Page 21 of About to Fall

Margaux was going to play tennis. Ride horses. Swim. Do whatever made her happy. And nobody was going to look at her and see a legacy in the making.

I would make sure of it.

“Ah, you’re here. How are you, mon chou?”

My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway with a crêpe pan in one hand and the expression she’d been wearing for the last six weeks—the one that pretended to be casual maternal interest but was actually a full body scan for warning signs. Geneviève Fontaine was a beautiful woman in her late forties who shared her brother’s cheekbones and his sharp eye without any of his coldness. Warm where Renaud was measured. Expressive where he was contained.

“I’m fine, maman.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes, can I help with anything?”

“I’m almost done. Come sit and tell us about your week.”

I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the counter while she sliced strawberries. My father was already at the coffeemaker, pouring me a cup without asking—fixing it exactly like I liked it, adding one packet of sweetener and a splash of almond milk. The small acts of love that Dominic Fontaine specialized in, the kind that didn’t require words or grand gestures, just the actions of a man who paid attention.

“How was your first week back?” he asked, setting the mug in front of me.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” my mother echoed.

“It’s a work in progress. A little rusty on the ice but that's expected. Just need to work on my conditioning.”

“I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard. How are you sleeping?”

“Much better. The new medication is helping.”

That part was mostly true. I was sleeping. Not well, but more than before. Dr. Priya had adjusted my dosage and the nighttime panic attacks had thinned out from nightly to a few times a week, which counted as progress even if it didn't feel like it.

“And you're eating enough? You look thin.”

“Maman, I always look thin after time off. The muscle comes back fast.”

“And how about that new skater your uncle took on?” she asked, eyes still on the strawberries. “Have you run into him yet?”

Of course Renaud would tell them about Adrian but not me.

“Yes, Adrian Zhao was there my first day back,” I said, keeping my voice easy and unbothered. “A group of us actually hung out last night. Sabrina organized a night out—nothing crazy, just a few people from the program.”

I didn't mention the club or the volume of alcohol consumed or the fact that I'd driven Adrian home because he was too drunk to remember his own address. I didn't mention carrying him up three flights of stairs or unlacing his boots while he slept on my couch. And I certainly didn't mention the word beautiful said in a voice that had kept me awake long after he'd passed out.

Relief softened their faces. Their son going out with friends. Their son doing normal things.

My father set down his coffee. “And you have what you need? Your uncle isn’t stretching himself too thin? Spreading his attention?”

That was the real concern underneath it. I hated this walking on eggshells like I was too fragile to deal with any stress. They’d stopped asking about scores and started asking about sleep.

“I’m getting what I need, papa.”

My parents exchanged a look that probably communicated volumes to each other but they didn’t voice it out loud.

The truth was messier. My uncle had made a decision about my future while I was in a treatment facility. I had come home expecting to resume my place as his champion and instead I’d found Adrian Zhao warming up on my ice like he belonged there.

The truth was that it hurt. But it wasn’t a hurt I could explain at this table without unspooling everything else and I’d worked too hard to keep that contained.

My mother held my gaze for a moment. The knife set aside on the cutting board.