Chapter Thirty-Four

brYAN

O kay, before anyone yells at me, it wasn’t a lie.

My stomach actually was starting to feel like maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that hot dog, but the second I saw the frozen look on Katya’s face, I knew I was going to have to take a bullet to my pride because she’s stubborn enough to pretend she isn’t two seconds from throwing up.

Note to self: Katya doesn’t like heights. Or maybe just the drop scares her. Considering I lift her ten feet off the ice every day, you’d think I would’ve known this by now, but whatever. I’m willing to let my ego suffer a little bit, if it makes her feel any better.

I zip up my bag and let it drop onto the floor, trying to quit grinning like a psycho in the middle of the sidewalk where everyone’s been setting up.

Yasha. I mean, it’s better than mudak . I’ll take it.

God, am I in middle school again? Why am I so giddy over a girl giving me a nickname? She makes me stupid, I swear. She can’t complain about it anymore, because it’s definitely her fault that the original levels of stupidness have gotten to this level. I’ve actually gotten delusional to the point that the smallest thing will get me hyper like I’m off my meds, which I’m not.

I blow a breath out, popping the collar of my plain white shirt and slinging my guards onto my skates. We’re on in ten, and I’m supposed to be ready to go, but, as usual, I’m a little behind.

“Bryan!”

I turn around, looking for whoever just called my name, and my mouth drops open. My parents and sister are right there in front of me.

“What the hell?” I blurt, and my mother huffs.

“That’s how you greet your family?” she asks, but she removes her hand from my dad’s shoulder and walks over to envelop me in a hug. “Hi, honey.”

They’re here. They’re really here.

Alexandra immediately bounces over and leaps onto me, clapping me so hard on the back it could count as a Heimlich maneuver. “You better not fall, I had to sit in the car for five hours!”

Dad gives her a look. “You blasted Taylor Swift the entire time, I think you were perfectly happy.”

Alex rolls her eyes, and I finally get my head around the initial shock long enough to ask the question. “Wait, why are you guys here?”

Mom smiles eagerly, rubbing my arm in excitement. “We wanted to see our boy skate, of course!”

My dad almost cracks a smile, too. “It wasn’t that far, we only had to drive a few hours. And after all, even if it is just a show, this is probably one of the last times we’ll get to see you perform in front of such a big crowd.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

He frowns back. “This is your last season, right?”

What? I snort. “Dad, really? Come on. Who told you that?”

“I did,” Mom replies.

My stomach sinks to the floor.

“I mean…you never outright said it, but you’re twenty-one years old, Bryan. You’re an adult now, you don’t need skating anymore. None of us need it. You understand what we mean, don’t you?”

“Mom!” Alex cries in horror. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You don’t live at home anymore; I don’t need you occupied while I’m at work. You’re not going to college, of course, but you can always coach.” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. Why is she smiling? “There’s no need to drag it out any longer, honey. It’s—we haven’t liked to see you doing poorly these last few years. We’re glad you get to go out on a good note.”

Dad nods. “Katya is a very special girl to get you two this far.”

What are they saying? That I didn’t do any of the work? I’m numb. I can’t—I don’t. “I didn’t move out,” I say, my voice coming out impossibly normal.

“What do you mean, honey?”

“I didn’t move out,” I croak—oh, yeah, there it is—tears threatening to spill. “Moving out implies I had a choice. You fucking kicked me out.”

“What?” Mom says, looking so surprised it makes me want to die.

“Apologize to your mother,” Dad demands, but I just shake my head aggressively, my vision getting blurry.

“Both of you are insane. You didn’t give me a choice! ”

Dad has an unfamiliar look on his face, almost cracked down the middle, but then the anger slides back into place. “Enough,” he snarls. “That’s enough.”

I have to get the words out before my throat closes up for good. “No. I’ve had enough.” Breathe. In. Out . I can’t seem to breathe in and out. “What is wrong with you guys? Where do you get off?” Breathe! Damn it, breathe! They’re swimming in front of me. “Why do you never fucking stop, huh? Why did you do this? Why ?”

Mom looks like she’s trying to figure out a way she can pretend this never happened. Dad’s gone white. Like I’ve slapped him.

Alexandra tries to take my arm. “Bry—"

I move it away before she can touch me. “It’s fine . Alex, it’s fine, I don’t know why I was expecting anything different,” I say, staring at both of them for a second, before I finally turn around, trying not to run.

I run.

O nce I get to the bathroom, I slump on the floor with my back against the door, arms over my head and my head between my knees.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop doing this . I tear at my hair like it’ll tell me what to do. My chest is thumping like a goddamn bongo drum. Stop being so desperate. Stop it. Stop It. STOP IT! You don’t need to do this! I need to bang my head into a wall. Why am I so desperate? What am I even desperate for?

I need to get hit in the head. I need to be strung upside down and shaken out like a purse until all the shit falls out. Stop trying to prove yourself. You don’t need to do this. Or just get it over with, for god’s sake, just do it and get it done and you don’t need to do it anymore. You don’t need to do it. Just get it over with. Man up, Bryan. Man up! I keep gasping for air, but nothing’s getting in.

My phone vibrates, and I answer blindly. “Yeah?” I croak.

“Where are you? Katya’s freaking out, said you ran off. You’re on in ninety seconds, you need to—”

It slips out of my hands, clattering against the shiny bathroom tile, Juliet’s voice coming out muffled from the speaker. I bury my head back in my hands, one hand to my chest, trying to ease out the feeling that someone’s tightening a noose around my lungs. I force myself to raise my head, ruffling my hair furiously, trying to yank myself back to normal, letting out a hysterical laugh. God, I need to get it together—right now all I can do is go back out there.

It’s almost over. You’re almost done. Soon enough, it’ll all be over.

I can’t tell whether that makes me feel better or not.

W hen I finally make it downstairs, I have to run to the ice, and I make it just as they’re announcing us over the loudspeakers.

“There you are! I’m going to kill you! Where—” Katya stops, forehead creasing as she takes me in, which, if I look anything like how I feel, is not good. “Bryan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I start taking off my guards, handing them to Juliet, who looks like she’s trying not to ask me how I’m feeling too. She takes them and steps back to talk to Lian.

Katya’s not that easily convinced, and not for the first time, I wish she didn’t know me so goddamn well. “You’re clearly—"

“I said I’m fine,” I snap, and she narrows her eyes at me.

“Do not raise your voice at me. Whatever you’re feeling is not my fault.” But then she softens, reaching her hand out. “Yasha, you can tell me.”

I move away from her touch. It might actually make me combust. Everything in me is aching. “Katya, I can’t—the last thing I need is for you to yell at me right now. Let’s just skate, alright?”

She moves to stand in my way, blocking the entrance to the ice. “Not until you tell me.”

“I could pick you up and carry you out there, you know.”

“You can try.”

Something about the look on her face tells me neither of us will be going anywhere unless I spill, so I do.

“It’s my parents, as usual. They…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “They think this is my last season.”

I don’t even have to explain further, because a look of understanding washes over my partner’s face. “Bryan, I’m sorry.”

“They think the only reason I got this far is because of you.”

Katya creases her brows. “I—"

The nausea stirs again, and I cut her off. “Just—I mean, they’re not wrong, you’re incredible, and I wouldn’t be standing here if you weren’t. But like…it’s like they don’t care how hard I work, nothing is good enough, and I’m so sick of them erasing it like that.”

She’s looking at me strangely.

“What?” I ask, not even bothering to dread whatever she’s about to say. It can’t get worse at this point. She might as well hurt my feelings.

“I was just going to say that they’re wrong,” Katya says, reaching for my hand. “I wouldn’t be standing here without you either.”

I stare at her, but before I can even open my mouth to process what she just said, they urge us to get out there, so Katya pulls me out onto the ice. She’s smiling and waving to the audience, and I remember what I’m doing, so I smile and wave too, like I didn’t just have a mental breakdown a minute ago.

That’s just how performing is. The second you step onto the ice, everything else has to disappear. That, or you can use it. Use what you’re feeling, instead of letting it choke you.

These last few years, I’ve been forgetting that.

“And now, for our next skaters; the newest addition to Team USA, two-time Prix medalists in their first season. We’re lucky enough to have them here tonight, and wish them the best of luck for the rest of their upcoming competitions. Skating to ‘What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve,’ please give a warm welcome to Ekaterina Andreyeva and Bryan Young!”

We reach center ice, and the cheering dies down. Katya and I lock eyes.

She nods once, almost imperceptibly. And just like that, I can breathe freely again.

“ W hoever invented alcoholic hot chocolate needs to get a million dollars,” I declare, plunking an emptied Peppermint Patty down on the table we’re standing around amid the bustle of the post-exhibition New Year’s Eve party in the event space by the restaurant.

The place is hoppin,’ and I’ve already pulled my tie off despite Katya’s pleas not to. New York at New Year’s is something else entirely—everyone’s buzzing, glitter’s on the floor, energy’s in the air, from excitement and adrenaline and post-skate rush. I heard someone say that we’re actually close enough to Times Square that we might be able to hear the ball drop.

Katya snorts into her mug. “And whoever let you have another one needs to get fired.”

“Excuse me, sunshine, but I can absolutely handle my liquor.”

“Mm, what is it they call you? A hamster?”

“Shut up!”

Katya lets out a little laugh. “You have whipped cream on your face.”

“Where?”

She just rolls her eyes, leaning forward and swiping at my nose.

“Thanks.” I glance back, and she's got a weird face. “What?”

“Before,” she says, hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

I stop, furrowing my brows and looking up at her. She’s got one arm crossed across her chest, clutching her elbow. She looks nervous. Does she think I’m mad at her? Or, actually, does she not want me to be mad at her? Does she…care?

“I know,” I say, slowly, trying to sort through my suddenly very mushy thoughts. “That wasn’t why I was upset. I was just overwhelmed. It was a lot.”

I don’t miss the split second wash of relief on her face before she clears her throat. “Right. Okay. Good.”

…Holy shit.

My pocket starts vibrating. “Uh, sorry, hold on, someone’s calling me.” I don’t even look at the caller ID before picking up, turning around as Katya floats off into the crowd. “ Hello ?” I yell into the speaker. “Bryan can’t come to the phone right now. How can I assist you?”

“Settle down, kid. They’d think you’re getting cocky.”

And just like that, I’m sober. “Dad.”

I’m expecting a snarky comment, like, nice to hear from you too, son. Not this time, though.

“Yes,” he says. That’s all.

I stand there with my phone to my ear, a party raging around me, my father on the other end of the line, struck utterly dumb.

This is insane. We’re two full grown men, and we’re here in total silence waiting for the other person to talk first, which is a pipe dream considering I’m sure as hell not going to volunteer, and, having spent the last decade and a half having painful conversations with this man, neither is he.

I’m not going to volunteer. Damn it. Of course I am. “Why are you—”

“Listen, I—”

Cue more awkward silence, and I rub a hand down my face, forcing a laugh. “Look, you’re the one who called, alright?” I try to say it like it isn’t making me miserable.

Dad clears his throat, and I can picture him taking off his glasses and putting them back on. “I know.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. This whole situation is making my beer-addled brain feel like it’s wringing itself out like a towel rag. I’m barely able to deal with him when I’m not inebriated and we aren’t already fresh off a blowout. What am I supposed to do? Unluckily for me, there’s no manual on how to talk to Robert Young. No, How To Resolve Your Daddy Issues (For Dummies)!

Luckily, as I’m standing there trying to calculate the chances of me saying something less stupid than why do you hate me so much, Dad , he speaks first.

“What time are you coming home?”

Home . My god. Usually the sheer idea of my dad asking me this question, or really anything a normal dad would ask his son, would piss me off so bad I’d be seeing red, and maybe it’s the alcohol, but suddenly I want to cry.

Not just because I have to get him to clarify whether he means the house or just Lake Placid. But because it’s all just so unfair .

Why couldn’t we just be normal? Why couldn’t he be normal? Why couldn’t he have gotten someone else to do that damn survey of the site, or hired a construction company with slightly less faulty heavy machinery? Why couldn’t he have dealt with it better? Why couldn’t I be the kid out partying, with his dad calling and wanting him home?

Then I remember I have to answer. “Tomorrow morning,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray any of what I was just thinking. “Are you guys back yet?” He called. Why did he call?

“Just about. We’re stopped for gas in Keene.” A pause. “I wish I could’ve watched you.”

He says it like he didn’t mean to say it. Like he didn’t mean to let it slip out. He says it almost wistfully, and I swear to god, I have to smear a hand over my mouth to make sure I don’t let out the sound that threatens to rip out of me.

“Me too,” I choke. “Me too, Dad.” And then the question comes out before I can stop it. “Look, I—I know you hate flying, but do you want to come to Nationals? To watch us?”

Fuck. Why did I ask, why did I ask, why did I expect —

Silence, for a second, and I think I’ve lost him, but then his voice crackles through the line. “Yeah, Bry. I’ll come.”