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And even without him near, I swear I feel his anger and pain just the same, as if it’s my own. Like always.
Good, I think. He deserves to be angry. To hate me. And I deserve to be hated.
Only telling myself that doesn’t make the sharper pain in my abdomen less.
• • •
I barely remember Friday night dinner. No words left my mouth the entire five hours, and it was as if my dad and Carson both didn’t notice.
If I had stabbed myself with the steak knife instead of slicing into the filet mignon, how long would I have bled before they noticed?
• • •
The rink is icy cold, but I can barely feel it. Sitting on the bench and swiping my thumb and index fingers over the blade, gathering moisture and bits of ice, until they’re clean and gleaming, I avoid the long stare from my partner today.
Learn to Skate is somehow over. For a moment, the hazy fog clears and a well of sadness pulls tight on my throat.
I don’t remember anything.
Toren didn’t even come. I could feel Liam’s disappointment as much as my own. Maybe Toren knew I’d try to talk to him, and he didn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll quit entirely.
But the kids love him more. So, maybe I should quit, and he’ll come back and make them happier.
“Do you need a ride back?” Holden asks, standing with his bag on his shoulder.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Thanks for helping today.”
He smiles in that same happy Holden way of his. “No problem. The little nuggets were kinda fun.”
We walk out together slowly.
A sleek black car rolls into the parking lot too fast, brakes skidding as Carson parks over the line and hops out.
“I’ve got a meeting in twenty,” Carson says impatiently as I step out into the cold air, barely coming up to the arena doors. “Can you hurry up? I’m dropping you at the house.”
“I’m supposed to go to the studio today.”
“Not tonight,” he huffs, then beneath his breath adds, “It’s like fucking babysitting a child.”
My eyes water, but only at the familiar ache of feeling naive. Childish.
“It’s not.” I try to defend myself, crossing my arms. “I have an entire portfolio to complete before the end of the semester.” Every word feels somehow more pathetic, and with each one my want to say something, to defend myself, starts to fizzle out into nothing. Exhaustion. A familiar black pit. “My art professor believes my collection is—”
“Lillian,” Carson snaps, and I swear his voice overlaps with my father’s from somewhere darker inside of my mind. “Enough—”
And then, I can’t see him. Only the massive expanse of Holden’s back, muscles shifting as he stands and crosses his arms in front of me.
“How about you go back to sucking off LaBlanc and I take Lily home tonight?”
Carson scoffs, pulling his long peacoat tight around his middle, tucking gloved hands into his pockets. “Fucking asshole.”
Holden shrugs. “Since no one else will say it to you, you’re a pathetic, limp-dick nobody with nothing but daddy’s money to get by on. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as Lily, let alone be with her. Now get out of here.”
“She’s my fiancée—”
“She’ll marry you over my dead body.” Holden’s voice is darker than I’ve ever heard it.
“I’m not scared of you,” Carson says, but he sounds scared.
