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“I’ddiebefore living here.”
“Do you see me offering to let you in?” She starts to shut the door. “Good luck with your search.”
“Wait,” I say, wedging my foot between the frame. “I hate to ask, but can I please use your bathroom before I go?”
“Fine.” She opens the door. “It’s down the hall and to the left. Make sure you get a good look at my medal collection on your way there. Pay special attention to the gold one from the Olympics in Sochi.”
“Too bad you’re missing the gold one from Pyeongchang.” I can’t help but throw that jab since she wants to live in the past. “I wonder who wonthatone.”
“You have two minutes to handle your business and get the hell out.”
“It’ll take me less than that.” I find the bathroom and shut the door.
Turning around, I can’t help but gasp. This bathroom is bigger than the bedrooms in all the other apartments I’ve seen.
I take a closer look at the clawfoot tub, running a hand against its silver spigot. I check out the closet and the walk-in shower, and before I know it, I forget why I even came in here.
After washing my hands, I walk down the hall, where Penelope is fuming in the living room. She’s managed to pull on her bright pink “I’m the Best Figure Skater Alive” t-shirt that I’ve always loathed.
So she’s still petty as hell.
“Your bathroom is nice,” I say. “Is that the only one?”
“No, there are three. Two more you’ll never see.”
I slide my purse over my shoulder and look her in the eyes. Since she has her memory back and she’s still a cunt, I need her to know something.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I don’t think I’ve ever hated another person the way I hate you.”
“The feeling will always be mutual.”
Silence.
For some strange reason, I can’t bring myself to walk away.
Not just yet.
“What are you doing now?” I ask. “Like, career-wise.”
She says nothing.
“I heard that you never got all your memory back after the fall. Is that true?”
“I get bits and pieces back on some days,” she relents. “But I’m still missing a lot, and the memories are never in order.”
“Are you coaching?”
“I coach off and on,” she says. “I have a few private clients, but they’re not worth mentioning.”
“Let me guess. They have rich parents who are wasting their money since the kids can’t skate their way off the railing?”
“Exactly.” She nods. “I give inspirational speeches to colleges and sports teams, too. I have one coming up a few weeks from now in California actually.”
“Does that pay well?”
“Sometimes.” She pauses. “Not ‘living in New York’ well. Hence, the roommate thing. I doubt it pays as well asyourcareer.”
I raise an eyebrow, confused about why Travis isn’t paying her rent.
