Page 19 of About to Fall

Do not vomit in the taxi, Adrian.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window and breathed through my nose. The driver glanced at me again. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring look. He turned back to the road with the resignation of a man already calculating the cleaning fee.

I made it. Barely.

Paid with crumpled cash from my jacket pocket. Stumbled onto the sidewalk outside the rink. Stood there sucking cold air until my stomach downgraded from emergency to manageable.

The rink was closed. Obviously. The clock on the bank across the street said 6:20. I needed to get home, shower off the shame, and hopefully develop amnesia before Monday.

I started walking.

◆◆◆

The thing about being still drunk was that the memories kept surfacing in little bursts. Each one arriving with a jolt of mortification.

The way Nicky had watched me from the booth. Club soda in hand, glasses on, eyes following me across the dance floor while I ground against Sabrina like I had something to prove.

Sabrina had been oblivious. She was just there to dance and have fun, the way Sabrina approached most things in life. She knew I was gay. It didn’t occur to her that the guy pressing against her on the dance floor was using her as a prop in some stupid game she hadn’t signed up for, because why would it? Normal people didn’t do that.

But I’d been watching Nicky watch us. The tightening jaw. The white knuckled grip on his club soda. The way he’d suddenly become very interested in his phone. And some drunk, reckless part of me had leaned into Sabrina harder, whispered something stupid in her ear, let my hands settle lower on her hips—all to see what he’d do. To see if that golden composure would crack. To see if there was a real person in there with real reactions instead of the polite, measured, carefully calibrated responses he gave everyone.

I’d taken it too far. I knew that. The alcohol had turned a stupid impulse into a full performance and as the buzz began to wear off and the cold settled into my bones, I couldn’t even explain why I cared so much about getting a reaction out of him in the first place.

That was the part that nagged at me. I didn’t know why Nicky occupied so much of my headspace. Didn’t know why it pissed me off when people took advantage of his kindness when I was no better. Didn’t know why I’d spent an entire evening trying to get a rise out of him when I could have just had a good time and ignored him like a normal human being.

And despite my dickish behavior, he still helped me. The warmth of his body against mine on the stairs. His shoulder, steady and patient. Holding me up despite everything I’d done that night to make his life harder.

His face in the lamplight, looking down at me with something I didn’t expect. Something that didn’t match the careful composure he showed everyone else.

I needed to reset. Get back to normal. Focus on skating, focus on the season, stop playing games with a person who didn’t deserve to be played with.

I had an Olympic medal to chase. I didn’t have time for whatever this was.

I was going to show up on Monday. Act like nothing happened. Everything would be fine.

And I was almost drunk enough to believe it.

10. Nico

Adrian was already gone by the time I woke up.

The blanket was tossed over the back of the couch like he had flung it off in a panic. The water and ibuprofen were still there, untouched. His boots and jacket were gone.

The only evidence that Adrian Zhao had slept in my apartment was a faint impression on the couch cushion and the lingering trace of something sweet and herbal in the air.

I stood in my living room for a moment, taking in the scene.

Then I opened every window, which was irrational given that it was November, and started cleaning.

There was really nothing to tidy but I needed to do something to keep my mind occupied. I wiped down the coffee table, put the water glass in the dishwasher, and returned the coaster to its rightful home. Straightened the throw pillows and put a crease in the centre of each one. Punched the couch cushions back into shape with a little more force than necessary. Okay, part of that might have been because of last night.

Would he even remember last night?

Part of me hoped not. The drunk rambling, the way he'd looked up at me with those glassy eyes, the words that had tumbled out of him without any filter—it would be easier if he didn't remember. Easier to pretend it hadn't happened. Easier to go back to the familiar antagonism that didn't require me to feel anything complicated.

Part of me—a smaller, quieter part that I did not want to examine—would be disappointed.

He had left without saying anything. I didn’t even have his phone number to text him. Should I get it from Sabrina? Asking her for it felt too weird.