Page 23 of About to Fall

“Food’s almost ready,” my mother announced. “Please go wash your hands, ma poulette.”

I helped my mother plate the crêpes, spooning on strawberries and drizzling on Nutella for Margaux. Refilled coffee mugs and juice glasses. Sat down and was the son and brother they needed me to be for the next hour—smiling, eating, listening to Margaux’s stories, complimenting my mother’s cooking, discussing my father’s work.

Margaux and I read together in her bedroom until she drifted off and I quietly tiptoed out of her bedroom.

When I left, my mother hugged me tightly. “Take care of yourself, mon chou. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will. I love you, maman.”

“I love you too. So much.”

I sat in the car for a minute before starting the engine.

From the outside, I looked like I had everything. The family, the title, the trajectory, people who loved me with their whole hearts. And still I wanted more.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Adrian telling me I was beautiful.

Which was insane. A man who spent half his waking hours finding new ways to get under my skin had said something embarrassing while drunk on my couch. Why did I even care what he thought? I had a recovery plan, therapy appointments, an Olympic season to salvage.

What was wrong with me?

I started the engine and pulled out before I could examine that too closely.

11. Adrian

My phone rang at 11:30 at night, which meant it was 5:30 in the morning in Saas-Fee, which meant Bash was either about to hit the glacier or hadn't slept yet. With Bash, it could go either way.

I answered from Cam's couch, where I had been lying in the dark trying not to think about Nicky for the last two hours. I had passed out after my shower and woke up painfully hungover. I hadn’t puked so that was a win.

Bash's face filled the screen—sun lightened hair shoved under a beanie, goggle tan already deepening across his cheekbones, the particular weathered glow of someone who had been living at altitude for a month. Behind him I could see the bland interior of what looked like a team apartment. He was eating something out of a bowl with his fingers.

“Bro.” He squinted at me through the screen. “You look like shit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Seriously. Are you sick?”

“Hungover.”

“On a Saturday night? In Toronto?” If anyone was a Vancouver elitist, it was Bash. Unless he was heading to a mountain, he never left the metro area. “What could you possibly have gotten into in Toronto?”

“Whisky.”

“How much whisky?”

“Enough for this lifetime and maybe the next.”

He pointed at me with whatever he was eating—looked like cereal, which tracked for Bash at any hour. “Lightweight. Who were you trying to keep up with?”

“A tiny Irish-Russian figure skater named Sabrina.”

“And you lost.”

“Spectacularly.”

He laughed—the loud, warm Bash laugh I’d been hearing since we were teens. The one that still had the ability to make whatever I was stressed about feel slightly less permanent. “That’s what you get, man. I’d pay good money to see a tiny figure skater drink you under the table.”

“Come to Toronto. We’ll all go drinking and see who needs their stomach pumped first.”