Page 31 of Embrace

“I ran into Justin. He was being an asshole, as per usual, and it didn’t really help the panic attack I had on the ice.”

“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my gut twist. “On the ice? Damn it, I wish I was there. How about I study in the stands when you skate?”

“No.” It’s rough at first, but she clears her throat. “I just forgot to take my medication. Please don’t do that. Besides, I didn’t hurt myself. As embarrassing as it was, Donovan helped me.”

“Donovan? Like the hot, suspended hockey player that you yelled at, Donovan?”

“I can hear you smiling,” she mutters. “It was embarrassing, and I told him I’m not his responsibility.”

“So the guy helped you through a panic attack on the ice—a place he’s not allowed to be, by the way—and you basically told him to fuck off?”

“That is not what happened.”

“Sierra, I know you. I’m sure he was just being a good person. He wasn’t doing it for charity or anything.”

She only hums in acknowledgment. Then I hear the creak of our dorm door and the jingle of her keys.

“See you for dinner?” I say.

“Yes, please.” When we hang up, my stomach grumbles, already plotting the fresh eggs and overpriced avocados I know are sitting in Mom and Dad’s fridge. As much as I hate running back and forth between the dorm and home for forgotten assignments, it’s worth it for real food. Even if it means looking through the reused ice-cream containers only to find leftovers inside.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again, and I think it’s Sierra before I see the familiar number. My heart drops, all the way down to the basement of my ribs.

“Scarlett Hall?” the woman asks when I answer. Hearing my dad’s name tacked onto mine gives my body a strange jolt. “I’m calling regarding your visitation request for an inmate. It’s been scheduled.”

“It has?” My voice cracks on the last word.

“We have you down for the twentieth. You’ll need to review the visitor guidelines, but you’re cleared.”

For months I thought it was over, that the first voicemail was a fluke. But getting this call now makes the hope in my chest rise like it’s filled with helium.

“Okay.” I breathe. “Yes, thank you.”

The call clicks and the dial tone sounds, and for a second, I just sit there. Letting it settle. Letting my nerves twist with something that feels so close to relief. I’m barely able to contain my excitement when I hop down the stairs, the call replaying in my head.

And just like that, guilt edges in like static when I find my mom in the kitchen, her cardigan pulled tight around her and her hair still damp from her shower. My dad’s on the phone, talking about some NCAA rules.

A part of me wants to shout from the rooftops that I get to see Victor, but I keep my mouth shut. I haven’t told anyone about this. Not my parents, not Sierra, not anyone. I know what they’ll say, and I don’t want to be talked out of it. But mostly, I’m afraid of hurting my parents.

I don’t want my mom to think I’ve forgiven Victor, or for my dad to think I’m lacking something in my relationship with him.

“Hey,” I say casually, stepping past them to the fridge. “I’ll make breakfast.”

My mom blinks, surprised. “You’re here early and offering to cook? Did you hit your head?”

“Hey, now. Rosie’s a fantastic cook,” my dad interjects as he slides his phone into his pocket.

My mom chuckles. “She could give you the burnt remnants of a pan and you’d lick your fingers clean.”

“They’d be damn good too,” he says. “Go on, Rosie, make whatever you like.”

The smile on my face is flimsy, and I try hard not to think of the call. But my excitement seeps through as I move around the kitchen. I pull out eggs, onions, and tomatoes to make my dad’s favorite Filipino breakfast. My hands move on autopilot—scrambling,flipping, toasting—anything to stay busy, to smother the weight sitting between my ribs.

My dad turns on the radio, switching between college hockey news and some country music station. Both drag my mind to last night, namely Kian’s arms tight around me, the warmth of him bleeding through my jacket, his laugh low in my ear.

My dad watches me with curiosity from his seat across the kitchen island. I suppose the fact that I’ve been humming doesn’t help keep their gazes off me.

“Need something, Dad?” I say when I slide them both their scrambled eggs.