“After watching him yesterday, I realized he’d be perfect for helping you. You know, make him work really hard for his money,” he ribbed.

After yesterday?

I didn’t laugh.

“Frank,” my mom admonished.

“What?”

“Nothing, Dad,” I cut in, just wanting this conversation to end. “I have to go. I’m gonna grab an egg white sandwich on the way in to open.”

My dad smiled proudly.

There was no fucking way I was getting an egg white sandwich.

I knew I shouldn’t encourage him by catering to him in these conversations, but he was like a dog with a bone. His way wasn’t the right way. It was the only way.

If I didn’t cave, he’d go at me until I did.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad was a nice guy. He didn’t yell at me or hit me. He didn’t even withhold love. I had all of the good stuff, and frankly, I was twenty-six and I’d yet to see pressure to contribute more financially or pull more weight. I worked at the gym doing office work in the mornings and worked on my gymnastics the rest of the time. That was good with him.

But that was all good with him because it was what he wanted.

I wasn’t just his daughter. I was his Olympian.

And he made sure I never forgot it.

The hands of the clock moved lethargically, seemingly struggling to tick from one minute to the next all morning.

I worked to busy my hands and mind, collecting checks from all-too-eager parents, and filing several updated medical release forms. Some of the homeschooled gymnasts trickled in little by little, gabbing and gossiping with each other and glancing my way fearfully as they did.

When noontime finally rolled around, I couldn’t get out of the desk chair and out to my car fast enough.

Pulling open my glove box, I checked to make sure I had the air freshener—I did—and then fired it up and pulled out of the parking lot. I had to get out before my dad got in or I never would.

McDonald’s lit up like a beacon twelve blocks later, and I flicked the turn signal on in my Honda Civic with avid anticipation.

Everything felt good. I executed a perfect parking job in a spot close to the door. The sun shone vibrantly, warming my bones and radiating outward. And the line inside looked blessedly short.

Apparently, my good mood made me oblivious to the shiny motorcycle parked three spaces down from me.

I awoke swiftly at the sight of Nik, though. Floppy, ugly black hair tucked discreetly under an all black, backwards facing ball cap, well-fitting jeans, and another bright white t-shirt practically slammed their way into my vision like a brick wall.

And unfortunately, he noticed me just as speedily.

“Hey.”

Panicked, I immediately accused him of the nearly impossible. “Did my dad send you here? How does he know I’m here?”

He looked around briefly, understandably confused, before excusing himself out of line and approaching me where I’d frozen the moment I’d spotted him.

When he got within two feet, my already tight body strung even tighter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Callie. I’m here for a Quarter Pounder.” I relaxed for a second…until I realized how embarrassing my whole episode was.

He shrugged. “I would have snuck you in line too, let you order with me, but you kind of stopped moving.”

“My dad…” I searched for words, “doesn’t like when I eat McDonald’s.”

Understatement.

“Oh,” he breathed through a smile. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.”

I very nearly smiled back. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. And then winked.

Sweet good gracious.

“We’ve all got secrets, right?”

I sure as hell did. By supposition, I assumed everyone else did too.

“Yeah.”

I just wondered how many people’s secrets were of omission and how many were—

Lies.

They aren’t always intentional. And sometimes, we only tell them to others because we first tell them to ourselves.

Likewise, pictures aren't always what they seem to be on the surface. Ninety percent of perception is influence, and Callie had perfectly persuaded me to see her role in the gym how she did. Unwanted and resented and well past idolized.

But the more I watched her, the more I learned.

Each snub she felt was fictitious, each sneer a vivid falsity concocted only by her own self-esteem issues.

These kids still idolized and watched her, but her cold, uninterested vibe held them at bay and forced wide-eyed wonderment to hide within side-eyed glances.

I'd have to figure out a way to shift her view and unveil theirs.

After the way yesterday had gone, I knew that I would need to plan for it to be a time-consuming endeavor. There was no hope of convincing her in a single day—especially not this early on in the game.

The right time would eventually come.

“Good,” I called as she landed her layout at the end of her series on beam.

She flashed one quick, cocky—thrilled—smile in my direction.

We’d already practiced the other three events, and I’d been relentlessly critical. I’d been surprised to find her teeth still intact when she opened her mouth, her agitated grinding had been so relentless.

But this—this was something different.

She handled beam more confidently than any other event, it seemed, ignoring the danger of fours (four inches wide and four feet tall) with the ease of a tightrope walker. I didn’t have all that much experience in this apparatus, but every female gymnast I’d ever encountered—including my mom—talked about it like it was the bane of their existence. And I had enough practical knowledge to know what looked good and didn’t.

But Callie wasn’t like the others.

She seemed at home there, the soft thump of her landings resonating with precision. There were no sloppy stumbles, no unsure missteps.

When she was on beam, she just was.

A few artistic steps led into a full turn, her leg raised and extended well past the end of its execution, and finished with the flourish of an impossibly flexible arabesque. Her eyes zeroed in on the end of the beam in front of me, and the toe of her extended leg tapped the back end of the beam intentionally on its descent. It was a safety measure, a pretty way of ensuring proper positioning on a limited-length beam before her dismount. But, as I’d learned today, she did it with practiced regularity, and she did it beautifully.

I could hardly take my eyes off of her.

She had talent in dance and artistic movement in a way that not all gymnasts did. Fluid motion came naturally, and transitions from one skill into another bled as seamlessly as a singular thought being strung together.

My breath caught as she executed her round off, her hands leaving the beam several moments before being replaced by her feet. Precision was key on the round off before a difficult dismount. One mistake or misplaced foot could set a chain of unstoppable disaster in motion.

Once you started a dismount off of the Beam, you really couldn’t stop.

A loud thwack rent the air as her feet planted themselves on the mat, knocking my held breath out of my overinflated lungs.

Screams and cheers echoed in the background from the younger team girls on floor from some other noteworthy performance as she turned to approach me, but I ignored them.

Callie’s eyes were smug and challenging at once, and I couldn’t look away as the light reflected to make the normally hard chocolate look melted.

“Well?”

She obviously thought I was only there to be critical.