Page 2 of On the Line

“Yes.” The word is a low hiss. “I’ve taught you my ways and you’re going to have Josh eating out of your hand before the night is over.”

My smile spreads. “I mean, the man’s been gone for a week and a half, so there’s a good chance you’re right.”

Petra’s one of the few women I know who is as unabashedly driven by sex as most men. She’s also straightforward to a fault, strikingly beautiful, powerful in her own right, and intimidating as hell. If you’d told me years ago when I met her that we’d end up being incredibly close, I’d have laughed.

She intimidated the shit out of me when we first met. But love, marriage, and an adorable daughter have softened her hard edges just enough, without dulling the intense, passionate aspects of her personality.

“When are you going to tell Jackson and Sierra about this new job?” she asks.

“Probably tomorrow. I just want to talk to Josh first.”

Not knowing how Josh is going to feel about me going back to work is taking a bit of the shine off this victory, but I remind myself not to let that dull my joy in this moment.

“Lauren,” she says, and there’s a warning in her voice. “Do not back down. Don’t let him talk you out of this. Don’t let him convince you that you’re not a good wife or a good mom if you go back to work part-time. It’s only three days a week. Everything will be fine.”

I take a deep breath through my nose. “I know. And don’t worry, it’s going to be fine. He knows I need this. I really do believe that me going back to work is going to bring Josh and I closer, and I’m positive I can make him see it that way too.”

“Good. But if the conversation doesn’t go well, or if you need anything,” she says, “just call. I don’t care about the time difference.”

“Thanks, Petra. I really couldn’t have taken these steps without your encouragement.”

“You one hundred percent could have,” she says, her voice emphatic. “You’re a badass, and you’re doing the right thing taking this job.”

Her confidence in me is often the boost I need to believe in myself. “You’re right. This is the perfect job, at the perfect time. Things are going to be great.”

* * *

I toss the bottle of balsamic glaze into my cart on top of the flank steak and come around the end of that aisle into the produce section. Josh always eats like crap when he’s on the road and loves to come back to a good home-cooked meal. I hate cooking and don’t do it often, but tonight I’m making his favorite: seared flank steak stuffed with spinach, garlic, butter, and Parmesan, along with creamy mashed potatoes, and green beans sautéed with garlic and topped with a balsamic glaze.

I still haven’t heard from him, which is a little odd. Normally, he texts me when he gets on the road to head home. Maybe he lost his charger again, like on his last trip. Sometimes he’s a little scattered like that.

It’s a long drive from Washington, so I figure I still have time to get home and spend a little time with the girls, get the food prepped, put the girls to bed, and have dinner waiting when Josh walks in the door.

I’m pushing my cart through the produce section toward the front of the store when it happens—it feels like the floor drops out from under me, and I have the sensation of falling. The moment replays in my mind, so vividly that I’m forced to relive it.

The music is pumping, and the crowd is clapping in sync with the beat as I finish a sequence of artistic moves and then go through a series of backward crossovers to gather the speed that will take me into the most difficult jump in my routine: a triple axel.

I’ve landed it in competition before, but never on a national stage—this is going to make me a household name. That’s what I’m thinking about as I turn forward, push off the outside edge of my left skate, kick through with my right leg to get the height I need for the three and a half rotations of the jump, hug my arms to my body, and spin through the air on the perfect axis. And when the blade of my right skate hits the ice and I’m about to kick my left leg out behind me, I know I’ve executed a textbook perfect jump.

Then the ice is coming at me with alarming speed, and I don’t know what happens after that. Dozens of experts have analyzed the footage and no one can quite say why, instead of sticking that landing and clinching my first national championship, I end up on the ice, the side of my head connecting with the rink hard enough that I’m completely knocked out.

I come to a full stop in the middle of the aisle, relieved that the store is so empty. I’ve broken out in a full-body sweat, and I bend at the waist, resting my forehead on the bar of the grocery cart and taking a few deep breaths to get my bearings.

I don’t know what it means when I relive that moment like this. It’s only happened a few times since I recovered—and each time it has felt like a terrible omen.

That’s when Josh’s name lights up my phone screen.

“Hey.” I take a breath, ready to launch into the story of what just happened.

“Is this Lauren Emerson?”

The unfamiliar voice has me standing up, gripping the phone so hard I’m surprised I don’t bend it.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Ma’am,” he replies with a steady, deep voice, “this is Lieutenant George Marshall from the Blaine County Sheriff’s Office in Sun Valley, Idaho.”

I’m pretty sure my heart stops. Josh isn’t in Sun Valley, Idaho. He’s in eastern Washington. This has to be a mistake. Except, he’s calling from my husband’s cell phone.

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