The Favorites: A Novel(32)
“What?” she said. Then she saw it too.
A billboard, on the side of a building ahead of us, featuring a towering photo of two models posing together in skintight black clothing.
Garrett Lin. And me.
When Garrett told me the clothing brand was more popular in Asia, I had imagined our ad printed in the glossy pages of South Korean fashion magazines, maybe plastered at a bus stop or two in Beijing. Nothing like this.
“Bitch!” Bella gave me a playful backhand on the bicep. “You look hot.”
Heath’s footsteps behind us had been hurried, trying to catch up. Suddenly, they stopped.
“What the hell is that?” he hissed through his teeth.
Chapter 22
The day of the photo shoot with Garrett was a blur in my memory. Bright lights and pulsing electronic music and the photographer shouting to arch your back, tilt your head, more, yes yes just like that, hold it, don’t you dare move. The space had been freezing, and it took all my concentration to keep from flinching whenever Garrett’s cold hands brushed against my skin. The experience felt bizarre, awkward. Not the least bit sexy.
But you’d never have guessed that from the finished product. On the billboard, Garrett was shirtless, his pants so snug they may as well have been ballet tights, while I wore shorts and a strappy crop top that barely contained my cleavage. My leg was hitched up around his hip, his hand gripping my bare thigh, and we were gazing into each other’s eyes.
Except we hadn’t been—I distinctly remembered focusing on his ear, or the lock of hair across his forehead, because looking right at him felt too uncomfortable. Despite that, the photographer had somehow made it seem as though I was looking not into Garrett’s eyes, but into his very soul.
And now Heath wouldn’t look at me at all.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” he muttered, turning back the way we’d come.
I started to follow him. Bella caught my arm.
“Let him go. He’s being a dick.”
“But we have to skate tonight.”
“So what, you’re gonna beg for his forgiveness? Screw that. You did nothing wrong.”
I had lied to him—by omission, at least. Because I knew exactly how he would react.
My first instinct was to soothe his hurt feelings the way I usually did. But staring up at the billboard, I didn’t want to be my usual self. I wanted to be the fierce, confident woman I saw in the photograph. That woman wouldn’t apologize or grovel or explain.
“You’re right.” I looped my elbow through Bella’s again. “Let’s eat.”
* * *
—
I didn’t see Heath again until it was time to leave for the competition. The shuttle bus was so full, he had to take the seat next to mine, but it was clear he was still stewing. As the other skaters chatted amongst themselves or sang along with the J-pop on the radio, he remained stubbornly taciturn the whole way to the M-Wave Arena.
The arena’s ridged structure was supposedly designed to echo Nagano’s mountainous landscape. It looked more like an armadillo crouched in the frostbitten grass. The first time we’d crossed the threshold, though, it had given me a heart-pounding thrill to know I stood in one of the venues from the 1998 Olympics. Heath and I had watched them on TV when we were fourteen, and four years later, there we were, about to compete in our first World Championships final.
About to compete, and giving each other the silent treatment. We went through our pre-skate routine separately. I stretched alone, using the cinder-block walls instead of Heath’s hands to get the necessary support and resistance.
I hoped once we were on the ice, muscle memory—or plain old habit—would take over. But Heath wouldn’t even take my hand during the group warm-up. After doing my own makeup, I usually applied his eyeliner—a subtle smudge along his lashes, enough to make his expressions show to the back of the stands—but he decided to do that by himself too. The black line was so messy, it made him look slightly feral. We stayed close to the sides of the rink, stiff and awkward with a wide space between us as our competitors spun and stroked past in perfect sync.
By the boards, our coaches looked on. The Canadian coaching team stood between Sheila and Veronika Volkova, as if they sensed a buffer was necessary. Veronika’s hair was bleached even blonder than it had been back in her skating days, and she wore a sable coat with a dramatic collar that set off the steep angles of her features. She was one of the only women in ice dance taller than I was—though her partner Mikhail had been well over six foot even out of his skates.
Yelena Volkova had the same pale hair and narrow, feline eyes as her aunt, but otherwise the two women were nothing alike. Yelena had only just turned sixteen, and she was so small and fragile-looking she could’ve passed for younger. Her partner—Nikita Zolotov, Mikhail’s son—was well into his twenties, which made her seem even more like a little girl out on the ice.
With two minutes left in the warm-up, Sheila waved Heath and me over to her. I steeled myself for the worst—but if she could shake Heath out of his funk, it would be worth it.
As soon as he’d snapped his blade guards on, though, Heath stalked away, leaving me to face Sheila alone.
“I’m sorry.” The words I refused to say to Heath fell right out of my mouth when faced with our coach’s intimidating stare. “Heath’s mad at me, because I—”