Icebreaker: A Novel (The Maple Hills Series Book 1)
Icebreaker: Chapter 21

I’VE REPOSITIONED the iPad in front of me ten times already, but I can’t help but move it slightly to the right one more time.

Everything I need is in front of me, lined up in order of priority. My planner, water, and Kleenex—the biggest box they have.

I’ve done this hundreds of times, so I don’t know why I’m nervous, but the uneasy feeling is prickling beneath the surface. Sabrina and Aaron went to Kenny’s to get wings and give me privacy, and the silence of my apartment only adds to my unease.

Right on cue, Dr. Andrews’s name appears on the screen as the iPad rings.

Pressing Accept, my heart sinks when the screen fills with the familiar Seattle backdrop and the muted décor of Dr. Andrews’s office.

He’s sitting at his desk, a journal balanced on his crossed legs, with a pen resting between his fingers. “Good afternoon, Anastasia. How are you feeling today?”

Homesick is the word on the tip of my tongue. For the first time since I left for college, I wish I was back in Washington.

I’ve seen Seattle in movies or shows countless times, and I’ve never been affected. Seeing it through a window I looked through for close to ten years makes me want to hop on the next flight out of LAX.

Wiping my sweating palms against my pants, I smile into the camera. “I’m good, thank you.”

“Are you sure that’s the answer you want me to write down?”

Dr. Andrews is in his early forties now, but he was fresh from collecting his PhD when I first became his patient. He hasn’t aged; his face has the same soft lines around his eyes, and his hair has always been the same light brown with flecks of gray.

Med schools grays he called them when I asked what they were, probably very rudely, when I was around nine. In a way, I think him defying the signs of time is a comfort to me. That feels like something I should address with him at some point.

He doesn’t say anything while I consider what to say next. It’s not like I think keeping things from your therapist is good. I just don’t know how to verbalize my feelings right now, which is why I’m back in therapy. “Your view is making me sad.”

“Can you pinpoint what about the view is upsetting to you?”

The sound of pen scratching against paper begins, a noise I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. “I haven’t been home in almost a year. I miss Seattle.”

Sitting up straight in his chair, he rotates slightly, knowingly or unknowingly, partially blocking the view. I unclench my fists, something I didn’t realize I was doing until my palms started to sting from the indent of my nails.

“Do your parents visit you in Los Angeles?”

“Never. They ask, but I’m always busy, and they don’t like flying, so I don’t like making them travel. I’m too busy to visit them.”

“We’ve talked about your parents a lot, Anastasia. You’ve told me you feel overwhelmed by the need to succeed for them, more than yourself.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looks into the camera. “Does the pressure, or the overwhelmed feeling you describe, diminish when you haven’t seen them?”

“It never fully goes away. Skating is always the first thing they ask about when they call.” A lump in my throat forms and I struggle to swallow it down. “When I don’t hear from them, I feel, uh, I feel relief.”

He nods, scribbling down notes on the page in front of him. “Does the relief make you feel guilty?”

Oh God. Why are my eyes watering? “Yeah.”

“What are your interests outside of figure skating, Anastasia?”

I try to answer immediately, but when my mouth opens, I realize I don’t have anything to say; skating is my entire life. “I don’t have any.”

“And if you were to lose a competition or decide you didn’t want to skate anymore, do you think your parents would be mad? Take a moment to think about it.”

I don’t need a moment. As soon as he asked the question, the answer immediately dropped into my head. “No, I think they’d be confused at first, but they’d want me to be happy.”

“From our joint sessions with your parents in the past, and the sessions we’ve had together, I know how highly you think of them. Would I be correct to say you still replace them very supportive, whether it’s therapy, school, or sports related?”

“Absolutely. They’re great.”

“Parents, well, good parents like yours, who have high-achieving children with very specific interests, sometimes struggle to know what to talk about outside of those interests.” He clasps his hands together and rests them against his stomach, leaning back in his chair. “Your parents have said in our joint sessions they understand skating is your biggest priority. You might replace that them asking you about it every time they speak to you is their way of showing you they still support you, despite not seeing you regularly.”

My chest constricts—guilt. Guilt because I know my parents support me. Guilt because I haven’t seen them. Guilt because I haven’t appreciated them.

I keep my eyes stuck on the iPad screen, staring right at his tie pin; if I look at his face, I’ll cry. “I know they only want the best for me.”

“It’s normal to understand something logically but emotionally feel something different. Loving someone but feeling relief not speaking to them, it’s a huge conflict in a person’s mind, but it doesn’t make you bad in any way, it makes you human.” This is rough. “Going back to the view, Anastasia. Do you think perhaps my view upsets you, not because you miss Seattle, but because you miss your parents?”

I nod, eyes not leaving the pin even as they line with tears. “Maybe.”

“Like children, adults need boundaries. I’d like you to tell your parents you don’t want to discuss skating. Even if it’s just for one call, one visit, see how you feel, knowing it won’t be brought up. Achievable?”

Blinking away the tears threatening to fall, I look back at his face and force a smile. “Sure.”

I stopped having regular therapy sessions when I moved to LA two years ago. I was so immersed in the whole college experience I didn’t need it. But something would happen, I’d have an ad-hoc session and promise myself I’d go regularly again, but I never did.

Nothing about therapy gets easier. You just learn to accept those hard conversations are worth it when your feelings become more manageable. Halfway through the session and I can breathe now, but from experience, I know that could all change again before the session is over.

“In our session last week, you explained how the uncertainty around your competition was causing severe anxiety. Can you tell me how you’re feeling this week?”

“I feel good,” I answer honestly. It’s nice to have something positive to say for once. “Aaron was cleared by the doctor yesterday so we can compete tomorrow.”

“I’m thrilled to hear that. It must be a huge weight off your mind.” Aaron and I skipped class to practice, and thankfully, everything went smoothly. “And how’s your relationship with Aaron? Last week you mentioned you were feeling smothered.”

Smothered feels like an understatement. Aaron has barely left my side for two weeks, and it’s been a lot. In many ways, I appreciate that despite being the injured one, he’s made time for me to grieve. Because that’s what the past two weeks have felt like, grief. Grieving the loss of things I could have had.

But even with the best of intentions, sometimes Aaron’s kindness feels like control. My tears were understandable, but only if they were about skating. The anxiety I was feeling would get better, but only with him by my side to help me.

“Aaron has backed off,” I explain. “I told him I needed to process on my own, especially now I have doubts about what happened. He was annoyed at first, but he seems to have forgotten all about it now he’s been cleared to skate.”

“Do you replace he gets annoyed with you often?”

“Uh, Aaron would benefit from therapy is probably the nicest way I can say it.” I fight the urge to nervous laugh because where do I even start. “Aaron’s parents manipulate each other all the time, it’s super unhealthy, and Aaron has grown up being shown it’s how you get what you want. He wants to be better than them, and he does try. A lot of the time, he’s a wonderful friend.”

“But does he get annoyed with you often?”

“I definitely take the brunt of his bad moods, but I spend more time with him than anyone else. Sometimes it feels like everything’s perfect, and suddenly it won’t be, and I won’t know what I did wrong.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“It is. He holds me to a different standard, like, I don’t know how to explain it. Something Sabrina does is fine, but if I do the exact same thing, it might not be fine.”

“You feel like the rules are different for you?”

“Yeah, exactly. When he’s in a good mood, it doesn’t matter, but if things are bad, he’s tough to be around. But I wouldn’t abandon Sabrina if she had issues; I don’t want to abandon him.”

“Very admirable, Anastasia.” He jots something down, and sometimes, I wish I could read his notes. “I would encourage you to remember while everyone has progress to make, it’s important for you to make sure you prioritize your well-being. Friendships are important, but so is living in a healthy environment.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’d like to talk about Nathan next if you’re able to. I’d like to know about his impact on your life.”

I knew it was coming, but I was still unprepared for it. Your therapist isn’t going to forget about you ending a session early because you couldn’t stop crying about a man you’ve only known for two months.

Last week, I gave Dr. Andrews a rundown of the events leading up to my unlikely friendship with Nathan. It was when I started talking about playing house that made me cry.

“I haven’t heard from him in two weeks. I yelled at him really bad, and I think our, well, whatever we have, is over.”

He flicks through the crisp pages and taps on the page. “You were angry because he had admitted he was responsible for Aaron’s accident after promising you he wasn’t.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s made a promise before, which turned out to be a lie. To protect a teammate, right?”

“That’s right.”

“But you think he might be telling the truth, and that’s why it upsets you to talk about him?”

Two weeks ago, after Ryan refused to let Nathan drive home, Bobby and Joe showed up to get him. Nate had passed out by that point after violently throwing up multiple times, and I wished I could pass out. Bobby took one look at my tear-soaked face and tried to convince me Nate didn’t do it, even though he admitted to it. Joe was next to jump in to defend Nate, explaining Coach Faulkner wanted to cancel all their hockey games unless someone confessed.

They both promised Nathan would never do anything to hurt me, which was hard to hear and even harder to stomach.

Dr. Andrews has a finger pressed to his lips, patiently waiting for me to explain. All I want to do is end the call, but I push through. “Nate’s a fixer. He looks out for his friends; I know how proud he feels to be trusted with the title of captain. It makes sense to me that he’d take the fall if his team would suffer.”

“It sounds like a difficult time for you all. What is it specifically that’s upsetting you? Being lied to again?”

I have been asking myself the same thing. Sighing, louder than intended, I try to put it into words. “Kinda. I feel naïve more than anything. Nathan and Aaron can’t both be telling the truth. Aaron hasn’t gained anything; he has no reason to lie.”

“And Nathan?”

“Nathan…” Oh God. Why am I getting upset? “Nathan makes me feel cared for when we’re together. He makes me feel wanted. I don’t think he’d jeopardize my competition, but I don’t trust my judgment because I’ve started to get feelings for him.”

“Have you told him this?”

Shaking my head, I finally admit defeat and reach for the Kleenex. “Like I said, I haven’t heard from him. I’ve thought about calling him so many times, but I’m scared.”

“What’re you scared of?”

“That it’s too late. He’ll hear what I have to say and reject me anyway because I didn’t believe him.”

Admitting it out loud hurts. Wanting him when he might not want me back hurts. Not trusting myself to get things right hurts. Missing him hurts.

I’ve managed to avoid everyone by practicing at the rink at work. Brady wasn’t happy about it, but I didn’t give her any choice. Mattie gave me a sad wave when he saw me in one of our shared lectures, but he didn’t approach me. Sabrina’s under strict instructions to not keep me updated.

“Rejection is scary, but so is living with never knowing what could have happened if you were honest. I think you need to communicate your feelings with him. Any relationship, friendship, or more, will not survive through all this dishonesty.”

“It feels unfair that I have to be the honest one.” I snort, dabbing at my cheeks with a tissue. “I’m not the one telling lies. It’s everyone else. I’m stuck in the middle, looking like a fool.”

Dr. Andrews smiles, smothering a laugh with his hand. “Yes, the irony isn’t lost on me, but nobody thinks you’re a fool, Anastasia. What’s the saying? Be the change you want to see, or something. Lead with honesty. It sounds like you have good people around you, and it’s important to remember people make mistakes.”

“I’m fine with mistakes. I don’t expect anyone to be perfect—”

“Other than yourself.”

I roll my eyes because he’s got me there, but there aren’t enough minutes left in this session to tackle that one. It’s been more than ten years, and it still hasn’t been long enough yet.

“Other than myself, but not with my friends.”

A timer beeps quietly, which is our reminder the session is coming to an end. It’s not until I have a session that I remember how exhausting therapy is. It leaves you with a feelings hangover. I always need to sleep it off, but when I wake up, I feel better.

“We’ve covered a lot, but to recap. What are the things to take away from this conversation?”

It feels like we’ve covered so much, but in reality, I could probably fill another few hours obsessing over this. “I need to set boundaries with my mom and dad so I can enjoy spending time with them, not worrying.”

“Good. What else?”

“I need to put myself first when Aaron is being difficult. I can be a good friend while also prioritizing my well-being.”

“And?”

“I need to speak to Nathan. I need to be honest about how I feel.”

“And finally?”

“People make mistakes.”

Closing over his journal, he gives me a crooked smile. “Top of the class, well done. Your competition is tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, at lunchtime.”

“I’ve seen you through many competitions, and I know the prospect of losing is not one you or any competitive athlete looks forward to. How do you feel mentally going into this? Are you prepared to potentially not qualify?”

“Yes,” I lie. “Because I’ll have tried my best, and I’d rather compete and lose than not compete.”

“You give that line to me every time, Anastasia, and I must say, you are no more convincing now than you were when you were nine.” He puts his journal and pen on his desk and straightens his tie, chuckling. “I honestly hope you get the outcome you’ve been working so hard for, especially after all of this unhappiness.”

“Me too, Doc.”