On thin ice, p.23
On Thin Ice, page 23
Luca’s brown eyes softened. “Stevens, you went back to therapy? That’s great,” he said, voice laced with quiet pride.
“Yeah, I’ve only had a couple of sessions, but it’s been good. I feel like she’s helping me think about what I want for once.”
“And what is it that you want?”
You. But I knew I couldn’t say that. So I stuck with another truth. “To teach kids,” I said, without overthinking it. “My mum has always said ‘those who can’t do, teach kids,’ but I just think it’s so rewarding.”
“Then do it.”
“Hmm, maybe one day.” I sat back against the sofa, mirroring Luca’s position. “I’ve been thinking about it—I don’t want to keep living like this, but sometimes I don’t know how to stop. Hopefully therapy will help.”
“That’s great, Stevens.” Luca’s gaze lingered for a beat too long, like he wanted me to know he really meant it. “And you’d be an amazing teacher.”
I hummed in response and took another bite of pizza.
“Have you heard from the producers recently?” I asked once I’d finished my mouthful.
“Jack spoke to them earlier. Apparently, they’re sounding more and more keen by the day. So that’s good.”
I clapped my hands together. “That’s fantastic, Luca. Imagine your mum’s face when you tell her you got the part.” He nodded and looked down, hiding his affectionate smile.
And that’s what we both needed to remember. We both had stakes in winning the show.
Continuing down the path we had been on was too much of a dangerous game.
I climbed out of the Uber and made my way to the front door of my parents’ house, knocking tentatively. My sister answered, offering me a familiar smile devoid of warmth. Her eyes swept over me from head to toe, and her lips curled into a look of disdain.
And for once, I considered calling her out for it.
I’d always thought there was no point in opening old wounds, but Luca’s words rang clear in my mind, and, for the first time in a year, I doubted my decision just to let her relationship with Mark go, even for Taylor’s sake.
Every time you give someone a pass for hurting you because you feel guilty for upsetting them, you hurt yourself.
My sister shifted her weight, narrowing her eyes but stepping back to let me in through the front door.
“Where’s your car?” she asked as I stepped in and started down the hallway.
“The oil pressure light came on, so I didn’t want to drive it.” I hated cars at the best of times; I wouldn’t get stranded on the roadside late at night.
She didn’t bother to reply but followed me into the kitchen.
“Your face is still plastered across the news.”
“I know. You’d think they’d have found something else to talk about by now.”
“Something more interesting than Hollywood’s most violent, sex-crazed druggie kissing an ice princess?”
“He’s not a violent druggie, Lauren. You know that’s all a load of rubbish.” I turned to her and leaned against the counter.
“Didn’t look like rubbish when there was a picture of him off-his-face drunk with bloodied knuckles and two women hanging off him.”
I’d found it too when I first searched Luca’s name weeks ago. When I’d grown a pair and asked him what had been happening in the picture, he had answered me honestly, as he always did. He’d just lost his latest leading role due to the endless bad press, so Nancy had taken him out to help him forget about it. By then, he’d stopped caring about the consequences. It didn’t matter what he did—they’d find a story regardless. After a few too many drinks and a confrontation with an arsehole harassing a woman in the bar, Nancy and the woman had dragged him out, right into the waiting cameras of the paparazzi.
“And was your incredibly reliable source of knowledge for this information the Daily Mail, or just a random article you found online?”
“So it doesn’t bother you?” She collected two glasses from the cabinet and sauntered to the fridge to grab a bottle of wine.
“What doesn’t bother me?”
“He’s obviously got women hanging all over him. You think you could ever trust someone like that?”
I glared at her back as she maneuvered with the glasses and wine. God, I was sick of the constant bitterness and antagonism. I hadn’t done anything wrong, yet I was the one under fire?
Every time you give someone a pass for hurting you because you feel guilty for upsetting them, you hurt yourself.
Fuck it.
“That’s pretty rich coming from you.”
She froze at my jibe and narrowed her eyes at me over her shoulder.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, it’s pretty rich that you’re warning me about trusting him when you’re not exactly trustworthy yourself.” I crossed my arms to hide the tremor in my hands.
“And what do you mean by that?” She turned around to lean against the counter—arms crossed, brows raised. Perhaps this was her courtroom look when she was trying to get people to crack.
“Mark. Where was the trust there?”
I hadn’t voiced those words in ages. The thought of saying them aloud had always made my skin crawl with anxiety, but now that I had said them, it felt…good.
One perfectly manicured eyebrow rose higher in surprise, but she just laughed. “That was, like, over a year ago. And you weren’t together.”
“It still stands true, though. I was really hurt after that breakup, and what you did made it even worse. I should be able to trust my sister to not do something like that.”
She turned, collected the bottle of wine and a glass from the side, and started pouring, seemingly unbothered.
“Instead of blaming other people for what happened, why don’t you think about why Mark needed to move on in the first place? Something was obviously…” she drawled, looking up and down my body. “Lacking.”
Her words mimicked almost precisely what she’d said immediately after the whole ordeal, and my throat felt tight.
When Lauren was going through her divorce, something had softened between us—I could feel her leaning on me more, which I hadn’t expected but welcomed. So when she’d slept with Mark, it had cut even deeper. Any hope that things might be different, that we might be getting closer, had been destroyed.
I didn’t want to tell her how much her words had affected me, how much I thought about them regularly. God knows I was grateful to be rid of Mark, but I was sick of how much I let both of their actions affect my self-confidence. Even though it was a reflection on them and not me, there was still that voice whispering in my mind, asking whether I would ever be enough for anyone. And hearing those words aloud hurt.
“You know what—” I started, but our mother interrupted.
“What are you two doing in here? Dinner is on the table already.” She looked directly at me. “You’re late.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I texted to say I had to call an Uber.” I gestured to the bottle of wine in my sister’s hand, grabbed my glass from behind her, and filled it.
“Well, the dinner is going cold now. I spent a lot of time cooking it today, so it’s a shame that it won’t taste as nice because you’re late.”
I took a deep gulp of my wine, willing the crisp taste to give me strength.
My sister placed her hand on our mother’s shoulder, mumbling something as they headed toward the dining room.
I had to give it to our mother. She might have been a lackluster parent, but our family home was beautiful. Every surface in the kitchen gleamed under the glow of the recessed lighting. Dark marble countertops stretched across the room, contrasting with the cream cabinets and stainless steel appliances. There were no family pictures cluttering the space, and it lacked a certain lived-in charm, but it was elegant and sophisticated.
The dining room was a large, open space decorated with dark features: mahogany tables, a modern fireplace, and leather sofas. Unlike in the kitchen, there were some pictures: our mother holding her Olympic medal, my sister after she’d passed the bar exam, and our father meeting the prime minister.
I’d never asked why there was no picture of me on the wall because I knew the answer.
I haven’t done anything.
“Hey, Tee.” I kissed the top of Taylor’s head as I passed her to take my seat. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.” She smiled up at me, and it made all the drama with Lauren worth it.
“Hi, Dad.” I held up my wine glass in greeting.
“Hi, Matilda, how are you?” His voice was devoid of affection but held no malice. Our relationship had always been a cold, barren landscape. I’d learned as a child that my father wasn’t the affectionate type—and as adults, the only time we spoke to or saw each other was at monthly family dinners.
“Yeah, good, thanks. How about you?”
His eyes flickered to my mother, a subtle yet telling sign that they were mid-disagreement—probably about him working away again. I’d seen this dance so many times before that I inhaled and braced myself for an evening of mediating.
“Fine, thanks.” He sipped his wine and offered a closed-mouth smile.
“Mum.” I scanned the room, desperate for something to break the suffocating silence. “Dinner looks lovely. What are we having?” Small plates, completely devoid of any beige goodness, cluttered the table—no carbs in this household.
“It was from the cookbook your sister bought me for Christmas. It doesn’t have any bad ingredients in it.” I fought the urge to sigh. “I haven’t had a good week, so I wanted something healthy.”
My mum’s version of “not having a good week” was probably having a latte instead of an Americano. I swear, for the first twenty years of my life, I thought I’d put on ten pounds if I drank semi-skimmed milk. If my mother ever saw the monstrous drinks Luca bought me most days, she’d send me a referral link to the premium membership of MyFitnessPal faster than you could say “diet.”
“It’s just roasted Mediterranean vegetables with garlic, oregano, and thyme. I seasoned the chicken with the same and roasted it.”
“In oil?” My sister’s lips curved in distaste as she glared at the plates on the table. Mum scoffed as she dished out food for us all.
“Of course not. Just chicken stock.” Lauren looked pleased and took a plate from her.
The conversation continued around recipes and cooking. I drummed my fingers on the table, each of their words rattling through me and leaving behind a trail of frustration.
My forced smile felt suffocating.
“Are you going to say anything, Gerald?” Mum demanded, glaring at him across the table. He looked up from his plate. Taylor kept her head down, spearing some food on her fork.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Whatever you want to say.” My mother’s cutlery clattered to her plate.
“I don’t have anything to say, Julia.” He put a piece of pepper in his mouth and chewed.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Can we not argue today, please?” I mediated. Mum’s mouth opened to retaliate, but I turned to my father and smiled. “How’s work going, Dad?”
“Good. We have a conference in South Africa next week, so I’ll be out of town, but it’s an excellent opportunity for us, so we can’t miss it.” He looked pointedly at my mother, who thinned her lips.
As our father and Lauren’s ex-husband both worked for a private bank, they often traveled together on business. They saw their colleagues a hell of a lot more than they saw their families.
“That will be nice,” I said, sliding a piece of chicken onto my fork. “Will your whole team go?”
“Just me this time.” His eyes flickered to my mother.
“I was just asking Matilda about her relationship with Luca Vasvault before dinner.” Lauren changed the subject.
Cutlery scraped across plates, and I lifted my gaze to glare at Lauren across the table.
Taylor’s head spun to me, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Oh my god. Are you together? Everyone at school is talking about it.”
“That kiss was something, wasn’t it, Matilda?” Lauren set her fork on her half-eaten plate, smirking.
“It sure was.” My words sliced through the air with a sharpness I hadn’t intended but couldn’t find it within myself to regret. Lauren’s reaction was immediate—a subtle glint dancing in her eyes that sent a chill down my spine.
“So, what’s going on with you two, then?”
“Nothing’s going on with us.” I mirrored her, crossing my arms.
“I haven’t said anything, Matilda, but I was so disappointed to see you kissing him. Especially as he was so rude to me after your fall,” Mum admonished, animosity flaring in her eyes. “The kiss was so tacky. I know you are worried about not winning another season, but it isn’t winning if you have to get there through cheap stunts and not skill.”
I visibly balked. The only reason I’d started on the stupid show was so she would finally get off my back. Until I’d realized that I could use the winner’s bonus to finally set myself free, I hadn’t even cared whether I won or not.
“It’s so transparent, too. Everyone knows it was a publicity stunt. I mean, you’ve seen the women he usually dates…” Lauren chipped away at my self-esteem.
“Are you joking?” I demanded, narrowing my eyes. “Why are you so insistent on insulting me all the time?”
“What has gotten into you?” she sneered. “I am not insulting you; I am telling you the truth like a good sister would. You’re just so insecure that you read every bit of constructive criticism as an insult.”
“How is that constructive criticism, Lauren?”
“I am trying to save you from any more media carnage. If I can tell it’s fake, surely they can too.”
“I don’t think it’s fake,” Taylor interjected, and my heart cracked a little more.
“Lauren’s right, Matilda,” Mum joined in, ignoring Taylor. “It is completely transparent, and you don’t want to tarnish your name by trying to win through popularity.”
“Why is it so hard to believe that Luca might actually be interested in me?”
Having people constantly remind me of the insecurity that had been living in my mind rent-free for the past few weeks was starting to grate on my last nerve.
If my own family didn’t believe I was good enough, who else would?
I naively glanced to my father for backup, but he continued staring at his plate.
“Do you see what you’re doing?” My sister dropped her cutlery onto her plate, the sound sharp against her exaggerated exhalation of patience. “You accuse me of insulting you, but you’re literally asking me to tell you why Luca wouldn’t be interested in you.”
“Both of you, stop. Lauren, stop antagonizing your sister. Matilda, she’s just trying to be honest with you. You have to think logically here. You don’t want to get distracted by some fling and ruin your skating dreams.” Mum softened her voice, but it didn’t stop the tremor in my hands. “I just don’t want you getting wrapped up in any drama with him. You have to think about your career.”
You have to think about your career. She meant I had to think about the career she’d been trying to ram down my throat since the day I was born.
“How do you even know that I want anything with him?” I demanded.
Her look of pity made me want to scream.
“It’s obvious you do. We’ve all seen the cutaways and the pictures of you two. You look at him like he’s holding the world.”
I wanted to deny it so badly, but I’d also seen the pictures and the videos. I was sure Luca looked at me with some semblance of want, but maybe I was wrong.
“Think about your career,” she repeated, the food all but forgotten.
This—friendship or whatever it was with Luca—was the first time that I was pursuing something just because I wanted to. And because she didn’t approve of it, she was throwing it back in my face.
And it hit me then, what my therapist had said—just how much time I’d wasted attempting to please her.
Even if I did win the show, I’d already wasted so much of my life trying to get there and making myself unhappy in the process. Did it even matter?
Did achieving my mother’s approval—or anyone’s—make my life better?
The rapid thudding of my heartbeat echoed in my ears, building my frustration until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“I don’t want to think about my career, Mum! I don’t even like being on the show. I’m only on it because you want me to be!”
Although it felt good to say the words aloud, the disappointment and shock covering her face made part of me wish I could take them back. But I wasn’t going to—I’d said what needed to be said. She shook her head, and the pit in my stomach deepened, pressing heavier with each passing second.
“Don’t blame this on me.” Her lip curled up, palms pressing against the table. “You are the one who failed at the Olympics. You are the one who can’t win a season on the show. You took away my figure-skating career, not me.” She gestured to the images and trophies of her achievements on the walls. “That could have been you, but you aren’t good enough.”
The entire evening had been an overwhelming mess. My anger had dissipated and was replaced with exhaustion.
I am so tired of this.
All the times I had done things to please my mum, it still hadn’t been enough. It wasn’t just things I had done but things I had missed. I had missed out on things I enjoyed because of a job I hated. I was too exhausted to keep doing this.
