Page 55 of Wish You Were Mine
I smiled again, bracing myself.
“But that second pass…little rough on the landing.”
And there it was.
I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek. “Yeah…”
“But hey,” he added, in that way he always did when he tried to soften a critique with encouragement, “it’s the first home meet. You’ve got time to clean it up before nationals. I really think this could be your year.”
The pressure hit like a wave.
Because while I loved this sport—loved performing, loved flying through the air, chasing the perfect routine—sometimes it was hard to always love something that constantly demanded perfection.
Owen must’ve picked up on the shift in my expression because his voice cut through the noise, quiet and curious, “You’ve been to the national championship before? That’s amazing.”
I glanced over at him. His eyes were steady on mine, his tone sincere.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Last year.”
“She made it all the way to the finals,” my dad added, his armtightening across my shoulders. “Probably could’ve won the whole thing, but she missed her hand on the high bar transition and had to add an extra swing. Ended up placing fourth in the all-around.”
I heard it—the subtle note of disappointment in my dad’s voice—and felt that familiar pinch in my chest. Archibalds were winners. That was the unspoken rule. Fourth place didn’t exactly qualify.
Most people would’ve been thrilled with how far I’d gone. I knew that. But in his eyes, afterbarelymissing out on the Olympic team when I was sixteen, it wasn’t enough.
But the truth was…the fact that I’d even competed at nationals last year at all had been kind of a miracle.
No one knew that, though. Not the judges. Not my teammates. Not even my parents.
Because two weeks before the championship, I’d ended up in the hospital.
Bruised ribs. From a bad dismount—at least that was what I’d told the doctor when they’d taken my x-ray.
Only…it wasn’t a hard landing on the bars that had nearly cracked my ribs. The damage had come from a fight.
With Josh.
Just thinking about it made me flinch inwardly, like my body was still bracing for impact. I hated that memory. Hated that I’d ever been in that kind of situation. That I’d stayed. That I’d let myself believe it would get better.
He was just stressed. Once his coach and professors stopped breathing down his neck about getting his grades up, he’d be better.
At least, that was what I’d stupidly told myself.
No one would’ve guessed—not me, not my friends—that I would be the girl with a boyfriend who pushed her around.
But when you love someone, and they swear they didn’tmean it…that they’re sorry…that it’ll never happen again…you want to believe them.
And I did.
A few too many times.
But I’d gotten out.
Eventually, I stopped listening to the apologies. The excuses. The promises.
I packed up what little self-worth I had and left the apartment that I’d delusionally believed could be a sanctuary for us. If we could just shut out the rest of the world, surely that would fix us.
My heart might have gotten bruised. My trust definitely had cracks. But I was healing. Slowly.
