Page 32 of Love on the Edge
I rub a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard. I don’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now. But it’s my dad and my brothers. There’s no getting out of it.
I sigh. "I don’t know, man."
That lands. No one speaks for a moment.
Then, Dad, ever steady, ever sure, watches me carefully. "What don’t you know?"
I shake my head, frustrated. "She’s different, the only girlfriend I’ve ever really had was Margo. I don’t know what to do with that."
Drew smirks, like he’s been waiting for this moment. "So it’s not just a ‘Nina’s best friend’ thing."
I grit my teeth. "It should be."
Dad doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches me, like he’s weighing his words. Then, finally, he speaks. "Maybe you’re just not ready to admit it yet."
I take another drink, ignoring the way the words sit heavy in my chest.
Maybe he’s right. And that’s exactly the problem.
Because if he is, I’m screwed.
It’s official. Fifteen days.No breaks. No real rest. Just ice, training, workouts, stretching, more training. My body feels it, but that’s the point. That’s the plan.
I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself, steam curling against my skin. The mirror is fogged, but not enough to hide what’s underneath. When I wipe my hand across the mirror and take myself in, I’m not sure how to feel.
I was always lean. Now, I’m just light. Too light. Or maybe just light enough. My arms don’t look as strong as they used to, but they’re not meant to be strong. They’re meant to be elegant, refined, graceful. My collarbones cut sharper. My ribs press faintly against my skin when I exhale, each breath shallow and calculated.
I run my fingers along my hip bone, tracing the sharp edge of it. My stomach is flat and hollow, every last trace of softness gone. My legs, once quietly strong, feel different. Not weak. Just… less. Less to carry. Less to hold me down.
Still, it’s not enough.
My jumps still feel heavy. My landings still sink too much intothe ice. The rotations aren’t where they should be. Every ounce matters. Every fraction of weight is a fraction of a second lost in the air.
I roll my shoulders, watching the way my body moves, how my skin pulls tight over muscle, how there’s nothing extra left. It’s closer. It’s better. But it’s not there yet.
Not yet.
I grip the edge of the sink, exhaling slowly. My body has always been built for precision. But precision isn’t enough.
Precision needs freedom.
And freedom means lighter.
I can hear my parents downstairs. Mom is probably either cooking something or bringing in the chef to handle it. She loves to cook when she has time, but most of the time, she doesn’t. If she’s on a deadline, she barely steps foot in the kitchen.
She’s a photographer. And not just any photographer—she’s sought after, booked months in advance, her work printed in magazines, hanging in galleries, displayed in homes most people will never step foot in. She captures the world through her lens, but sometimes, I wonder if she even sees the one right in front of her.
Dad’s the same way. An architect, in demand, always moving, always working. His buildings are known for their clean lines and detailed fixtures.
I grew up in a house designed by two people who see the world in frames and blueprints. Clean edges, perfect compositions, control in every decision.
And I was raised to fit into it. That’s not to say they don’t love me, they do. It’s just that we’re a different sort of family than Nina and hers.
I tighten the towel around me, shaking off the thought.
Downstairs, I hear my mom’s laugh, light and effortless, my dad’s voice steady beside her. They’re home, but they’re always somewhere else too.
That’s just how it is.
