Page 63 of About to Fall

“Let’s eat and you can tell me all about it.”

I plated the sea bass and brought everything to the coffee table because Kat preferred eating on the couch after a long day of dancing. She made appreciative sounds at the food—light, protein forward, exactly the kind of meal we both defaulted to during performance season.

“So good,” she said around a bite. “You should quit skating and become my personal chef.”

“I'll consider it.”

Listening to her talk about rehearsals—the politics of the company, the ongoing war between the artistic director and the board, the specific drama of this year's Nutcracker casting—I found myself wondering what it would have been like. If I'd stayed in ballet. If I'd made a different choice at twelve when Renaud had demanded I focus on dancing or skating.

Would I be happier? Less broken? Or just broken in different ways, with different scars?

Impossible to know. I'd made my bed and now I had to lie in it.

“—anyway.” Kat set down her plate on the coffee table and fixed those pale eyes on me. “Enough about my suffering. How was Osaka?”

I'd been waiting for the question. Dreading it.

“Not my best,” I said. “I messed up on my quad Salchow during the short program and it fucked with my head. Fourth place.”

“I'm sorry, babe. That sucks. What does that mean for your season?”

“I'm still in contention but…”

“But what?” She picked up her cocktail and watched me over the rim.

“But I'm not sure I'm in the right headspace this season. And I have to be. It's the Olympics, Kat. And I'm fucking it all up.”

I couldn't seem to speak past the lump in my throat. I took a long sip of my own drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.

“Nico.” The single word carried an impressive amount of concern. “You made a single error. It's not the end of the world. Is your uncle giving you a hard time?” The way she said your uncle could have curdled milk. Kat had never bothered to hide her feelings about Renaud—she thought he was a controlling narcissist who treated me like an investment rather than a person and she'd told me so roughly once a month since we were fifteen. “Let me guess. The great Jean-Pierre Renaud had some inspiring words about focus and dedication while conveniently ignoring the fact that he's the reason you—”

“I slept with Adrian.”

Kat went still, cocktail suspended halfway to her lips. She blinked once. Twice.

“I’m sorry, I must be losing my hearing.” She shook her head. “No, wait. I'm losing my mind.”

“Don't make me say it again.”

“You slept with Adrian. As in Adrian Zhao. Cotton candy hair, too many piercings, looks at you like he wants to either fight you or fuck you Adrian Zhao.”

It wasn't a question but I nodded anyway.

“Holy shit.” She tucked her legs underneath her and turned to face me fully, cocktail forgotten. “How did that happen? Last I heard you couldn't stand him. You called him—what was it—aggressively exhausting.”

“He is aggressively exhausting.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” I parroted.

“Well?” She gestured impatiently. “How did that happen?”

“You see, when two people are attracted to each—”

“Skip to the spicy parts.”

“Don't be crude.”