Page 92 of On the Edge

On my phone, I look over Marco’s post one more time. He wants to be one thousand percent sure I’m happy with the wording before it goes live. A public declaration of our “breakup” with assurances that we parted ways amicably. A dissolution of our fake relationship. Given that everything real in my life has also dissolved recently, this feels more than a little ironic—like a fake final nail in a real coffin. My old life is gone, and I’m still trying to figure out what my new life will look like.

It won’t involve Nate, obviously, since he’s still MIA. Or not actually missing this time, just not missingmeapparently. And given that Annie called yesterday to tell me she’d heard a little rumor that I was back at Blackstone and no longer working as a physical therapist for the National Ski Team, my future no longer includes the possibility of working at Danforth either. She’d clearly heard about Nate and I being involved, even though thankfully she didn’t seem to know about the photos, because she said, “I hope this means that you and Nate are finally happy.”

Sometimes the ski world is cruelly and claustrophobically small.

Jackson:This looks fine.

Marco:Are you sure?

Jackson:I’m positive.

Marco:Are you sure YOU are okay?

Jackson:I will be, eventually.

Marco:If you want me to kill him next time I see him, I’m willing. I might even be able to make it look like an accident.

I do smile at that. It might be the first smile I’ve had in the week and a half since I arrived back at my parents’ place. Even on Christmas, I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate—I was a miserable guest, but my parents gave me a lot of leeway, knowing how heartbroken I was. How heartbroken I still am.

Jackson:Don’t do anything stupid. Just kick his ass on the slopes. That’ll be enough.

Marco:Okay, Bella. If you need anything, let me know. Christian and I are always here for you.

Jackson:I know. And I love you for it.

Marco:??

I head out the door of my bedroom, planning to find my mom and see if she wants me to make her some tea or get her some food. She’s been so weak since I’ve been back and it’s been emotionally draining to watch her frail form hobbling around the condo. It’s like reliving the worst memories of my childhood, when she was fighting breast cancer the first time and the chemo almost killed her. But she was twenty years younger then, and wasn’t on her second recurrence of cancer. I feel selfish even thinking this way, but I justcannotlose her now. Not after Nate, and Ms. Juarez.

But as if she’d anticipated my plans, she’s sitting on the couch wrapped in a faux fur blanket with a mug of tea in her hands. She nods toward the mug on the coffee table, which I assume is for me. It’s still steaming.

“I was just about to call you out here,” she says. “It’s like you read my mind.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask as I take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, facing her.

Her white-gray hair is up in a ponytail, but the craters beneath her eyes don’t look as hollow as yesterday and she’s got a little of her color back. “A little stronger today. It’s always the worst a few days after the treatment. I’ll be fine in a couple more days.”

I let my eyes sweep across the living room, admiring how my mom has remodeled the place. It’s been a slow process of small updates here and there since my dad retired, and this is the first time I’ve been here since my mom decided everything was finally finished. Her interior design eye is still strong even though she only dabbles with work lately. The place looks like something out of a magazine, and it’s kind of a shame that they live here full time because I bet they could rent it out during the winter and make a killing.

I tell my mom as much, and she just shakes her head slowly. “But then we wouldn’t be here enjoying it, would we?”

“I guess not. So where’s Dad today?”

“At the mountain,” she says, reaching over and setting her mug on the marble coaster next to mine.

“Does he normally go to the mountain every single day?” This week between Christmas and New Year’s is one of the busiest of the year, so I’m not sure if this is his normal routine or he’s there more right now because it’s so busy. Or if he’stherebecause I’mhere.

“He goes most days. But if what you’re really asking is if he’s there to avoid you, then the answer to that is also yes.”

“I know,” I admit, biting my bottom lip. Dad and I have always been so close. Our bond formed in our shared love of skiing and grew even deeper when I started racing on the World Cup circuit because he was the one who moved to Europe with me, while Mom stayed home with Beau because he was just starting high school. But this last week and a half has really put a wedge in our father-daughter relationship, and I don’t know how we’ll ever come back from it.

Mom hugs her knees to her chest, her petite size making her seem almost childlike. “He doesn’t understand how you’ve managed to lose everything you worked so hard for.” She leaves off the “again,” but I feel it hanging there at the end of her sentence just the same.

“Me either, Mom. I guess I never should have let Nate back into my life.” I was brutally honest with my parents about what had happened with Nate—if photos are going to surface at some point, I wanted them to prepare them that the possibility exists. They were understandably frustrated that I’d lied to them about my relationship with Marco, but surprisingly understanding about what had happened with Nate. Or at least, I thought they were at the time. But Dad’s been mostly avoiding me since. I’m not sure if it’s because I got back together with Nate in the first place, or because he’s disappointed in how I allowed myself to blur personal and professional lines. Probably both.

“Are you sure that letting him back in is where you went wrong with all this?”

I just stare at her, narrowing my eyes as I try to work out what she’s saying. Or not saying. At this point I’m not even sure what we’re talking about anymore.

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