But my palms tingle, and the thoughts start.
They follow me the whole way back to our suite.
So does Bohdan.
Right behind me, hand hovering between my shoulder blades.
The thoughts hover, too.
All over me, and they puncture my skin with each step, each movement he takes to mirror mine.
Vile.
A brush of his thumb across the neck of my tank top to let me know he’s there.
Pathetic.
A whisper of his voice, telling me to keep breathing.
Really fucking wretched, actually.
His hand pushing open the door to the suite.
So easy to leave.
Just us, alone here in this stupid, giant room with those giant windows that look a bit too much like the ones back in our old home.
“Keep breathing, and tell me what I said.” Bohdan leans against the back of the couch, kicking a leg up, lines of his face set, somehow still endlessly patient with me.
“You lied,” I whisper, hands clenching in and out of fists.
“I lied?”
“You lied. You said that if you had one wish—it wouldn’t be for hockey again. It wouldn’t be to skate, it wouldn’t be for your career.” I sniff with a tiny shake of my head, tears spilling down over my cheeks. “You said it would be for me.”
“That’s not a lie, Sloan. That’s a fact.” He shakes his head slowly.
“Don’t you dare.” I point at him and try to clench my teeth so my sob doesn’t escape but it does. Loud and ugly and awful and taking up too much space, just like me. He’s never lied to me before, not about a fact. But there’s no way this one can possibly be true. “Don’t you dare throwa factin my face. It can’t be a fact, Bohdan, because you left. You left when I was trying, so, so hard to help you. I did everything I could—I learned so much and I spent so much time on the internet and I brought home acupressure mats and I rearranged our furniture and I—”
His nostrils flare, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek with a slow shake of his head. “You were drowning in your own goddamn brain, Sloan.”
I narrow my eyes, still pointing at him. “So what, you decided to shove my fucking head under the water for good measure?”
“It’s not that simple!” Bohdan throws his hands wide before scrubbing his face and bringing two fingers to his temple, right at the precipice of the scar. He slams them there, punctuating each word. “My fucking brain wasn’t working, Sloan! I couldn’t—I was useless! I couldn’t fucking do anything, except hurt you.”
I’m not a resentful person.
At least, not actively.
And it’s not an emotion I’d have ever thought I’d associate with Bohdan, but it’s what bubbles up right now, just there, right under the surface, and it’s horribly ugly, uglier than most of my own thoughts.
I give him a tight smile, and I wish my words were biting, but they aren’t. They’re just quiet and sad. “Well, you were certainly good at that.”
Bohdan’s eyes pinch closed, and he scrubs his face. “Don’t I know it.”
We’re not very far apart—maybe a few feet. Him, propped up against the couch in this way that seemed like he was trying to be patient with me, but now I wonder if he’s just trying to keep himself upright.
Me, standing here staring at him with the ocean visible just beyond him through those giant floor-to-ceiling windows, sparkling in this way that looks like possibility but actually might be cruelty.
