though I’m allowed to be the way that I am, and it won’t drive him away.
There’s still a pointy branch shoved into my sternum that followed me on the drive home after he practically begged me not to ice him out, but I appreciate the sentiment, even if I can’t get myself to give him anything other than a half-assed emoji response.
I didn’t let it sink in last night. I couldn’t. The only way I could move forward was by pushing the loss aside, so I’ve dodged it all day. When my alarm went off this morning, I headed straight to a Pilates class in West Hartford. After that, I drowned in pop-up quizzes for forensics and kinesiology, barely having time for lunch before it was time for the university ballet class.
I chose to do a kinesiology degree because it aligned best with skating, but in my final year, it doesn’t feel like it. On days when my schedule doesn’t line up, I pull up Sage Beaumont’s videos and follow her quick tutorials for moves that work on ice.
But today I decided to attend the class. I couldn’t go back to an empty dorm and ruminate on all the mistakes I made last night.
As I stretch before the class starts, the door opens. Justin Petrov steps through, wearing tights and a long T-shirt. He looks larger than I remember. Even bigger than he looked a few weeks ago. I noticed it at the performance too. But he still feels so familiar, someone I saw nearly every day for four years, that my hand twitches to wave. But I pull back, back to the girl I’ve become after him.
Justin slides into the spot next to me anyway, like he still belongs there. “Hey, ice queen.”
I want to tell him to stop calling me that, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. He would do that a lot, try to push my buttons until I burst, then tell me I was too reactive.
“Come on, you’re still not talking to me? You’re better than that, Sierra.”
The memories of his taunt make me tighten my fists. I breathe out, appearing unaffected. “Hi, Justin.”
