Page 6

chapter six

lose you to love you, i suppose

T he breath I took as I stood in front of the house I used to call home was hard.

Looking up at it now was only taking me back to when Dad was alive. Not happy,not fully, but alive, and well enough to be home. Right after senior prom, his health started getting worse, as though the heartbreak that had made a home in his heart had finally laid its roots.

I could almost see him wandering around on the front lawn, a padded vest overhis body and a cowboy hat that I'm suprised he still had the strength to wear after Montana. I could see him tending to the flowers, a job that I knew mom would have controlled had she been here to see this house. Like that was another part of her that he was trying to hold on to.

I felt the girls brush up beside me as Cora mumbled something to Jamie,her bodyguard who’d driven us here. He’d been her shadow since our senior year, when her social media following really blossomed, so having him around was almost as comforting as hav ing her.

“It’s beautiful,” Daisy mumbled as shegrabbed my hand, somehow knowing Ineeded something to stabilise me.

Before I could let the sting of tearsforce me to dab my eyes, I stole a breath, this one somehow easier than the last.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I got the keys from the envelope and wedged them into the lock.

The hinges creaked as the entryway revealed itself, and before I could talk myself out of doing this I put one foot over the threshold, then the other. A silly part of my mind expected to see him down the hall, walking towards mewith a big smile and wide arms ready to hug me. But when I finally lifted my eyes, the hallway was empty. Dusty. Like it was always going to be.

“Oh my God,” Goldie gasped frombeside me. “This house… are you sure youhave to sell it?”

I looked at her, sure that all the waysI’d conspired to keep this place were shining in my eyes. “I’m sure.” I traced the bannister I never found the courage to slide down, and sank into my reflection in the mirror before lifting my eyes back up. “It’s time for it to go.”

I met their stares again and felt a swell of gratitude. Justhaving them here made the impossible seem possible. If I had to face this place on my own, I would have turned away before even making it through the door. That much I was sure of.

I spun to them and cleared my throat. “Alright, here’s the plan: we each take a room, make three piles—‘keep,’ ‘not sure,’ and ‘get rid of.’ You make the call. I’ll come round and pick out anything I need to keep. Sound good?”

Cor a snorted, clearly holding back alaugh. “Good? You sound like my old GirlGuides leader. Shame I didn’t bring my beret—you would’ve made a cracking sergeant.” She smiled, placing her hand on the hip of her black jeans.

I gave her a little wink. “Well, I amhalf French. It’s practically our birthright to look cute in a beret.” All three of them smiled, in a way that made me think seeing my smile was what they’d been waiting for. “But before all that,” I said, pulling at the sleeves of my pink cardigan, “I thought it’d be sane to tackle—.”

A sound cut through the moment—footsteps on the porch.

All four of us stilled.

It was too heavy to be wind, but to purposeful to be anything justifiable.

Goldie narrowed her eyes toward the front door. “Are you expecting people?”

I shook my head right as the door creaked open, and light spilled in.

Sneakers first. Then jeans. Then Jesse’s familiar, gentle smile.

“Are we late?” he asked, lifting a tray of coffees like a peace offering.

I blinked. “Jesse?”

Behind him, Tristan ducked inside, tossing a lazy wave with the bag of goodies wedged in his grip.

And then—

Then he walked in.

He was the last one through the door, a shadow hesitating at the threshold. Like even he wasn’t sure he should be there. He stood taller than he had the other day, the light brushing the side of his face, catching on the edge of his jaw, the messy flop of his hair, the faded Liberty Grove sweater I remember him buying our first week here.

My chest twisted so hard I forgot to breathe.

He looked at me.

God, he looked right at me.

Not with a smile. Not with bitterness either. Just… something raw. Quiet. Like there was a whole ocean sitting behind his eyes and neither of us knew how to swim anymore. Like he recognised something in me.

My voice felt caught in my throat, brittle and useless. “What—what are they doing here?” I asked Daisy, low, barely moving my lips.

She was already watching me carefully, knowing exactly what she’d done. “I thought,” she said softly, “more hands might make the job less daunting.”

I knew she was right. Of course she was right.

But seeing him here, in this house, in this fragile little bubble of grief I’d been trying to keep contained—it was like setting a match to a stack of unsaid things.

Still, I nodded.

And then—because I had to—I smiled. A weak, wobbly smile. But real enough that Jesse pulled me into a hug, and then Tristan did the same.

When Finn stepped forward, we both hesitated.

The air between us crackled with history. With rejections and barely-there glances. With the kind of silence that used to have m e thinking there was something more than friendship between us.

But then I opened my arms. Because I couldn’t not. He had come to help after all, and I should be grateful for just that. And when he stepped into them, my heart knocked hard against my ribs.

He was warm. Familiar. Wrong and right all at once.

It lasted a second too long. Maybe two. And that was enough for reality to slap me.

Why am I hugging Finn? How am I hugging Finn? What the hell was he even doing here after everything?

When I pulled away, I didn’t look at him.

Instead, I turned to the stairs and forced a grin, remebering why we were all suddenly in my house anyway. “The attic’s first.”

A collective groan rose behind me, forcing a weak chuckle out of me.

“And since I’m the one bravely confronting childhood trauma and deciding the fate of my father’s sock drawer,” I added, “I’m appointing someone to take one for the team.”

Almost unconsciously, my eyes fell to Finn, whose smile rose like he had a secret tunnel to my mind.

He groaned before I could even say anything. “Don’t do this.”

Oh karma. You sweet, sweet mistress.

I pointed upward, flashing him a smile that was anything but nice. “You’re on attic duty, Rhodes.”

Cora’s laugh rang out. “Savage.”

He raised a brow. “If I get attacked by a ghost, I hope it’s your dad. I have notes .”

The sting at the back of my eyes didn't pinch the second the word 'dad' rang through the room. Instead, my throat bobbed with the promise of a laugh, a small laugh, that felt needed. Stronger. “You and me both.”

And without another word and a half assed salute, he started up the stairs.

Not looking back.

And thank God. Because the second he turned away, I let myself feel it—the weight of him being here. The memories he dragged in. The way one look still burned like it used to.

But we weren’t that version of us anymore.

We were just two people with boxes to sort, rooms to empty, and an attic full of ghosts to chase out.

“Oh look! I found baby Rory!” Goldiesquealed from the corner of the guest bedroom, light spilling over a dozen half opened boxes and bubbled wrapped trinkets.

“Let’s have a look!” Cora called as sheabandoned her boxes by the stairs, thatwe’d found out held all of dad’s old car parts.

“Oh look!” Daisy cooed. “It’s you inyour school play dressed as a tree.”

I h uffed a laugh, remembering howhappy I was with that role, as I sank into the room where they'd all congregated.

Jess and Tristan had appointed themselves to the downstairs rooms. And the girls and I were happy exisiting in the first floor. And right as my mind flew to him, I heard footsteps on the ceiling.

A very small, miniscule part of me felt guilty for sending him up there all by himself, but one reminder of how he treated me last year and that guilt vanished like the dust paticles hovering around us.

“Check this one out Ror,” Coramumbled, a look that almost made my brows furrow resting on her face. It wasn’t sadness, it held more longing than that, like whatever was in the picture was something she wanted one day.

And when she handed me the photo, Iimmediately understood what that lookwas all about.

In the bottom right corner of thephoto was written ‘ Aurélia and ArnoldGreene. March 1995.'

“It’s from their wedding day.” I barelysaid.

Pink rose petals fell over them as theystood on the church steps of what I knewwas St. Bernadette’s in Honeywood. The streaks of sunlight were dancing through Mom’s veil, floating behind her slightly. Even with all the natural beauty around them, though, their smiles were my favourite part of that picture.

“Your mom’s dress is breathtaking.” Cora said, leaning over my shoulder.

“ Ooh, let’s see,” Daisy said, so Ipassed the photo back to her. Her eyes turned to globes as she took it in. “Oh my… it’s so unique!”

I nodded. “She told me it was one ofher skating outfits—the one she waswearing when she met Dad, actually. He drove the Zambonis at the rink where she was training for her first sectional competition. It was her first one since she’d moved here from Domme, this small town in the south of France where she grew up.”

She’d thrown an overskirt on top ofthe dress to make it look more bridal, burnt organza flowers trailing the fabric that was hemmed with silk trim.

“It’s probably in here somewhere,” Isaid, thinking out loud, before passing itback to Cora and setting my eyes on the spot next to—

The thud that sounded made my stomach drop like it never had before.

For a moment I thought the ceiling was caving in, that the girls and I would be buried under plasterboard and dust in a matter of seconds.

"Ow, fuck!"

But once Finn's muffled curse echoed through the halls, things cleared up.

I looked around at the girls faces, their eyes on the ceiling before falling onto me. And with those few glances, everything was said.

I huffed. "I'll go and check he's not dead then, shall I?"

Cora's sickly sweet smile beamed up at me. "If you insist."

I b lew her a middle finger kiss before I sucked in a breath and left the room. My steps paused before climbing up the attic ladder, purely because being alone with Finn was an even worse fate than if I had to tackle cleaning this house on my own. But again, that guilt stabbed me in the heart. I'd sent him up there, so checking he was still beathing was the decent thing to do.

The attic creaked under my feet as I reached the top step. For a second, I just stood there, hand on the frame, heart thudding way too fast for someone checking on a noise .

But it wasn’t just any thud. And it wasn’t just anyone.

“Finn?” I called softly. “Please don’t be, like… dead. Or possessed. I’m really not in the mood.”

A muffled groan came from behind a stack of boxes. Then his head popped up—messy hair, dusty sweater, looking like he’d just lost a fight with a moth colony.

“Oh good,” I said, letting out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. “You’re alive. And you’ve made friends with the insulation.”

Finn blinked at me, then smiled in that crooked, lopsided way that made everything worse. “It looked comfy.”

I fought so hard to contain my smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “Just tried to sit on a chair that, uh, forgot how to be a chair.”

I stepped inside, arms crossed more for self-protection than attitude, lingering by a stack of boxes. “Next time, give me a heads-up before you go falling through the ceiling. The last thing I need is for this house to fall apart.” As I looked back at him, his smile only grew. "What?"

He shrugged, studying me. “I'm just surprised you came to check on me after banishing me up here.” he quipped, eyebrows raised. There was something soft in the way he said it—like he hadn’t expected that.

“I heard a crash. I’m nosy. It’s not that deep.”

“Still.” He paused. “Thanks.”

Our eyes met for a second longer than was comfortable. I looked away first.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood, glancing around like he suddenly remembered he wasn’t alone. “So, what brings you to the land of cobwebs and forgotten Christmas decor?”

“You, apparently,” I said, then immediately wished I hadn’t. “I mean, the thud. That’s all. Just making sure you weren’t bleeding from the head.”

He laughed quietly. “No blood. Just bruised pride.”

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. “Sounds worse to be honest.”

He looked at me then—really looked—and something shifted in the air, almost imperceptible, like the first melt of ice. A polar ice cap cracking.

“You can stay, if you want,” he said, not meeting my eyes now. “It’s weirdly peaceful up here.”

I hesitated. Being around him the other day was enough for me to remember how dangerous being around him was. But my mind felt cloudy up here, and before I knew it was wander ing toward the window sill and perching on the edge of it. “I suppose it is if you're into dust and horrid lighting.”

A hushed grunt was all I got from him.

Neither of us said anything for a minute. But he didn’t ask me to leave.

And weirdly I didn’t want to.

"Have you found anthing?" I asked, breaking the silence, his green eyes settling back on me. "Or have you just devoted your time to injuring yourself?"

His chuckle hit me, like a warm morning breeze. "A few things." Groaning as he leans, he reaches behind him, before handing me a stack of photos. "Thought you'd want to keep these. Especially the one where you look like a baby marshmallow."

I was confused for all of two seconds, before my eyes fell to the picture at the top of the pile.

I'd know this scene in my sleep. It was me and my mom, standing on the edge of the frozen lake by the cottage back in Honeywood. A pink coat with a fur hood way too big for me covered my tiny frame, but my smile was huge. Shining right at the camera.

My eyes rolled back at him. "Baby marshmallow?"

One of his broad shoulders lifted. "Tell me I'm wrong." He laughed, nodding at the photo.

He wasn't. Annoyingly. But he didn't need to know that.

Instead, I focused back on the picture, as my eyes trailed down, finding my feet covered by a tiny pair of skates.

The sight made my heart jump.

It was one of those moments where your mind was suddenly filled with memories that you hadn't realised you'd forgotten. Or I guess in my case I'd willingly blocked them out.

“How old were you there?” Finn asked, his voice a whisper in my mind.

I looked up, barely. “Umm, six, maybeseven.” I looked back at the picture. “Thelake is fully frozen, so it would’ve been January, and with my birthday on the fourteenth, I could be either.” I squinted my eyes at the picture once more. “Actually, those were my first real pair of skates that weren’t rented from the rink, so that would’ve been just after my seventh birthday.”

My fingertips hovered over the photo,a pang of bittersweet warmth flickeringin my chest. I knew it was Dad who’d taken the picture—the angle was too familiar, the way he always seemed to capture Mom mid-motion. She was in the middle of a pirouette, right next to me, her skate resting against the inside of her leg, perfectly balanced. That was around this time in my lifethat I truly fell in love with watching herskate. Wanting so badly to skate just as well as she did.

When had I last skated? I tried toremember, but the answer was a hazy blur.

Not since Montana. That much I knew.

Back then, the lake was practically my second home. Once, I even got caught skating at four in the morning, though after that, I learned to hide my sunrise skates better.

It was magic—the way the world seemed to wait for me to take that first steponto the ice. The birds wouldn’t sing, and the sun wouldn’t crest the mountains—not until I was out there, glidin g across the glassy surface. Dancing. Spinning. Flying. Like the lake wasn’t just a frozen stretch of water but the very heart of who I was, the only place I was truly alive.

But since Mom… since losing the person who showed me just how much Iloved skating, even thinking about that lake makes my body freeze.

I couldn’t do it. Not anymore. Because something was missing. She wasmissing. Her laugh, her soft voice offering instructions from the sidelines, her smile—the one she wore just for me—was all gone.

My thumb brushed over the corner of the photograph.

Could she hear me now? What would they say if they knew? Me.Rory Greene. The girl who once lived for the ice, who would’ve slept out there if it meant I didn’t have to leave it. I wanted to believe she’d understand. If it hurt this much, maybe I wasdoing the right thing by leaving it behind like these memories stuffed into boxes. That was what dad always said when he’d ask me about it.

But then my mind drifted back to those mornings, the ones where we’d wakeup at five a.m. to drive to my competitions. I could still hear her voice—hers and Dad’s—reminding me as we packed to-go breakfasts, “Just do your best. That’s all we’ll ever ask of you.”

I thought about her skaters, the ones she’d trained when she was technicallyretired and done with her competition career, who’d gush about how much I reminded them of her when I skated. There was one of them… Amelia… Aspen… I couldn’t remember, but she went on to be a four-time gold medalist for the Olympics in figure skating, and she was always telling mom how taleanted I was, how natural my gift with this sport was. She never argued when any of them said this to her, just smiled at them, before turning that same, angelic smile on me.

I lifted my head, a dull ache bloomingat the base of my neck from how longI’d had it arched. Finn had taken my silence as a hint and was busying himself with the boxes he'd already sorted through.

How long had I been staring at that photo?

The though had me blinking away the dryness in my eyes, but before I could flick to the next picture, Finn cleared his throat. "I found these too." My eyes pinged to him. "Figured since the box was taped up it might be important. And I didn't want to go routing."

In his hands was a box, battered and worn but still somewhat in tact. I set the photos beside me as I took it from him, curiosity biting at me as I pulled off the tape with a soft tug, the edges unfolding as dust poured from the sides.

Pink. That’s what I was met with. Poolsof pink fabric, neatly folded to thebrim of the box. Tiny pearls hemmed the edge of one, while tiny vinyl snowflakes were sporadically printed around another.

It clicked in my mind what they werethe second my finger ran over the fabric.

These were my skating costumes.

I pulled the top one from the box, tugging at the arms until the slinky thing was stretched out.I didn't know what it said about methat my first thought was “My boobs would never fit in there now.”

Regardless, it made me giggle.

“Where did you find this?” I whispered, almost afraid to disturb the ghosts in the fabric.

"Tucked away with a few others." He said, leaning closer until he could see what I was seeing. "So you've always liked pink?"

His question pulled a small smile from me, but my eyes still stayed locked on the costumes. "Always."

I folded the first costume neatly to the side and kept digging. More costumesemerged—layers of tulle and satin in every shade of pink, with a few baby blues and soft sage greens mixed in. Most of them were too small, relics of routines I’d long forgotten. I was tugging out the last costume when something bright and white caught myeye.

My breath stalled.

I blinked once, then again, staring at them as though they might vanish if Ilooked away.

My skates.

They were my skates.

The discovery should have made me smile, maybe even laugh softly at the thought of Dad scrubbing away scuffs to keep them pristine. But instead, the memory slammed into me, like a car at full speed.

I could see myself on the lake, just as clear as if it were happening now. I’dbeen finishing my Biellmann spin—the one I ’d spent weeks perfecting after watching one of Mom’s skaters nail it—when Dad’s scream tore through the stillness.

I nearly toppled over as I stopped my spin, my blades scraping against the ice.

My heart had lurched into my throat, my legs trembling beneath me. Then he called my name, and I moved, skating hard towards the shore. My fingers fumbled with my laces as I hit the snow, tearing the skates off before bolting towards the house.

I’d left them on the porch steps that day. I never looked for them after that. Never wanted to see them. Now here they were, staring back at me, as unscathed as the girl who’d oncebelieved the world started and ended on that ice.

Only one thought surged through me as I dared to reach into the box, myfingertips grazing the smooth leather of the boot: I hadn’t realised just how much I missed it.

Despite everything, I missed the feeling of sliding on myskates. I missed stealing hours from my evenings just to challenge myself with spins I’d only ever seen Mom master. I missed the applause from the audience. I missed the hours spent picking the perfect music for my routines.

Somehow, I’d forgotten just how much space skating had taken up in my heart—how much of it still belonged there.

Finn shuffled beside me, reminding me that he was watching this reunion unfold. “Are those...”

"My skates," I said, breathless, almost in disbelief as the words escaped me.

“ Did you…” Finn began, reaching a hand into the box, but stopping just before he grabbed the skates. His eyes flickered up to me, looking like he was processing something. “Did you used to skate?”

I turned my head over my shoulder to glance at him, feeling the weight of that part of me I’d buried for so long. “Figure skate. It was my life.”

"Really?" he asked, like he was sure every word that was leaving my life was a lie.

But I nodded, my eyes tracing the edges of the laces, still white enough to look brand new. "My Mom used to skate for Team USA, so I practically grew up around the ice. And I fell in love with it. Every part of it. Competing, the routines, everything. But…" I hesitated, too many memories clogging the back of my throat. "But not anymore."

He paused, his smile growing a little before fading, quickly shifting into something like curiosity, as if he were imagining it. But then, just as fast, his expression turned into something thoughtful as his eyes fell back to the skates. “I’m sorry, this makes no sense.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What doesn’t?”

He sat back on his knees, shuffling to get more comfortable as the floor boards creaked below him. “It's just…” He hesitated, looking back at me with an earnestness I hadn’t expected. “You never said anything to me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I had to share every detail of my life with you.”

Tho se soft green pools rolled, but there was a clear undercurrent that let me catch a glimpse of the boy I met last year. “No, I just mean…” He ran a hand through his hair, the strands darker in the attic’s light. “Don't you think we had enough in common to be more than what we were last year. Like French, and now skating? I don’t know, I just thought you’d mention it. That’s all.”

His words, so casual, made my pulse jump, but the warmth in his eyes only pushed me back into the memories I’d worked so hard to avoid. Memories of me practically leaning closer to him as I waited for his answer. Memories of me crying in my room that still hurt to think about.

I couldn’t hold back. “To be honest, I don’t think I had time to bond with you before you turned me down, shut me out and pretended I didn't exist.” My voice went low, sharp. “Is that a good enough reason as to why I kept this a secret?”

The words hung between us like smoke, and I watched the shift in his expression, saw the faint hint of regret in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I swallowed the bitterness that rushed up. “Then what did you mean?”

His eyes flickered—anger, frustration, projection, something else—but before I could fully catch it, he turned away, the tension in his face disappearing as quickly as it appeared. He slid effortlessly back into his usual bravado, like it was a coat of arms he wore to protect himself. “Whatever." That golden boy smile became the light in the room, but everything about it was synthetic. "It doesn’t matter.”

I o pened my mouth, ready to argue, but he was already on his feet. He didn’t even glance at me as he grabbed for the attic stairs, the air around him seeming to thicken, like he was pulling himself away from me, shutting me out with every step he took.

"I need some air," he muttered, his voice flat, like he couldn’t even be bothered to explain himself. His movements were brisk, like he had no intention of staying. Like I meant nothing.

And just like that, he was gone. The silence slammed into me, thick and suffocating, leaving me in its wake.

I stayed frozen, staring at the stairs where he had just been. His scent lingered in the space like a memory I couldn’t shake. Earthy. Woodsy. Like rain after a dry spell, rich and deep. The scent twisted something deep inside me—aching, wanting.

Desperation to figure out where that boy who'd laughed with me the first night we'd met, who'd asked me a billion and one questions about me, had disappeared to.

But whatever feelings I thought Finn had for me—whatever strange pulls there had been between us—were clearly nonexistent anymore. The realisation hit harder than I wanted it to, sharp as the blades my eyes were zoning in on.

This was us now. Just strangers who had once shared something real. And that had to be good enough. Because waiting on a wish that he'll magically like me was like waiting for the ceiling to cave in.

I shook my head, pushing the thoughts away, but the ache remained.

I t urned down to the box in my lap, my fingers trembling as I looked at the skates—old and worn, but as familiar as this home was. And the longer I sat with them, the more things became clearer.

What had I been doing? Waiting for someone else to fix me? Waiting for someone else's dreams to become my own? To make me feel whole again? To make me happy ?

I glanced around the attic, the empty space a reminder of who I had left to depend on.

Finn was gone, and whatever happened between us… it wasn’t the answer. My parents were gone, but clinging to the past was only going to keep me trapped there.

I clenched my jaw, pushing back the hurt. Happiness wasn’t going to come from him, or from anyone.

I let out a slow breath, my chest tightening.

Maybe skating was the answer I was looking for. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for me to come back to it. Because I deserved fun. I’d spent so long doing everything else to make everyone elsehappy that I’d never made the time for myself. Maybe it was time I stopped putting everyone else's happiness before mine and finally thought about myself, what I wanted, how I wanted to feel.

Before I could think myself out of it, I threw caution to the wind and tore the skates from the box, tucked them under my arms and bolted out of the attic.

I was going to skate again, and maybe, hopefully, I'd find my way back to the girl I used to be before heartbreak was the only thing that carried her.