Chapter Twenty-Seven

brYAN

THANKSGIVING

LAKE PLACID, NEW YORK

“ Y ou're coming, right?” Alex is asking me over the phone.

“For the hundredth time, yes . Unless I break something in the next hour we have left of practice, or if Ollie crashes the car after we leave his place, I will be there eating turkey and trying not to kill myself.” Seriously, if I thought practicing quads was bad, a Young family Thanksgiving is a whole other circle of hell.

“You should bring Katya, really make it a party.”

“I would pay to see her and Dad in a room together.”

“No need to pay, Bry, just show up and bring her along with you.”

Okay, this is probably the worst idea in the world, but there’s no harm in asking, right? Especially since I’m sure she has better things to do with her holiday than spend even more time with me. “Okay. Fine. But I get the sweet potatoes with the most marshmallows. And don’t eat all the pie before I get there!” I shout into the phone, but Alexandra’s already cackled in glee and hung up.

“What did Sasha want?”

I jump out of my skin at the sound of Katya directly behind me. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Now you know how it feels for me every day.” She nudges me. “So? Why are you so excited?”

“I don’t know if ‘excited’ is really the right word. It’s more of a, if I go down, you’re going down with me kind of thing.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh, really?”

I know exactly what I have to do. I crank out the puppy eyes. “ Pleeeaase ? Please will you come with me to my parents’ for Thanksgiving so I’m not the only one getting eviscerated?”

“Oh, so that’s what you two were doing, planning how you’d guilt me into dinner?”

I stick out my bottom lip even more, brows coming together pathetically, and Katya shrieks, covering her eyes.

“Enough! Fine, I’ll come! It’s not like I have anything better to do, I was just going to sit home with Lian and eat takeout. Your mother is a good cook at least, no?”

I snort. That’s exactly how I would word it. At least. “She makes the best damn pumpkin pie in the county.”

“Is it better than her red velvet cake?”

Hmm. That’s a conundrum the likes of which I’ve never encountered. I tilt my head to the side in thought, tapping my chin. “Hm. I don’t think it’s fair to compare them, because we only get the pie once a year, but they’re both spectacular.”

Katya rolls her eyes. “Sold.”

T he dining room hasn’t been this full of people in ages, with this many people laughing and talking.

Alexandra will have friends over every now and then, but my parents never come in, and I usually stick to the living room so they don’t get annoyed. Sofi and Eleni love to make fun of me, and Emma had a massive crush on me last time I checked, so I steer clear of all of them unless they need something.

Now, though, I’m the one with someone over, and it’s not nearly as awkward as it could’ve been. Mom’s been fangirling over Katya for the last hour, and Katya’s been struggling to get used to how aggressive she can get when she’s trying to get people to eat more.

“This is insane,” Katya blurts to me, clutching at her stomach. Mom is busy carving the turkey while Dad watches wistfully—he hasn’t done it in years. He can’t reach high enough over.

“Told you, you should’ve worn stretchy pants.” I’d just grinned. “Welcome to American Thanksgiving. You’ve officially been broken in.”

I’m thinking to myself how impressive it is that we’ve made it—I check my watch—seventy-eight minutes without someone storming out of the room. Jinx.

Mom finishes carving and starts cutting her food into tiny little pieces the way she always does. “Katya, I hope Bryan hasn’t been giving you too much trouble. I know the difference in skill level must’ve been hard to get adjusted to at first.”

Katya nearly chokes on her water. “Um…” She flicks her eyes over to me, and I smile, not even bothering to hide from my face the familiar souring feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a trick question,” I tell her, and my mom just smiles, oblivious to the fact that my hand is clenched a little too tightly around my fork.

“Well, you’re not totally wrong,” Katya begins, and I can see her trying to figure out what to say. “It was very hard at first, but not because he couldn’t do all the jumps that I could. That was just a piece of it. We both had to learn a lot of new elements, and more importantly, how to work together well enough to get the job done.”

My dad actually looks almost approving.

“We’re grateful to you, Katya. Who knows what Bryan would’ve done if you hadn’t appeared at the perfect time.” He says it like he’s joking, at least, or I think so. Dad reaches over to clap me on the shoulder, which I can’t remember the last time he’s done. It’s so jarring, so gratifying, that I almost miss what comes next.

“We’ve known for a long time that I wasn’t going to have to worry about calling up my old professors at MIT when the time came, if you know what I mean.”

I freeze.

“Dad, come on,” Alexandra says quietly, and that’s how I know he wasn’t actually joking. If someone else has picked up on it, then I’m not crazy. I’m not just overreacting and overanalyzing everything he says.

Or maybe he was. I don’t think it even matters anymore.

I was never really that good in school. I could never sit still, for one, and teachers were never a fan of that; or of how I'd just check out if something didn't make sense to me. It didn't matter how hard I tried. “ Disruptive ” was the word they liked to use. And yeah, I guess I was, but I went undiagnosed for way too long because they just assumed it was because I was a boy with too much pent-up energy and not because I had an actual condition.

My dad, obviously, alum of one of the best schools in the world, didn’t like it too much when I came home with straight C’s and 1s or 2s in effort. He blamed it on the skating. That, and the fact that I was lazy. Not stupid—no kid of Robert Young could ever be stupid. Just too lazy to do anything about it.

“What?” he says, irritated, and I watch my sister flush.

And then it hits me.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want my mom and dad to tell me they’re proud of me. All I want is for them to shut up.

“You know what?” I say. I’m one hundred percent calm, and I think I might actually be smiling. “Dad? I know you don’t have it easy. But you need to back off.”

Dad puts his fork down, slowly looking up at me, the clear blue eyes he gave me staring straight into mine.

“I’m sorry?”

So much for being one hundred percent calm. I inhale, keeping my hands flat against my thighs to prevent them from bouncing. Katya slides her fingers between mine, giving them a squeeze where no one can see. It gives me a shot of relief in the middle of all the panic.

You can do it, Bryan, it says. I can do this.

“Maybe you don’t see how it affects me, Dad, but sometimes—a lot of the time—” I correct— “you say stuff, and it really hurts my feelings. It upsets me, and I never tell you, but I really should. So I am.”

I wipe my free hand against my jeans. Breathe . I can do this.

Dad’s face isn’t helping me feel better. His icy stare is currently giving Katya’s a run for its money.

“Bryan, you know I’m not your coaches or your friends. I won’t ever mince words to make you feel better about yourself. If you feel upset, it’s because you’ve given yourself a reason to be. Just accept reality already. It’s a waste of energy.” He takes a bite of potatoes, chewing coolly. “You’re twenty-one years old. It’s time to get a grip.”

The air’s vacated my lungs.

It’s almost impressive, really. How he says it so…chill. Like it doesn’t even faze him that these words come out of his mouth. God, he can’t even yell it at me—somehow that would be better. Maybe it would show that he actually cared.

My vision blurs, but I squeeze the hand Katya isn’t holding into a fist. I am not fucking crying at the dinner table. Katya’s here, for Christ’s sake, I’m not going to let her see just how much of a pussy I am that, not only am I letting him say all this, but that it still gets to me. It’s bad enough I let my asshole dad walk all over me because he can’t deal with his own shit, but she is not going to see just how much of a baby I am that he makes me cry.

He’s not wrong on that part. I’m twenty-one. I’m an adult. I can vote, serve in the military—I am not going to let my dad make me cry.

I let go of Katya’s hand.

“Uh huh,” I say, because I have to say something. Everyone’s staring at me. I’m tearing at my cuticles, trying not to look at Alexandra, who’s alternating between sending me don’t listen to him signals and staring down at her plate. I’m not upset that she isn’t sticking up for me. She already did her best. It really, really isn’t her job.

I’m not looking at Mom—there’s no point, she’s just acting like nothing’s happening, her specialty—and I’m definitely not looking at Katya. I can’t. I think I’ll combust if I see the familiar uncomfortable pitying look, the one that every one of my friends get whenever they’re stuck in a situation like this, coming from her. I can handle it from anyone but her.

“Excuse me,” I hear her say, even though I’m staring down at my lap, which has gone completely blurry.

Mom has a slightly frozen smile on her face. “Would you like some more mashed potatoes, honey?”

Katya clears her throat, not that it disguises the cold edge in her voice I know all too well. “No, thank you. I’d like to say something, though.”

“Don’t,” I say under my breath, still trying to get myself under control. Please don’t . My heart is beating at a million miles an hour.

There’s a reason I never let Alex fight my battles for me. It doesn’t work. It just doesn’t work. Not to mention the fact that, like I said, it’s my battle, not anyone else’s. I’m the one they aren’t proud of. I’m the one they'd rather see the back of.

I keep my eyes on the napkin in my lap, trying to relax as my lungs start working overtime, as my stomach starts twisting into knots.

Katya takes my hand back, lacing her fingers through mine.

“First, thank you for having me. I mean it, truly. Not just because the food was delicious, but because now I know that things are significantly worse for my partner here than he ever let me know.”

Mom drops the serving spoon with a clatter.

“Bryan has accepted reality, Mr. Young. So much so that he thinks it’s normal for his own parents to treat him the way you have treated him. The few times I’ve even made him speak about it, he has acted like he deserves it. Which he doesn’t, not by any stretch of the imagination. He is one of the best people I’ve ever gotten to know, and he clearly hasn’t become that way because of either of you. I would say he’s become so in spite of you.”

I’m not breathing. Holy. Shit.

“And maybe he is too good to hold a grudge. But that’s what he has me for.”

She looks directly at my father. He looks back. They’re locked in a staring contest of the steeliest, most frigid glares I’ve ever seen, and it doesn’t seem like either of them are letting up until my dad finally breaks eye contact, setting his napkin down on the table and turning his wheelchair away with a scoff.

“You two are perfect for each other,” is what he says before leaving, and even though he says it so nastily it would usually make me cringe, I just look over at the girl next to me in shock. Mom quickly gets up and busies herself, clearing the plates and disappearing into the kitchen.

“Did that just happen?” Alex asks quietly, eyes popped out of her head, and that’s when I start grinning.