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"Pathetic," I mutter as I collapse onto the rug, chest heaving. I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling where the city lights throw patterns through the expansive windows. I used to think it looked like stars, but nowI see it for what it really is: artificial light—cold and lifeless.
"Should've called her back," I tell the silence. My phone is on the nightstand, probably still lit up with her message. I don't reach for it. Instead, I haul myself off the floor and into bed, dragging the day's weight with me under the covers.
"Sleep, just sleep," I whisper, but it's a command my brain refuses. The sheets are too smooth, the mattress too firm. Everything's too much and not enough at the same time. The memories of that pond, the ice beneath my feet, the promises broken—they all skate circles in my head.
"Shut up, shut up," I groan, turning over, trying to find a position that feels less like I'm lying on a slab of marble. Sleep finally comes, but it's a restless, uneasy thing, filled with dreams of frozen ponds and faces without names, and Avery's disappointed eyes staring back at me.
"Sorry," I mumble into the darkness, though there's no one to hear it. Not here. Not in this place that's mine but isn't home.
Chapter Thirty
Victor
14 yearsold
I'm on the edge of the pond, but I can't bring myself to step out onto the ice. It's all frost and cold bite, kids laughing and slipping around. They're in sneakers, the ice too slick for anything like that, but they don't care. No money for skates, not here. Not in foster care.
Every month or so, the local foster homes throw a get together so us orphans can visit with the friends we've also been wrenched from. I know the adults think they're doing us a favor, but sometimes it hurts worse to trudge up old homes and old friendships.
I sit there watching them, the cold seeping through my jeans.
"Victor?" The foster mom's voice cuts through the noise. She crouches next to me, concern knitting her brow. She's kind, but it doesn't stop the hurt. "Don't you wanna give it a try?"
I shake my head, pressing my lips tight. If I open my mouth, everything will spill out – the hurt, the betrayal. So I pretend I'm okay, that everything is all good even when it hurts so damn much. She pats my back, a soft thump of reassurance, before she's up again, moving to check on some other kid who's taken a tumble.
"Watch your step!" she calls out, her voice gentle against the winter air.
But I stay put, the ice a reminder of a past that's always freezing me over, keeping me stuck.
Ice crunches underfoot, and I'm jolted from my thoughts as three figures approach me. The one in the lead has this easy grin plastered on his face, his blonde hair catching the weak winter sun like a halo. Skates slung over one shoulder, he stops in front of me while the other two – one with fiery red hair and the other more subdued, black hair peeking out from under a beanie – flank him.
"Hey there," the blonde says, "I'm Roman." He gestures to his companions, "These are my friends, Sebastian and Lawrence."
I manage what must be the most pathetic excuse for a smile and stay silent, just watching them warily.They're all too familiar with this dance; we've all been here before, new kid on the block, sizing up potential friends or foes.
Roman's not put off by my silence though. "What's your name?" he pushes, leaning in as if sharing some great secret.
"Victor," I mutter, my voice nearly lost to the wind that whips across the pond.
He studies me, head tilted. "You okay? You look kinda down."
I shrug, figuring it's easier than explaining – easier than reliving the disappointment. "It's nothing," I lie.
"Sure doesn't seem like nothing," Roman says, but he lets it slide. "We're taking turns with the skates. Want to go after Seb?"
I glance at the ice, a chill deeper than cold seeping through me. "No, thanks."
"Ah, come on," Roman urges, mistaking my reluctance for inability. "It's not that hard. I could show you how."
"Know how to skate," I admit, then add quickly, "Just don't want to."
"Fair enough." Roman shrugs, his curiosity satisfied for now.
He plops down beside me, and tosses the skates to Lawrence, who's already sitting, waiting. The metal clinks as Lawrence straps them on, a sound that echoesin my chest, a reminder of a time when things were almost good.
"Me and the guys," Roman starts, nudging me with an elbow, "we're from all over. Different homes, different stories." He brushes the snow off his jeans, casual like he's talking about the weather. "We keep in touch, letters mostly and then sometimes we get to see each other at these things. Helps to know someone's got your back, y'know?"
I nod, but don't say anything.