Page 19

I stare at my statistics textbook like it has personally wronged me.

The words swim on the page—z-scores, confidence intervals, population parameters—I’ve read the same sentence four times, and still can’t make sense of it.

I need to study. I really need to study.

I’m so damn close to graduating. I refuse to let one tiny little course stump me, and if I could figure out anatomy, I can handle data sets.

And yet, here I ammaking a mental to-do list of things I don’t actually need to do. And not studying.

I tap my pen against the side of the textbook, not writing anything. Just… tapping. It makes a rhythmic sound I can almost pretend is productive. Almost.

Across the room, my mom pokes her head into the doorway. She spent the whole day working and still looks like she stepped out of a good housekeeping magazine. By contrast, I’m in my thinnest, rattiest pair of leggings—I’m pretty sure there’s a hole in the crotch—and my cow slippers.

“Sadie?” Even her frown is mild. “What is that noise? Are you okay?”

I drop my pen like it’s made of fire and razor wire. “Sorry, mom. Just studying.”

She looks from the book to me and back again.

“Oh, that’s good.” She smiles. “How’s it going?”

Going? Not at all. I’m a stalled train stuck on a track, hoping someone will come by and help me out. She must read the negative answer on my face because she makes a tired huffing sound.

“Sadie. Just sit down and focus, sweetheart.”

Thanks mom. Very helpful. I’d have never thought of that on my own.

And I’m already sitting. Sort of. Perching on the edge of the armchair in their sunroom totally counts. I have one leg folded under me, textbook balanced on my knee, laptop sitting beside me with all my previous notes. Totally the picture of academic rigor.

Mom gives me that tight-lipped smile that means she’s trying to be supportive. “You know what I’m going to say. Just commit to working.”

Right.

Just sit and focus.

Commit.

Why didn’t I think of that?

I swallow back the sharp reply itching to break free and nod instead. She means well. My parents always do. But it doesn’t stop the words from feeling like a punch to the ribs.

It’s not their fault that my brain falls short.

I haven’t watered my windowsill plant in days. I set my book to the side and get up, padding past mom into the kitchen..

“Sadie,” my mom frowns again. “I thought we were studying.”

“I am,” I lie, feeling like I’m a kid again. I tug open the kitchen drawer and dig out the tiny spray bottle. “Just need to hydrate Fernie Sanders first.”

My mom appears in the doorway, every blonde hair in perfect place. “You know, if you’d just sit down and focus, you’d get everything done faster. Your plant can wait a few hours.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I bite the inside of my cheek. She’s trying to be helpful. Supportive. Something.

“You’re always darting from one thing to the next. I thought you’d eventually grow out of it, but you never did. You’ve just got to be more disciplined.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Disciplined.” Like I don’t already know that. Like it’s that simple. Like there isn’t a mental wall cutting me off from all the things I’m supposed to be doing, while the angry goblin driving me like an overloaded tuk tuk screams into the void.

I return to the sunroom, spray bottle in hand, and give my New York fern a spritz.

Then I slump back into the chair and stare at the infinitesimal text until I feel my eyes cross.

I’ve re-read the same paragraph a million times, anyway.

It makes no more sense than it did during the first read-through.

Ten seconds later, I’m Googling dog-friendly cafes in town.

For no reason. Except maybe because I saw a video online about one last week and thought Ragnar might like it.

Howl. I meant Howl might like it.

The thought makes me smile, and that smile costs me at least three more minutes.

My dad peeks in next. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“Uh oh. I know that means worse than terrible.” He approaches my desk, scans the screen. “You’re still on problem one?”

It’s hard not to deflate at that. To crumple inward. All belief that I can figure this out gone.

“It’s… complicated.”

He squints at the formula. “This is basic stats, right? What’s complicated about it? You plug in the values and run the math.”

If it were that simple, I wouldn’t be having this problem.

No matter what I do, the answer is always…

off. I make a small error, forget to carry a one, or I forget a step.

Every failure makes the work harder, the little voice in my head singsong louder, you can’t do it.

You’re not smart enough. Haha haha ha haaaa.

“Have you tried that yet?”

Tried plugging in the numbers? That’s all? Well, why didn’t I think of that?

I nod, dreading the next part.

“And?” Dad frowns, snow-white eyebrows pulling together on a classically handsome face.

My parents remind me of the doctors on TV.

Polished. Smart. Every piece of their life perfected.

Meanwhile, I’m like the patient on the gurney.

Maybe not physically, but I feel like I’ve been on the losing end of a fight with a greyhound bus.

“You can do it, honey. Math is mostly logic. Stats even more so.”

“It’s not always that simple,” I snap, “Especially not when your brain feels like a squirrel hopped up on five Red Bulls.”

Dad rears back like I’ve slapped him, and shame floods my system.

He frowns. “Sadie…”

“Don’t.” I rub my palm across my forehead. I have a nasty headache brewing and I still haven’t finished a single problem.

His eyebrows go up. My chest feels tight.

“I’m trying. I’m really, really trying. But you two make it sound like this should be easy, and it’s not, and sometimes the advice you give me makes me feel like I’m broken or lazy just because I don’t get it.”

The words spill out before I can stop them.

My mom walks in, crossing her arms, and I see red. “We’re only trying to help.”

“No, you’re trying to fix me,” I say. “Like I’m this project you can correct by telling me to ‘sit still’ and ‘be more logical.’ I’m drowning in this class, and I hate it, and you’re standing on the shore yelling at me to swim harder while my lungs fill with water.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, like a blanket tossed over a fire. My mom’s lips press together. My dad looks stunned. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I blink them away. My hands are shaking.

“I’m not dumb,” I whisper. “But sometimes it feels like you think I am.”

Or like maybe they regret picking me. Adopting me.

Like maybe if I hadn’t been left in a baby box, they’d have eventually gotten someone better.

Someone blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Someone who could handle medical school and didn’t have to pep talk herself to get into the shower. Someone like them.

Neither my mom nor dad says anything, and that part of my brain—the angry goblin part—rushes in to fill the silence. See? I knew it. They don’t even know what to say. They can’t refute it if they believe it’s true.

My dad moves first.

“Sadie. No. No, absolutely not. I—where is this coming from?”

“Where do you think?” I ask, swallowing hard. “You’re both doctors. You were academic stars. I’m barely scraping by in a field I’m not even sure I want, and I have to twist myself into a pretzel every day just to function.”

“That’s not true,” he says.

“Isn’t it? You didn’t even ask if I wanted this job. You just made a phone call. And now I’m expected to be grateful and perfect, and I’m trying. I am. But—”

“I didn’t know you felt this way,” Dad cuts me off. I can tell he’s trying to meet my eyes, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’m being completely unfair. I’m also being more honest than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

“Because you don’t listen,” I say. “Not really.”

But is that fair? I’ve never said anything either. Not with words.

My mom, predictably, pivots. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with that player. Ragnar.”

I stiffen. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You told us his rehab is over.” She picks invisible lint off of her perfectly tailored pants.

“It is.” I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but it probably won’t be anywhere good.

“So, why are you still seeing him?”

And there it is.

“We’re friends,” I say. “I’m helping him with media stuff. He’s helping me with stats. It’s nothing.”

“Be careful with ‘nothing.’” Her voice sharpens. “You know how things went for Tristan and Victor when their relationship became public. That kind of attention isn’t good for your reputation.”

I don’t have a reputation. I’m an assistant trainer who got a job because her daddy is friends with the team owner. I do what I’m paid to do, and then I go home.

“You’re still employed by the team. The owner is our friend. We vouched for you. If there’s even a hint of impropriety—”

“We haven’t done anything wrong!” Did I want to? Well, that’s not the question. She gives me a look. “Then it won’t be a problem to maintain a little professional distance.”

I say nothing. Because it won’t matter what I say. It never does, but I pack up my things—including Fernie Sanders—and head to my room in the basement.

Technically, it’s my space—I pay a small amount of rent—but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’ve failed some unspoken adulthood test. I’m nearly twenty-six and still living in the same house where I learned how to ride a bike.

Meanwhile, Ragnar moved to a different country at eleven.

Started preparing for his career then. I’m basically done with a master’s degree, and not sure if I even like the cushy job I have.

I settle onto my bed and open my stats workbook again. The numbers blur as I try to focus. I can’t hold on to a thought long enough to finish the problem. It feels like every time I get close, my brain slides away from it like a sunscreen-greased kid on a slip and slide.