For me, skating was a way to connect with both of my parents. I didn’t like playing hockey as much as I liked talking about it. But being on the ice and expressing myself through figure skating made me feel close to the woman that gave me life.
If I knew then what I did now, I would have told six-year-old CJ that no matter what you do… Mommy will always be too busy for you.
“Fiancé?” I croak, my throat dry. I reach for the peach tea I’d ordered and take a sip. Fuck, I should’ve ordered something stronger.Who am I kidding?There’s not a drink strong enough in this world to keep me from feeling how my mother makes me feel.
“We got engaged in May.” She shrugs with a small smile before holding out her left hand. A white gold band with a simple yet stunning teardrop diamond sits perfectly on my mothers manicured hand.
“Congratulations,” I choke out, making brief eye contact with her.
She coughs, her eyes darting back to the table and just as she’s about to speak up, the waiter comes over. My mother orders a club sandwich with extra tomato, her go-to, and I order a Chicken Francois, which is basically a fancy way of saying fried chicken and French toast.
We sit in silence for a few minutes before she clears her throat. “Cole has two kids, Ceej. I want you to meet them in a few weeks. We can all go to New York for Thanksgiving, and you can see Gran—”
I tune her out as she continues spewing nonsense about the future. If my mother knew me at all, she’d know that I would never step foot into New York City again. That place can go to Hell for all I care.
“I don’t think—”
“And then after that you and Marcelo could probably patch things up and—”
My breath hitches in my throat.
Have you ever had the wind knocked out of you with just a single blow? I have.
When I was fourteen, I went to a concert with Jace. None of our parents knew that we went away to D.C. for the night to go to a concert, but we did. The concert was held at this tiny club downtown that literally everyone goes to, its standing room and barricade only. I’d been so close to the front, I could practically touch the singer when a behemoth of a woman got knocked into me and next thing you know, I’m practically dying from being out of breath beside a petrified Jace Heart.
That’s what it feels like every time someone brings up my ex-boyfriend, Marcelo Rivers.
Marce—Marcelo and I were like a New York power couple. We did everything together. Fashion week, Hockey games, F1 races; you think it, we probably did it. Everyone in the state, probably even the country, knew about us.
He and I were inseparable for almost two years until December 4th. It was puppy love for me until the rose-colored lenses faded away and I caught him shooting up Nandrolone in his bathroom just before a game withSummerfield.
I loved him so much that I couldn’t process it. Sometimes, I still can’t. Marcelo is the most beloved person at Brighton University, the most favored player, and best-looking guy on campus. I couldn’t fathom the idea of the person that I thought I knew the best doing something I despised the most. And it wasn’t like he needed it. He was good on and off the ice.
But when I caught him, I realized that you never truly know someone. You just know the many faces that they like to put on for the world. We see the masks of their perfect selves while they hide their true vile nature under.
I hadn’t meant to say that I would tell anyone, not aloud at least. But the words spilled out of me faster than I could process and before I knew it, I’d made a deal with the devil for two secrets that cost me more than I’d ever known.
I can feel myself slipping into the darkness of my past and suddenly I’m outside the girls and my apartment. I don’t even remember leaving the café, but I guess that’s what happens when your past gut punches you before 2 p.m.
When I enter the apartment, I spot someone on the couch and heave a breath as I stalk towards the freezer.
No ice cream. No popsicles… What kind of Hell-hole am I living in?
Frowning deeply, I turn to the pantry. Wine… Whiskey… Tequila? Yep. That’s what I need.
I always feel like this whenever Marcelo is mentioned and it’s not even because I miss him. No, I hope Marcelo Rivers is living his absolute best life, stepping on five LEGOs and three charger boxes a day. Instead, I feel like this because in a way, I’m mourning.
Mourning the woman, I used to be before life showed its ugliness and dealt me a bad hand.
“Cleo?” the voice is distorted behind me, kind of like it’s been submerged into water.
Is it getting hot in here? I need sugar. Where are the donuts?
Soft fingers clasp around my wrist, they’re cold and familiar and before I know it, I’m being squeezed into a hug. The aroma of peaches, vanilla, and warm patchouli engulf me from every angle.
I let myself fall into the pit that I’ve dug and let it out. I cry for the girl I was at six and the one at 18. But most of all, I cry for the 20-year-old I am right now, feeling all these things tenfold.
Before I know it, we’re on the couch—Georgia, Sienna, Denver, and me. I don’t know when Denver got here but I’m thankful for her presence. Her warmth is needed at times like this.
