“Happy birthday. It’s great to see you again,” I say, straining to offer him a polite smile.

He steps back and lifts my hand, as if he expects me to twirl, and looks me up and down.

“Great to see you,” he echoes. “There’s so much more of you to see now.”

He shoots Ryan a mocking wink, as if he expects Ryan to comment on my weight. I drop Dimitri’s hand, but resist the urge to shrink from him. I don’t dare glance back at Ryan for support. I can stand up for myself.

“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I say.

I pull myself up to my fullest height. In heeled leather boots, I’m an inch taller than he is, and I want him to remember it.

“And you haven’t lost your sass,” he retorts. He turns to Ryan and adds, “You must have your hands full with her, no?”

“Avery’s an amazing coach,” Ryan says.

“Wait, you work together?” Jasmine interjects, glancing from me to Ryan. “I thought Avery was your date?”

“Uh…” Ryan stalls and turns to me for guidance.

“We, um, yes,” I fumble. “I’m Ryan’s assistant coach at Summit, and I’m also here as his date.”

Jasmine wraps her arm around Dimitri’s midsection and leans her head on his shoulder. “Aw, another gymnastics power couple, just like me and my babe,” she coos.

She looks at him adoringly and presses a kiss to his cheek. I look away; to me, that relationship will always seem wrong.

“Power? How many gold medals between the two of you?” Dimitri asks. He gestures to the living room, and when I turn, I see a wall studded with medals and trophies. “Let’s count them up and compare, and then we can talk.”

He’s not joking. He’s keeping score.

The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension in the room.

“I’ll get it,” Dimitri says quietly. “Jasmine, make sure our guests have drinks.”

As he passes us, he ignores me and gives Ryan a respectful nod.

Jasmine takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her hips. “Drinks?” she asks.

“Please,” I say.

I glance at the cocktail menu she must have printed up. The names could not be more painstakingly chosen: there’s a whiskey-based drink named the Olympia, a wine spritzer garnished with a sprig of jasmine called the Jasmine Fizz, and a twist on the Moscow Mule dubbed the Moscow Man. I choose the Jasmine Fizz by process of elimination—it’s the least humiliating option to order. Ryan opts for the Moscow Man, and I wonder if he chose it out of deference to our host. Jasmine steps back to the kitchen island to mix our drinks, leaving us alone.

“That was intense,” Ryan mutters to me.

“That’s Dimitri for you,” I respond.