“Is it too petty if I wear all my gold medals when my parents are here next week?”
I stare at her, then at the medals.
Isabella smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners and nose scrunching, and I know she’s being a little shit. A trait she’s inherited from hanging out way too much with Rodrigo over the past few months as we visited back and forth from Wyoming.
“Probably,” I reply carefully.
She nods once. “Okay.”
There’s a beat.
“I’m still going to do it.”
I laugh so hard I have to hold on to the railing so I don’t hit myself. “Isabella.”
“No, listen,” she says, already getting more animated as she pushes herself up on her knees. “I can tell them there was a meet-and-greet with some of the incoming athletes.”
“You’re insane.”
“I don’t give a fuck if she’s president of the association now, honestly.”
There’s still heat under the words. It’s not fresh anymore, more like the remnants of a fire that is taking a long time to extinguish.
The election happened three weeks ago. Vivienne won almost unanimously after Isabella publicly withdrew her own name before the board could formally nominate her.
The press had a field day with it, but Isabella pretended not to care.
Then she spent an entire evening rage-cleaning the kitchen in complete silence while wearing noise-canceling headphones and reorganizing the pantry in alphabetical order.
Which, honestly, was absolutely terrifying.
I walk closer now, setting the bag down on one of the benches before crouching beside her on the floor.
“You know,” I say slowly, “most people deal with family conflict by going to therapy.”
“I do go to therapy.”
“Physical therapy to relieve your back pain doesn’t count,” I mutter under my breath. “And besides, those therapists work for you, so they will literally do as you say.”
She snorts. Then her expression softens slightly as she looks at me.
“Hi, babe.”
“Hi.”
“Where’s Rodri?” She twists her body to look towards the stairs, then back at me. She’s wearing that soft, private smile that still catches me off guard because it belongs entirely to me now.
“What?” I ask quietly.
Her hand settles against my knee absently. “Nothing,” she says. “I still can’t believe you guys are here.”
Something warm spreads through my chest so quickly it almost hurts.
Colorado in December looks nothing like Buenos Aires.But even with the obvious differences, everything here feels sharper and enhanced. And it’s because of Isabella.
“Well,” I murmur, leaning over to kiss her forehead lightly, “you’re never getting rid of me now.”
Her smile turns softer immediately. “Good.”
