Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

34. Finley

34

Finley

That night with Zach carries me through the next few days, the final ones of UPC’s winter break.

My parents and I avoid the topic of next semester. I’m choosing to operate on the assumption they’ll drop me at the airport and share in my excitement about returning to school when the time arrives.

Well, okay, not excitement. Not yet.

“How are you today, Finley?”

Today’s session with Dr. Warren includes my parents. She starts every one the same, regardless of whether they’re here. It’s the equivalent of running chalk over my grips exactly five times each before beginning a bars routine. Regardless, I like the question, especially with happiness coursing through me since Zach made a six-hour round trip to tell me he chose me after playing an entire hockey game.

“Great, honestly. I can’t wait for the new semester.” To get back to Zach Briggs and my training.

Dr. Warren cocks an eyebrow. I’m not sure if she’s surprised because it hasn’t come up before or because she didn’t realize our in-person sessions were again coming to an end. But in the span of a second, I realize that’s not it at all.

Mom inhales sharply.

Dad says, “You’re not going back for the new semester. Finley, you’ve broken our trust, and as far as I know, you still haven’t apologized to your brother or asked if he is open to you living with him again.”

I half expect the statement, which is why I took necessary precautions, so I won’t need to scramble so close to the next semester. I didn’t go back to sleep after Zach left, despite operating on only three hours. My body fueled itself with pure determination as I developed a plan to get back to North Carolina without my family’s support, financially or otherwise.

“That’s because I don’t plan to live with Matt.”

“You won’t be living with that boy,” Dad states.

Mom places a hand on my father’s knee, a silent Let me handle this . “Honey, why is this the first time we’re hearing about this?”

I shrug. “Figured you didn’t want to know because you hadn’t asked.”

“Of course we want to know. It’s why we’re here with you, talking, trying to understand each other better.”

“Huh. I thought we were here because you think I’m reckless and you want Dr. Warren to rein me in.”

I don’t give my parents a chance to respond, continuing with long overdue words.

“But she never did that. She facilitated our discussion. She offered advice. She never laid out conditions. You did. And I accepted them, partly because I didn’t think I had a choice. I let you convince me to make my life small, and it made me feel incapable. You didn’t do it on purpose. You thought you were doing what was best for me.”

I tilt my head, looking straight at my dad. “Including you, Dad. I’ve resented you since my diagnosis. You acted like it was a death sentence and bolted into action to try to fix it. But I don’t need to be fixed. I have a condition, something that affects my entire life, but something I can manage.

“My bipolar disorder doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself, or that I shouldn’t have the same opportunities as everyone else. It’s a credit to the services you got me that I can say that and wholeheartedly believe it.”

Mom cries silently beside me with what looks to be a mixture of guilt and pride. Dad remains silent, mulling over my words. It’s more than I told myself to anticipate. The silence stretches into discomfort.

That’s when Dr. Warren interjects. “Finley, thank you for being so vulnerable in sharing those feelings with us. Matthew and Grace, do you have anything you’d like to share with Finley?”

“Oh, honey,” my mom says with a sigh. “You deserve the world. I want you to be happy and healthy. I’m sorry I ever gave you a different impression.”

“Matthew?” Dr. Warren prompts.

“Do you have any idea what the call from your mother was like for me?”

He doesn’t need to specify which call. My dad had left for work by the time my gymnastics coach opened the gym to find me collapsed on the ground. Mom drove there immediately, calling my dad to let him know what happened after we got to the hospital. I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion and dehydration and was in the depths of a depressive episode, which I’d only managed to push through thanks to the uppers that Garrett gave me. It almost cost me everything.

My father shudders. “I never want another call like that one, Finley. I can’t .”

“You know the risk is always there, right?”

My tentative question hangs in the air. It’s an obvious point, but he needs the reminder. I could have been born genetically perfect, if such a thing exists, or have the powers of Supergirl, and he’d still have to live with the risk of a call like that. It accompanies love. There’s no way around it.

“I’ve taken my medication as instructed every single day. I might not always sleep at the same time each night, but I’m close. And when I don’t sleep enough, I nap. I’m an expert napper now, thanks to Zach. He's helped me understand the importance of taking the time to relax. Having fun is as important as working hard."

I go on, “There’s nothing else in my life that brings me as much joy as gymnastics”—well, except Zach, but I know better than to say that and send this conversation in a different direction—“and I want to keep doing it in a balanced, measured, safe way. I want your support, but I’m prepared to do it on my own. Because it’s my life. I’m the one who has to live with my choices.”

This is the lightest I’ve felt in years, with the full truth laid out before us.

“We wanted to keep you safe, Fi,” my mom says.

“I know. And I needed your protection at one time, but I don’t anymore. I need your support now. The same as you give the boys. Can you do that?”

My mom’s hand clasps mine. “Oh, hun, of course I can. But go easy on me as I adjust, okay? It’s instinct to protect you.”

“I can do that,” I tell her with a nod. “Dad?”

He shakes his head, which brings Dr. Warren into the conversation. “Matthew, what would make you more comfortable? Not entirely comfortable, but more comfortable than you are right now.”

Dad lets out a rough chuckle. “Which is zero, for the record.”

“Noted. We’re working with baby steps here.”

He considers the question while holding eye contact with my mom. A silent conversation passes between them as I wait on pins and needles for his answer.

“Weekly family therapy sessions,” Dad says at long last.

“I can do that,” I say, nodding profusely.

He points at me. “And I want to talk to your coach.”

“Veronica would love that. And you’ll like her. She’s the healthiest coach I’ve ever had.”

I look at Dr. Warren, who continues to effectively use her silence technique to force us to speak to each other. I’m too afraid to say anything, though, because it sounds like he agreed I can return to school with reasonable conditions.

“Oh, and I’ll need to talk to that boy too,” he adds.

I roll my eyes. “Sure, Dad, you can talk to Zach, Matty’s teammate, who you’ve already met a dozen times.”

Dad holds out his palm, and I place my hand in it. “I completely approve of him as Matt’s teammate, but as your boyfriend… that’s still to be determined. I love you, Fi. It takes a special person to deserve you.” He squeezes my hand. “There’s nothing more important to me in this world than your happiness, your brothers’ happiness.”

My hand tightens around his for a beat before releasing it. “Thank you for your support.” I place my hand on my mom’s shoulder. “My life is good because I’ve had it. I never want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” my mom says, her voice saturated with emotion.

“Kiddo, that will never happen,” Dad confirms.

The pit in my stomach that formed when my parents learned I returned to gymnastics and fell in love with Zach finally dissolves, along with the thick tension that surrounded us for years. The tension that kept us distant from each other.

After hours in therapy, I’d like to think we've mastered how to communicate, but it’s not so simple. We’ll always have to work to keep our relationship healthy.

Just like every other relationship in my life, including the one I have with myself. To find the happiness I’ve dreamed of for so long, I had to open myself up to hurt, to say what I think, what I need.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to do it.