Crashed

by Elise Faber

  Really liked her.

  Okay, she’d known that, had felt that affection and love over the years, but there was something about actually seeing it in words, seeing it in something private. These were Grace’s inner thoughts, and there wasn’t any veneer of politeness.

  And Grace had liked Fanny.

  So that was big, and it had Fanny continuing to read, devouring the entries, the story of her and Brandon through Grace’s eyes, and by the time she reached the end, she didn’t know what to think.

  Or maybe it was that she knew what to think, what she should be doing.

  Who she should be running to.

  But what she was too terrified to do.

  “Fuck,” she whispered as she read the last entry, the sadness Grace felt when Fanny had left for good.

  I feel like I’ve lost a daughter. I’m so happy to have Brandon healthy and whole, happy that he’s found someone to love . . . I just wish that someone could have been Fanny.

  She closed the cover and stood, her heart pounding, her eyes stinging.

  It was too much, too raw, too real.

  Too close, when she’d spent so long trying to create distance between her past and present. Too open and out there when she’d worked so hard to rivet the lid on her past.

  She turned for the front door without thinking, scooping up her keys, her skate bag.

  She hurried outside, not caring that it was late and dark, and the rink would be closed.

  Unlock her car. Her bag in the passenger’s seat.

  Her keys in the ignition.

  Go.

  Run.

  Find a way to shove it all down again.

  Chapter Eight

  Brandon

  He pulled up to Fanny’s house, still intending to just drive by.

  Or maybe to pause at the curb and try to figure out how to make things right between them.

  Or maybe to park next to her car and pretend he had a right to be there.

  Or maybe—

  To see Fanny run right out the front door and hightail it for her car. She didn’t look around. She didn’t notice his car at the curb. She didn’t seem to notice anything as she all but ran down the walkway and tossed a bag into her passenger’s seat and tore off out of the driveway.

  As though the hounds of hell were chasing her.

  It wasn’t even a decision to follow her.

  She drove away, and he immediately trailed her, his mind spinning, worry swirling through him. What had happened? Was she okay? Hurt?

  His jaw was tight, fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

  He was going to find out.

  Her car hovered above the speed limit on the freeway for the couple of exits they were on it then did the same as she drove through the quiet streets, as she whipped into a familiar parking lot.

  She stopped by the curb, and he watched as she got out, bag in hand, and unlocked the glass and steel doors, disappearing inside the darkened ice rink. Her skates must be in that bag, he knew now. Just as Brandon understood why she’d run out of her house, why she’d come here.

  Fanny needed to out-skate her demons.

  Which meant he should leave.

  He knew he was going to stay anyway.

  He parked behind her car, promising that he’d wait out here until she was done, would make sure she made it home safe.

  He made it all of ten minutes before he got out of his car.

  Fanny hadn’t locked the door behind her.

  He quietly slipped inside, making sure the glass and metal panel shut behind him, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim lobby.

  There were a few lights on in the rinks beyond—four in total—but he moved straight ahead, going to the sheet of ice he’d seen Fanny on both times he’d been here before. There was barely enough illumination to see the edges of the ice, the plastic boards surrounding it, topped by clear plexiglass.

  And there certainly wasn’t enough light to expose him where he stood just inside the second set of doors, shadows clinging to the walls, the bleachers filling up one side of the space.

  But apparently, it was enough for Fanny to see, to do what she needed to do.

  Her bag sat on the floor, open in front of that lowest bench of the bleachers, almost spotlit beneath one of the few lights that were on.

  But that only drew his focus for a couple of seconds.

  Because his eyes . . . they were drawn to the ice. To Fanny on the ice.

  God, she still moved like a river, liquid and smooth and persistent. No barrier would stop her, but it wasn’t brutal like a tidal wave, like the ocean swallowing up the coastline. She was the narrow stretch of a creek, flowing through rocks and trees, along the riverbed. Graceful and effortless and absolutely stunning.

  There wasn’t any music blaring over the speakers. There weren’t any fans in the stands.

  It was just her and the music in her heart, the joy in her soul.

  He stood there, riveted in place, the only sound in the large space the crunch of her skate blades against the ice. She owned the rink, using every inch as she moved through a stretch of footwork he remembered her taking months to master. Only it was different at the end, as though she’d added to it and increased the difficulty of the movements. Then she picked up speed, skating around the edges, lining up for a takeoff. There was one less rotation than he’d seen the last time she’d performed, but the double axel was still impressive, as was the Lutz she entered into barely a heartbeat later.

  But she didn’t stop there.

  She continued moving, flowing, and it was as though a decade had never passed.

  She jumped again and again. Her skate blades glinted in the dim light.

  Her chest heaved, and her hair was plastered to her forehead.

  And then . . .

  She stopped, her gaze arrowing toward him.

  Chapter Nine

  Fanny

  She was in the middle of her routine, the one that had earned her a silver medal.

  The one she’d tweaked and added to over the years. Taking out some of the more difficult jumps—because she wasn’t in as good of shape as she’d been at seventeen and didn’t like breaking her ass—but putting in some of the footwork she really enjoyed. That had become her specialty, mainly because she’d needed to be good enough to teach other people how to trust their edges, their balance, to correctly distribute their weight.

  She’d spent hours and hours upping her game.

  And tonight just flowed.

  All of the tension and need and longing that had coalesced upon finishing reading that notebook flowed out of her as she skated to music she hadn’t heard in more than a decade.

  The last time she’d skated it with music, she’d been surrounded by thousands of people. Her parents had come, along with Brandon’s, and they’d all been sitting together in the stands. But she’d only had eyes for him. For the boy she loved. The boy who knew every move in the program and would mouth them as she completed them.

  Something she’d only discovered when a reporter had shown her video of Brandon doing it in the stands.

  So fucking good.

  He’d been so fucking good.

  Was it any wonder that no one else had ever competed? How could they?

  She’d had the perfect man, the perfect boyfriend and fiancé and . . . lost it.

  Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes, but only for a second, because rage quickly followed, chasing them away. Rage at what she’d lost. Rage at herself for being scared of what might be between them now. Rage at Brandon for getting sick, for forgetting her even though she knew logically it wasn’t his fault.

  But logic wasn’t ruling her right now.

  The fury of the last ten years was.

  She moved faster and faster, speeding through the footwork, then picking up speed as she circled the rink, prepping for a jump, a toe loop that was messy as hell because she was sucking wind, but she pushed on anyway, forcing herself into another double axel with her ch
est heaving.

  She stumbled, hit the ice with one knee, her hands catching herself on the ice.

  Dropping her head as she tried to control her breathing, she stayed in place, her one knee aching from the impact, her fingers burning as the cold soaked into her skin, her palms.

  Her nape prickled, and her gaze jerked up.

  She shouldn’t be able to see him, not with the shadows, not with the dim light.

  But some part of her knew he was there. How was he there?

  He just was, moving out of the darkness, stepping toward the door of the rink, the loud metal thunk echoing through the quiet of the space as he opened it. As he waited.

  And she couldn’t stop herself from going through their old routine, the movements as natural as breathing. She pushed to her feet and skated to that open door, stopping in it, her chest still heaving, her fingers gripping the cold plastic of the boards.

  Beautiful.

  The man was so fucking beautiful. She wanted to stroke the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. She was desperate to see if he tasted the same. She wanted his strong arms to band around her. She wanted him to declare that he loved her and wanted her forever, even though Fanny knew that would terrify her.

  So she stayed there, fingers aching from denying herself the need to touch.

  His voice was barely above a whisper, his soft question familiar and part of that old routine. “Are you done?” And when she found herself shaking her head, Brandon just brushed his knuckles over her cheek then nudged her back slightly.

  She turned.

  The door closed.

  And she went back to skating, starting that routine from the beginning, throwing every bit of skill she possessed into her movements, those long minutes of her, the ice, and Brandon. For herself, because she never felt freer than when she was skating, when she was pushing herself to the limit on the cold, hard surface, when she was moving in a way that spoke to her soul.

  Only when her legs felt like they were going to fall off did she glance back up, half-expecting Brandon to be gone. But he was still standing there on the other side of the door, his gaze on her, his body statue still.

  He opened the door when she came over again, not asking this time if she was done, only taking her hand when she stepped down onto the black mat that surrounded the rink, and like he used to, he nudged her to her skate bag sitting by the bottom row of the bleachers. Brandon knelt before her then undid her skates, and it was falling into another memory as he carefully dried the blades and covered them with her skate guards before putting them into her bag.

  A moment later, he helped her slip her feet into her fuzzy boots before picking up her skate bag and then taking her hand again.

  His fingers were warm and rough as they held on to hers, and they walked out of the rink together, the past and the present all twisted together as she locked up, before he walked her to her car.

  They stopped, and her heart pounded as she stared up into his pretty face, wanting . . .

  Too much.

  Everything.

  Nothing.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, releasing her hand to cup her cheek, and she couldn’t stop herself from leaning into his palm, couldn’t stop those words from soaking into her skin, her heart. “And you still move like liquid silk.”

  Her lips parted, and she rose on tiptoe, needing to be closer, desperate to taste him. “I read the notebook.”

  His eyes widened. “Yeah?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What did you think?” he asked gently.

  What did she think? Too much, that was what. That was why she’d fled the quiet of her house, the tangled feelings pressing in on her. “I . . .”

  His head dropped, his hot, damp breath on her skin.

  “Fanny,” he whispered.

  She shuddered, leaned closer, pleasure coursing through her when her breasts brushed against his chest. “I think we had a lot of good times,” she murmured, her hand resting on his shoulder.

  He ran his knuckles over her cheek. “I think we could have a lot more.”

  Inhaling, the air thickened, and time disappeared. It was just her and Brandon and the moonlight, the whisper of the breeze, the deep longing to go back to what they had before, to forget everything and just . . . touch her lips to his.

  Closer, he moved.

  Nearer, she leaned.

  His mouth was right there. He smelled of mint and spice, of sandalwood and something musky that made her want to rub herself against him.

  His breath mingled with hers. His hand slid down, cupped the side of her neck, and . . . he kissed her forehead.

  Then. Stepped. Back.

  Fanny’s nostrils flared on a sharp inhale, but before she could say anything, before she could close the distance between them and get the kiss she wanted, he snagged her keys from her hand, unlocked her car, and guided her into the driver’s seat. Head spinning from the sudden change of circumstances—from his arms to her car—she couldn’t summon any words when he bent over her and set her bag on the passenger’s seat, pausing only to buckle her seat belt before he straightened and stood.

  “Drive safe, honey,” he whispered.

  He shut the door.

  She blinked, hands finding the steering wheel and clenching the leather-covered circle tightly. Need was coiled tight in her stomach, damp heat had gathered between her thighs. She wanted him, wanted to open her door and go to him. To kiss him.

  She fumbled for the handle, started to open the door.

  Lights flared to life behind her.

  Eyes flying to the rearview, she saw his silhouette, saw him sitting in his car, watched as he pulled away from the curb.

  Her hand relaxed, dropping away from the handle, and no, that wasn’t disappointment coursing through her. It wasn’t. She glanced down and saw that her keys were in the cupholder; she picked them up with shaking fingers. A deep breath steadied her, tempered her need, her disappointment she was pretending wasn’t disappointment still sitting heavy in her gut.

  “Okay,” she said on a long, slow sigh.

  She turned on her car and drove away from the rink.

  But that disappointment that wasn’t disappointment faded when she noticed the headlights in her rearview again, when she watched Brandon’s car pull behind her again, when he followed her all the way home.

  When those headlights didn’t disappear into the night until she was safe in her house.

  Then there was no more disappointment, pretend or otherwise.

  There was only the small kernel of hope.

  By the next night, after not enough sleep, too many hours of clinics, and not one glimpse or call or text or barging onto her front porch of Brandon, that kernel of hope was very much at risk of disappearing.

  She hadn’t expected him to show at the rink.

  For one, he didn’t know her schedule, wouldn’t know if she’d be teaching or not.

  For another, the man had a job, and it wasn’t like he could just drop everything to come seek her out.

  But still, he hadn’t texted, and he hadn’t shown, and now it was ten at night and . . . nothing. Not one word or call or text. And yes, she was cognizant of the fact that he didn’t have her number. But part of her wanted the man to work for it—or to keep working for it, anyway.

  That he didn’t?

  That he didn’t ring her doorbell during dinner or after it, even though she’d lingered downstairs for much longer than normal, pretending to watch a movie while really staring out the window, searching for any glimpse of a car pulling up to her house, threatened to extinguish that tiny flame of hope.

  She tried for logic—it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, he didn’t have her number, they were both up late the night before, amongst others—but it wasn’t particularly successful.

  And then her phone buzzed.

  And the way her heart pounded as she reached for it was a damned good indication of how deep she was already in with him, despite h
er fighting the slide every inch of the way.

  Her eyes flicked over the message, barely reading the words before she realized that it wasn’t from Brandon.

  Acute disappointment swept through her.

  Strong enough that she dropped her phone on the bed and pushed out from beneath the covers, pacing to her window and staring out at the back yard, trying desperately to calm herself, to push down the feelings that threatened to overwhelm.

  When she could breathe without it hurting, Fanny turned back to her phone and opened up the text.

  Hi, Fanny. This is Charlie. I hope it’s okay to text. Scarlett gave me your number.

  So much for Scar thinking she was in—lalala—love with Brandon, or thinking Fan should give him another chance. Here she was, throwing her at her brother. She typed out a text to her friend.

  You gave your brother my number?

  A few minutes passed before her cell vibrated.

  He’s a good guy. Give him a chance.

  “Give who a chance?” she muttered. “Brandon or Charlie?” Sighing, she tossed her phone down in disgust and paced away to the window again, staring out like the shadows might give her some answers . . . or like Brandon might appear out of them again, might watch her and hold her hand and this time, might kiss her somewhere that wasn’t her forehead.

  Her phone buzzed.

  She couldn’t stop herself from going over and reading the message.

  Now I’m thinking I overstepped. Sorry about that. If you feel up to hanging out, hit me up sometime.

  Damn.

  Why did Charlie have to seem nice?

  Why hadn’t Brandon come over?

  The second more than the first—and maybe later she would need to look into herself to truly understand her motivations and whether texting Charlie back and asking if he wanted to go to dinner the next night when she was so torn up with Brandon made her a giant asshole or not.

  She was pretty certain it did.

  But either way, she sent the message.

  And when Charlie called her back instead of texting, she picked up the call. She talked and flirted and got to know him for almost an hour. Scar was right. He was nice. And funny. And he had a nice voice.