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I shrugged blandly and thought she was going to pop a blood vessel in her eye. "They're pictures of me and my coach. What's the big deal? You can find the same kind of photos of any other coach and gymnast on the internet."
"So you're telling me every coach carries his gymnast to her home and kisses her cheek? You seriously don't see the issue?"
"He didn't kiss me." I glanced at Dad. He tilted his head to the side. I felt like he could see right through me.
Definitely not the welcome home I was expecting.
An exasperated, yet ladylike huff expelled from Mom. "Is this not exactly what I suspected when we were at the competition, Frank? That I said they looked a little too friendly at the meet, and then in our hotel room?"
He dipped his chin. I looked into my dad's optimistic eyes; I knew he was trying to figure out what was real and what wasn't.
"See?" She threw the paper dramatically onto the desk and sat back. "Even your father saw it."
He held up a finger. "Joy."
She stopped immediately.
"I did not think they were too friendly," he scoffed as if the thought disgusted him. "You’re the one who assumed there was more. But this article…" He paused and looked at me. "You see how bad this looks, don't you, Ana? Especially on you."
I glanced down at the photos, then looked back up. I chewed my bottom lip to be a little extra. "I guess I do?" My voice was soft and quiet, and I pointed to the meet photos. "I mean, that's all normal. You guys were there. You saw the other girls, they were the same way with him, and other gymnasts and their coaches did the exact same thing. This isn't unusual."
Mom chimed in. "Those may not be unusual, but it draws unwanted attention to us. It makes it look like you…you…like you’re mooning over your coach."
Dad ignored her. "And what about this one?"
I swallowed and stayed neutral. "I had a really rough practice that day. It was bad. I hadn't eaten, I could barely walk, my ankle was throbbing. I'd worked too hard and had exhausted all my energy. So I asked him to drive me home, and he did. That’s my bag he's carrying." A partial lie. Kova insiste
d he take me home.
"They took the photos out of context and ran with it, Dad. You know they did."
Dad sat down and leaned back in his chair. We stared at each other, but not in a glaring, menacing way. He looked at me like he was trying to read me, to see the truth and hoped that it could never be like what Mom insinuated. His eyes flickered. I hated to lie to my dad about anything, but this wasn’t anything, and I couldn’t let them think more. I needed to put on my best social event face.
"You made this family look like trash. I don't believe a word you say, not one word. Something isn't right, and I know it. This little fantasy of yours ends now. You need to pack your belongings and come home."
"What!" I screamed, jumping from my chair. I saw red, my heart was racing. "Dad! Tell Mom that cannot happen! That it won't happen!"
"Joy."
"If anything, I help our image." I turned back to my mom. "You have a daughter who's an elite gymnast with the possibility of going to the Olympics. I've placed in the top three at every meet so far. Very few make it to this level. Do you have any idea what that means?"
She rolled her eyes. My mother rolled her eyes, and out of everything she could've done or said, that was the least of what I’d expected. Her blatant disrespect for me chiseled away something inside and dropped like boulders into my stomach. It hurt terribly, and if I wasn't already angry over her suggestion to leave my dream behind me, I would've felt my heart crack down the center.
My mother truly didn't give a shit.
"You're lucky I'm not one of those socialites getting drunk in clubs and photographed with my underwear showing. I have a brain and talent and I'm using it, unlike those losers."
"Adrianna."
No one listened to Dad.
"I'd rather that than you caught in a man's arms wearing what looks like a crop top and underwear. A man of good standing, no less, a friend of the family, and, not to mention, ten plus years your senior. You're an embarrassment. It makes us all look bad. At least getting drunk is expected of this lifestyle and could be written off. This is going to follow us. How are we going to cover it up?"
I stood there, slack-jawed, aghast. I wasn't sure how I'd been cut from her cloth. We couldn't be more different if we tried.
"Do you hear yourself?" I asked barely above a whisper. I was shocked beyond words. "You want a drunk teenager?"
She lifted an elegant shoulder and crossed her legs. "It's easier to deal with. At least you won't look like a slut."
