Page 90 of About to Fall

“I'm trying,” I said. “He makes me feel like it's okay to ask for things. That's new for me.”

“Good, because you deserve the world, Nico.” She kissed my cheek, waved at Adrian over my shoulder, and disappeared down the hallway.

I closed the door and leaned against it. Adrian was sprawled across my living room floor surrounded by empty plates and an empty bottle of vodka, pink hair fanned against the carpet, looking up at me with that expression—soft, open, warm.

“Your best friend is awesome and a teeny bit scary,” he said.

“Yeah, she’s the best.”

I crossed the room and dropped down beside him, pressing my face into his neck. His arms came around me, automatic, like breathing.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“For what?”

“For being you. For letting her in. For—” I waved a hand at the scattered plates, the empty glasses, the mess of an evening that had somehow become one of the best nights I'd had in months. “All of it.”

“Nicky.” He tilted my chin up. “This is the easy part.”

He kissed me—slow, tasting like vodka and sorbet—and I melted into him the way I always did when we were alone. His hands slid under my shirt, warm against my back, and the ease of it, the rightness, still caught me off guard every time.

My oldest friend and my boyfriend. In the same room. In my life. Both of them real, both of them staying.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn't pretending to be happy.

I was just happy.

38. Adrian

I debated letting it ring. Blame it on bad reception, a dead phone, whatever. But my parents still paid my coaching bill and ignoring Umma's calls had a way of generating consequences that were more annoying than the actual conversation. My sponsorships covered rent, food, and the occasional dumb purchase. But skating at this level—coaching, choreography, ice time, physio, flying halfway across the world to compete—that tab was still on the Zhao family credit card.

I reluctantly answered.

“Hello, Umma.”

“Hello, Adrian. How are you, darling?” Warm. Polished. The same voice she used on donors and dinner guests. I'd stopped trying to figure out if it was real a long time ago.

“I’m fine. Busy. Olympic trials are coming up.”

“Oh, that’s right. When is that again?”

“January. In Ottawa.”

“Ottawa?” She said it like I’d announced I was competing in a parking lot. “In January?”

“That’s where Canadian Nationals are held.”

“Darling, Ottawa in January is barbaric. All that snow and wind. Couldn’t they hold it somewhere civilized? Vancouver, at least?”

“It’s not really up to me, Umma.”

“Well.” A sigh. “Bàba and I will be in Thailand in January—you know how the cold disagrees with him—but we’ll be cheering you on from afar. I’ll have my assistant set a reminder so we can watch. It’s televised, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Umma. It’s televised.”

“Wonderful. I’ll make sure to tune in.” Now that this part of the performance was over, she went directly to the real reason she called. “I was actually calling about Christmas.”

“What about it?”