Walk on Water

by Laura Peyton Roberts

  Bry pulled against her grip as if to escape, then slumped back into his seat. “I just want to win, okay? I want to win, or at least kick ass, and the clock is running out.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re seventeen. That’s not even old for a guy.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Bry slumped even lower. “I want my parents to be proud of me. They both work so ridiculously hard. I want to give them that moment.”

  “They are proud, Bry. They’re already proud.”

  “Not as proud as they could be. Not the way they’d be if I were national champion.”

  “You’re crazy. Do you honestly think that matters to them?”

  Bry regarded her sullenly through a diagonal shaft of light. When he finally spoke again his voice was full of pain. “We’re not going to be able to live in this bubble forever. They’re going to find out, sooner or later.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Who I am. Who I really am.” He exhaled shakily. “I just want to give them something great first, a moment to look back on when they were completely proud.”

  Lexa’s heart nearly broke with the realization of what he was trying to say. “Oh, Bry.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “That’s not going to matter. Your parents love you.”

  “They don’t know me,” he insisted. “Not all of me.”

  “You don’t think . . . maybe they’ve guessed? I mean, figure skating—it’s not unheard of.”

  He shook his head, dislodging a tear that caught the light as it slid down his cheek. “How could they know something that hasn’t even happened yet?”

  “You know, Bry.”

  “That’s different.”

  Pulling his heels onto the seat, he hugged his knees to his chest as if to fend off future pain. Lexa touched his shoulder, her eyes filling too. She had no idea what to say, but when Bry turned his head to meet her gaze, the words tumbled out.

  “You know I love you, right? You can skate in a feathered tutu and fall flat on your ass—I’ll be there cheering my heart out. I will always, always be your friend.”

  Bry sniffed, then smiled through his tears. “Feathers are so eighties.”

  —53—

  “Pull up! Posture, Lexa!” Weston yelled.

  She was deep in a death spiral and had drifted so far out of position that she couldn’t rise back up. Wrenching her wrist against Eric’s, she tried to leverage herself back to standing, but even with his help she couldn’t get her edge beneath her. She collapsed onto the ice, sliding around her partner in an undignified heap.

  “Olé!” Eric cried, stomping out a matador-like flourish as if the move were part of their routine.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That one got away from me.”

  Waving off her apology, he yanked her back onto her blades. “Bound to happen once in a while when you fly so low.”

  Weston was less forgiving. “Low is no excuse. You got sloppy, Lexa. You weren’t concentrating.”

  She nodded unhappily, knowing he was right. At this rate, I’ll never see sectionals again—forget about nationals, she thought. She seemed to have taken a giant step backward that week, messing up easy elements, falling out of unison, and just generally stinking up the rink.

  Weston waved them over to the boards. Lexa went apprehensively, fearing whatever well-deserved criticism was about to come her way. He gave them both long appraising looks before finally speaking.

  “It’s not unusual to lose a little ground here and there,” he said. “Especially when you’re pushing ahead as hard and fast as we are.”

  Lexa’s eyes dropped to her skates. Eric wasn’t losing ground. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me this week.”

  “I do. Physical stress makes a body tired, but mental stress wears a person out. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself, Lexa, thinking too far ahead, obsessing over a timeline that only exists in your head.”

  Her gaze rose combatively. “Olympics only happen once every four years. That’s not in my head.”

  Weston smiled, the lines in his cheeks folding into pleats. “Lord, if you only knew how much you look like your mother right now.”

  “My mother?” she echoed, surprised.

  “You didn’t think Blake was the only hardhead in that pair, did you? No one could tell either of them anything once they’d set their minds. Lucky for them, they always set them the same way.” He smiled again. “Lucky for you, too.”

  An answering grin crept onto her face. “Stubborn, huh?”

  “Lord in heaven! Ask your grandmom. And don’t think I’m spilling secrets here. I loved Kaitlin like the daughter I never had—she wouldn’t have wanted you growing up thinking she was some perfect, pliant princess. She had backbone. She had spunk.” Weston laughed fondly. “That girl was stubborn as sin.”

  “Go figure,” Eric said with a teasing grin. “Our Lexa’s such a sweet little angel.”

  “I am sweet,” she said, punching his arm.

  “Ow! Oh,” he moaned, rubbing his biceps where she’d tapped him. “I can’t do any lifting now. I’ll have to knock off early.”

  “Exactly what I was about to suggest.” Weston turned to Lexa. “Take the afternoon off. Watch TV. Read a book. Text those friends at sectionals you can’t stop thinking about.” He laughed at her stunned expression. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been coaching since before the flood. You think I haven’t seen this before?”

  She glanced up at the stands. Beth was knitting by herself, the picture of innocence. Had Weston really deduced the source of her distraction, or did he have inside information?

  “Go clear your head,” he said kindly. “Give your expectations a rest. Then come back fresh tomorrow and we’ll pick up from there.”

  Lexa apologized to Eric again as they headed for the locker rooms.

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “I’m tired too, don’t worry. I’ll probably just go home and sleep.”

  “You’re not tired because of me, are you? I mean, all of my screw-ups aren’t making you crazy?”

  He stepped into her path, blocking forward progress. Looking into her eyes, he made sure she heard every word: “You are not screwing up. You’re doing everything I could want and more. I am not tired because of you. Okay?” He smiled. “I’m tired because our schedule’s a ballbuster and I stayed up until two a.m. playing a new video game.”

  Even Beth was understanding. “You’ve been working so hard,” she said in the car on the drive home. “And I know you miss your friends. Let’s treat ourselves this afternoon. Should we bake a carrot cake?”

  “Carrot cake?” Lexa smiled wryly. “Even your treats involve vegetables.”

  “Cream cheese icing,” Beth wheedled.

  “Put that icing on a pan of brownies, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  —54—

  Diving over her unmade bed, Lexa grabbed her phone off the nightstand.

  “Should I just tell you?” Bry’s voice was loud and cheerful—Bry at the top of his game. “Or should I beat around the bush? Draw out the suspense.”

  “Oh, definitely beat around the bush,” she said, pacing in her excitement. “Also, do yourself a favor and never take up poker.”

  “I killed!” he exulted. “Two nearly perfect programs!”

  “So you’re through to—”

  “I murdered everyone but Ian and he crushed the quad Salchow. Man, I hate that quad!” He didn’t sound as if he hated it. At that moment, he didn’t sound capable of hating anything.

  Constrained by the cluttered floor in her bedroom, Lexa paced through the bath into the wide-open spaces of Kaitlin’s museum. “So, Ian—”

  “First again. But if he’d fallen on that quad, or missed an element somewhere else . . . I mean, obviously other guys are throwing them too, but scoring’s not all about quads. I could still have an actual chance! And by next season, Olympics season, I’ll have a quad myself.”

  “That’s fantastic, Br
y.” She felt guilty saying so, as if rooting for him was rooting against Ian. If she was forced to choose sides, though, she’d take Bry’s every time.

  Even though Ian did call me hot, she remembered with a pang. Hot but crazy . . . Does that mean he likes me or not? She still wasn’t even sure if Halloween had been a date. Now if he’d tried to kiss me on those wax lips . . .

  “Lexa!” Bry said impatiently.

  “What? I’m listening.”

  “Obviously not. I just said I have to go. My parents are waiting. There’s this sort of party. I’ll try to call back later.” He was gone the next instant, leaving her ear pressed to empty air.

  Lexa found herself alone in her mom’s childhood room, a dead phone in her hand, wondering how she’d gotten there. She knew she ought to be thrilled that Bry and Ian had both skated well, but instead she found herself thinking about all the things that should have been. She should have been there to cheer them on, and to congratulate Blake. She should have been there to encourage Jenni. Jenni should have been there.

  Would she have quit skating if I’d stayed at Ashtabula Ice? It felt conceited to even wonder that, but her absence had to have helped clear the way for the perfect storm of senior year, newfound popularity, and Adam that had dropped training to the bottom of Jenni’s priorities. She should at least have skated at sectionals. I should have skated with her.

  That thought pulled Lexa up short. Skating with Jenni meant skating singles. And even though pairs was her sole focus now, she reluctantly had to admit that there were aspects of singles she missed. The freedom, mostly, the ability to cut a new line or improvise an arm movement with no thought to unison. She missed not worrying about dragging her partner down every time she made a mistake. She had expected being half of a pair to lighten her burden, but having a partner, even a great partner like Eric, had actually increased the pressure. She didn’t rise or fall on her own anymore—other people were counting on her.

  The phone vibrated in her hand. Ian:

  wish u’d been here tonight

  Lexa sighed. Me too.

  —55—

  “And . . . up!” Eric said, timing his press perfectly to Lexa’s approach. She levitated into an effortless star lift. Balanced overhead on her side, one of Eric’s hands securely under her hip, she rode in easy circles down the ice, back, head, arms, and legs all exactly where they should be. To the extent her rigid boots allowed, she even pointed her toes.

  “Beautiful!” Weston called from the boards. “Gorgeous, girl!”

  “Right. You’re gorgeous and I’m the wallpaper,” Eric teased beneath her.

  Weston overheard. “Poor Eric. You’re gorgeous too. Better?”

  “Yes, actually.” He rolled Lexa down through the dismount and set her gently on one blade, grinning the whole time.

  Lexa returned his smile, wishing she felt it more inside. Star lift was a move she had literally dreamed of doing for years, and the lift they’d just done had been textbook. Eric and Weston were clearly thrilled. Beth was clapping in the risers. So why did she feel . . . nothing?

  Everything just feels kind of hollow today, she thought. Maybe I’m depressed. Thanksgiving wasn’t that far away, and the holidays always made her more aware of the schism in her family. Trying to shake off her malaise, she skated beside Eric in the setup to their long program’s lasso lift. With a backward toe takeoff and one-handed dismount, this was the lift of highest difficulty in their current arsenal. Boyd had dropped her on a far easier lasso lift, but Lexa skated now as if that had never happened, her timing automatic, her takeoff right where it should be. The old flutter of fear as she maneuvered hand-to-hand over Eric’s head was completely absent, and so were any bobbles. She hit every position perfectly, as if the outcome were inevitable.

  At least I’m skating well again. Weston had been right to send her home during sectionals; her lack of focus then had made her a danger to Eric as well as herself. But two weeks had passed since and she hadn’t had a single bad day. If anything, she made visible progress at every session.

  Weston called them to the rail. “So much improvement!” he said happily. “Lexa, you look like an angel up there. And Eric, don’t feel unappreciated. Your partner couldn’t shine if you weren’t the candle supporting her flame. She’s incredibly lucky to have you.” He turned to Lexa. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she replied, mustering her first genuine enthusiasm of the day. Whatever bad mood had gripped her had nothing to do with Eric. “You are a god among candles, E-Money.”

  They laughed as they headed off the ice. But in her grandmother’s car on the long drive home, Lexa fell silent again, and for once Beth didn’t badger her or try to cheer her up. She seemed lost in thought herself.

  “Hop out and get the mail, will you, kitten?” she said when at last the silver Mercedes reached the bottom of their drive. “Save your old grandmom a trip.”

  Lexa roused herself enough to climb out. A bitter wind was blowing, swirling dead leaves through the iron gates. Yanking the mailbox open, she snatched out a handful of envelopes and hurried back to the warmth of the car.

  “Anything good?” Beth asked, continuing up the hill.

  “I didn’t look.” She flipped through the envelopes. Her grandmother was fascinated by snail mail, but Lexa couldn’t understand why; all it ever seemed to bring was ads and bills. “I don’t see—” She went silent at the sight of a stiff white envelope addressed to her in a familiar spiky scrawl.

  “What?” Beth glanced over, then braked hard outside the garage. “Is that from Blake?” she asked, her tone becoming accusing. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he tell you he was sending something?”

  “When would he have told me that?”

  Beth parked in the garage and cut the engine. “Are you going to open it?”

  Lexa stared at the envelope, her pulse skipping. Even Blake’s handwriting had the power to twist her gut into knots.

  “It looks like some sort of card. I’ll open it,” Beth said, reaching.

  “No.” Lexa yanked it back. “I will.” She had obviously missed her chance to take the thing to her room to deal with privately. Reluctantly, she ripped open the envelope and extracted its contents.

  A greeting card met her baffled gaze. No words, just a winter landscape featuring a pair of cold-looking geese on an icy pond. Two photos tucked inside slipped down to reveal one handwritten line: Thought you might like to have these.

  No other message. Not even a signature.

  “He just sent me some pictures,” she said, relieved but even more mystified.

  “Pictures?” Beth tried to grab again, unsuccessfully. “Let me see! I want to see what he’s up to this time.”

  “Who says he’s up to something?”

  Beth sighed impatiently. “The man is always up to something.”

  Lexa looked down at the pictures. The one on top didn’t surprise her—a photo of Bry and Ian receiving their sectionals medals—but the second one made her gasp. A heavily pregnant Kaitlin grinned for the camera while a much younger Blake stood smiling behind her, his arms encircling his teenage wife’s waist and both hands cradling her belly.

  I’m in this picture, she realized, mesmerized by her parents’ glowing faces. I’m in there and Blake wants me.

  She had never before seen a photo of her mother pregnant, hadn’t even known one existed. Considering the drama surrounding her entry into the world, she had never been surprised that no one had run for the camera. But now, out of the blue, here were her parents, about to have a baby they definitely shouldn’t be having and undeniably thrilled about it.

  Beth finally succeeded in snatching the photo. “This old thing?” she said, grimacing at the sight of her pregnant daughter. “Where did he unearth this? What’s the other one?”

  Lexa flashed her a peek without letting go. “Nothing. Friends. He just thought I’d like to have them.”

  Be
th snorted. “As if they’re some random photos he ran across in a drawer? I’m not buying it, kitten, and neither should you. There’s nothing random about those photos—they’re both symbolic as hell.”

  “Symbolic,” Lexa repeated skeptically.

  “You bet.” Beth handed back the photo of Kaitlin and Blake. “He’s telling you he hasn’t forgotten: those times, your mother, what they gave up to have you.” Her finger stabbed at the picture in Lexa’s other hand. “And that one—sectionals, am I right? He’s telling you that you should have been there.”

  “I should have been there!” Lexa snapped, provoked into losing her temper. “I should have and you know it!” Pushing the car door open, she jumped out still clutching the photos.

  “You’re angry at me now?” Beth called at her retreating back. “That’s exactly what he wants!”

  Lexa pounded up the stairs to her room, only then realizing she had left Blake’s card in the car. Good luck seeing that again, she thought bitterly. She called up the image of those two cold geese surrounded by a world of ice and gripped her photos tighter.

  Symbolic as hell.

  —56—

  Lexa stared past her laptop screen, out through her bedroom window. A layer of pure new snow blanketed the estate, softening stripped branches and whiting out the dirty slush of the day before. She wished she could invite Bry over to try riding their river tubes down those pristine slopes. Instead, she had to finish a history essay then help cook Thanksgiving dinner.

  The herbs Beth had used to season the turkey were already wafting up the stairs, so the bird was in the oven, but there were still pies and side dishes galore to tackle, even though their only guest that day would be Weston. A lifelong bachelor, he’d apparently had nowhere better to go.

  “There are only going to be three of us!” Lexa had protested when Beth unveiled her dinner menu: roast turkey, chestnut stuffing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, candied yams, cranberry relish, Waldorf salad, green beans almandine, homemade dinner rolls, savory corn pudding, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream. “That’s enough to feed a town!”