Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
That’s a good question. I mull it over for a beat before I answer with the truth. “It is. It feels natural. I love figure skating, but I did get pretty obsessed with it when I was younger. And when I tried out for the Olympics, I was at the peak of my obsession. I didn’t make it,” I add, but he probably knows.
His eyes hold mine with not quite sympathy, but empathy. The empathy of someone who understands what it’s like to chase a goal and not always reach it. “Was that hard for you?”
I sigh, remembering with excruciating clarity the shattering disappointment when I didn’t make it past the Olympic trials. “It was devastating. But in some ways it was also a relief. I don’t think I realized at the time that it was. It was only after going to therapy for a while that I learned all that perfectionism and pursuit of excellence had been taking a toll on me. It was affecting my mind and my emotions. I obsessed over every second I spent prepping, exercising, practicing. It was all I could think about. I had to learn to let go of it—all that order. All that list-making and tracking. And then finally, when I did, I was able to skate again—for fun.”
A soft smile crosses his lips. “In your videos, I can see the joy that you feel. It’s in your eyes.”
That warms my heart in a brand-new way. “I’m glad you can see it.”
“That’s one of the reasons I love watching them,” he admits, then gives me a sheepish look. “Not just because I have this thing for figure skating—well, now for one skater in particular.” He stops to drop a kiss to my forehead, and it feels like it spreads through my body, down to my toes. When he pulls back, he says, “But also because it’s so clear you’re having a good time.”
“I am. I truly am.”
He runs a hand along my hair, touching me absently through our pillow talk. “Is that how you teach? I mean, I see you with Luna, and she’s always having fun and so are you. But is that your goal—to help students feel that joy too?”
It’s just a little thing, but he seems to understand me so well already, and I don’t think it’s simply because he’s been privy to my lessons as a parental spectator. “I think so. I hope so. I want to help them with their goals and meet them where they are—if they’re ambitious, if they’re competitive. But also to help them just have fun, too, if that’s what they want.”
He exhales softly, then tries to fight off a yawn. He’s unsuccessful. The yawn shakes his whole body. I laugh. He must be so tired. I rub his shoulder, perhaps a subtle way of letting him know he’s free to go if he wants to. I’m not going to hold him back. “You played a hockey game today, went on a feline shopping spree, hung out with your friends, drove back down here, fucked me with your fingers—you must be exhausted. You should go to bed.”
Tyler sinks deeper into the pillows, his eyes floating closed. “Yeah, I should…get to sleep early.” He doesn’t make a move to leave. “We should skate together sometime.”
I blink, a little taken aback. “Skate together?” I want to make sure I actually heard him right.
“At a rink. For fun. You know, for the joy of it,” he says, his voice getting a little slurry at the end.
It sounds like a date—a date that’s not at all in the tiny sex diary. That’s not part of the game plan. The plan we’re veering far, far away from already.
Briefly, he opens his eyes again to kick off his pants. Then he pulls up the quilt and slides his legs under it. His eyes flutter closed without even a mention of going upstairs.
It feels like another rule is broken as he falls asleep with the kitten in his arms and his head on my shoulder.
31
THE HIRED HELP
Sabrina
But morning always comes, the sun rising on our choices and their consequences. As the sun streaks through the window, my phone trills, rousing me from a dream with a jolt. Grabbing it from the nightstand, I spot Elle’s name on the screen.
What the…?
Snapping my gaze to Tyler, who’s soundly sleeping—and soundly snoring—I bolt out of bed, then answer it the second I hustle past the doorway.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask without bothering to mask my concern. She was supposed to drop the kids off at school…I glance at the time on the TV. Fifteen minutes ago. Panic rushes through my veins.
“Hey!” Her tone is bright, and that’s somewhat reassuring. “I called Tyler, but he didn’t answer, and I’m walking up the steps right now, about to knock on the door.”