Page 52 of Hate You Most

For a split second, panic flooded her body, and then her memory caught up with her. She wasn't at the hospital, it was too quiet for that.

It took her a moment to fully realize she was at Dakota's apartment, and that she'd slept the full night in her bed. No, she wasn't in Dakota's apartment, she was in their apartment that they shared. Even the thought of it still felt foreign in her mind.

Viktoriya exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of her hand into the mattress to ground herself. She was alone, and it was quiet.

She sat up carefully, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and waited again, letting her body decide whether it would cooperate.

The bedroom was quiet, almost too impersonal. There was no personal clutter and no photos. It felt like a hotel room painted to be a home. The only sign that someone actually lived here was a folded sweater draped over a chair in the corner for the room—Dakota's, she'd guessed, judging by the black color. The sight of it stirred something in her chest she didn't have a name for.

She stood and crossed to the windows, bare feet against the cold floor. Detroit stretched out beneath her. Viktoriya rested her forehead briefly against the glass.

Eight years of her life were missing. She shouldn't have gotten in the car that night. Whatever reason she had wasn't good enough for her to have ended up like this. She pushed the thought away and turned toward the door. Her stomach twisted and reminded her that her body still had needs even if her mind was unraveling.

Viktoriya made her way across the hallway to the other end. She stopped outside the door to the guest bedroom and listened. Nothing. No movement whatsoever. Dakota had probably gone to work, she couldn't be expected to take care of her the entire time it took her to get back to normal. For reasons she didn't fully understand, that disappointed her.

She went downstairs and found that the entire floor had its curtains drawn, which made it just slightly more bearable to exist.

Dakota stood at the kitchen counter with her back toward her, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail with loose strands. She wore the same low cut jeans as the day before, and a faded T-shirt.

Viktoriya stopped dead in her tracks and took a moment before she cleared her throat softly.

Dakota turned immediately. Her face lit up at the sight of Viktoriya and that still had no effect on her. She should've felt something, should have been able to remember by now.

“Hey,” Dakota said. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Viktoriya echoed, her voice rough.

Dakota studied her as she moved toward the stairs, “How's your head?”

“Still attached,” Viktoriya said. “Hurts less than yesterday.”

Dakota smiled, just a little. “I'll take that as a win.” She walked back, took a coffee cup, and slid it across the counter. “Coffee. One sugar, splash of milk. Let me know if it's wrong.”

Viktoriya brushed her fingers against the ceramic. She knew before tasting it that Dakota had gotten it right.

“It's right,” she said, and caught herself staring at her rival from across the kitchen counter. “It's exactly right.”

Dakota's shoulders relaxed, as if she'd been bracing for something. “I made eggs, too,” she added. “And toast. Nothing fancy.”

Viktoriya smiled quickly. “I'm sure it's good.”

They ate in near silence, sitting across from each other at the large kitchen table. Dakota seemed determined not to crowd her with any information that could spike her heartrate or agitate her in any way. Which meant they only had one topic they could still talk about: skating. But talking about skating was only reminding her of not being able to, and then of not being able to do anything. She couldn't even walk up or down the stairs too fast without the room spinning.

“The doctors want you to take it easy,” Dakota said between bites of her buttered toast. “Don't push yourself, you're not cleared to do any exercise yet. Also, don't try and force your memory, it will only set you back.”

Viktoriya hummed noncommittally. She hated being told what to do, but she didn’t have the energy to argue.

She watched Dakota as she spoke—the way her hands moved when she talked, the way she checked Viktoriya's plate without making it obvious, as if making sure she was eating enough.

She took another bite of her toast, even though the mere sight of any food made her stomach cramp.

“Do you work today?” Viktoriya asked.

Dakota shook her head. “I took some time off, so I'll be around.”

“Oh,” Viktoriya said. The word slipped out before she could decide how she felt about it.

Dakota caught it. “Unless you'd rather be alone,” she added quickly. “I can⁠—”