Chapter 68

Chapter 68

If there was one thing Heath and I were good at, it was putting on a show.

We pretended to be oblivious to the paparazzo’s presence, the same way we used to in the days when they followed us everywhere. We held hands. We laughed and smiled. I teasingly pushed Heath away, then let him pull me back in again and tangle his hands in my hair.

As the sun sunk past the horizon, we stared into each other’s eyes, and Heath canted his chin, moving closer and closer, until he was so close I was sure he would kiss me.

At the last second, he deflected to my cheek, his beard scraping along my jaw. I was relieved. I was disappointed. I was more confused than ever before.

“I think the guy’s gone,” he whispered in my ear. I was painfully aware of every point where our bodies touched, from his palm cradling the back of my head to my bare toes brushing against his as our feet sunk deeper in the sand. “Do you want to—”

“I think we should keep things professional,” I blurted out.

Heath pulled back. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry too.” I swallowed. “About Vancouver. But you know the problems between us didn’t start in Vancouver, our personal feelings have always been a distraction, and if we’re going to try this again—”

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “To try this again?”

“Do you? Bella said—”

“I don’t want to talk about Bella right now. This is about you and me, Katarina.”

“I understand it’s a long shot,” I said. “Us making it to Sochi, let alone winning.”

“You know I’ve never cared about medals as much as you and Bella do.”

“You’re still skating, though,” I said. “I have to admit, that surprised me.”

“Yeah?” Heath buried his hands in his pockets. “It surprised me too. Did Bella tell you I worked in a record shop in West Hollywood for a while?”

She hadn’t. “Let me guess: dealing with hipsters all day made you run screaming back into figure skating’s frigid embrace?”

“That might’ve been a factor. But mostly, I missed that feeling —of becoming part of the music, instead of just listening. There’s nothing quite like it, is there?”

I thought back to our practice session that afternoon, the effortless sensation of swirling across the ice in his arms. “No. There isn’t. And if we don’t do this, if we don’t at least try…”

Heath smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. “We’ll always wonder.”

Dusk had fallen, casting our faces in shadow. Heath looked so different from the boy he’d been—not only because of the beard, but also the lines creasing the corners of his eyes, cutting across his forehead. He would turn thirty in July; I’d follow him in October. Young by the standards of the real world but pushing obsolescence in our sport. As smoothly as our practice session had gone that afternoon, my knees and back ached, and I knew I would be hobbling like an old lady come morning.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked.

He nodded. “See you tomorrow, Katarina.”

—

Even after all our talk of keeping things professional and the distraction of personal feelings, when Heath dropped me off after our detour to the beach, it took tremendous restraint to resist inviting him inside.

My temporary home was an unassuming A-frame on one of the hilly, winding streets east of the beach. It had a security system and tall hedges—which, given my diminished public profile, I hoped would suffice, but getting papped on my first day back wasn’t the best omen.

The lightbulb beside the front door was burnt-out, and I fumbled in the dark for the keys. My foot hit something on the stoop.

Flowers. A dozen yellow roses in a ceramic vase.

I carried them inside and set them on the knockoff midcentury modern console table in the entryway. I had no idea who could have sent them; only Heath and Bella knew the address, and why would they have sent flowers here instead of giving them to me at the rink?

Finally, I located the card, tucked between the stems. As I pulled it out, a thorn nicked my fingertip, drawing blood. I stuck my finger in my mouth as I read the message.

Two words. No signature.

Welcome back.