I tuck my lip beneath my teeth as I look in the other direction. Heat originates at the back of my neck and pools at my center. Then, always on cue, the shuttle stops in the parking lot of the park, and Gayle announces that we’ve arrived.
The park is gorgeous in the afternoon. The snow glitters under the intense rays of the sun. There’s a food truck waiting just off the corner and as I turn, taking in the scenery, the smell of fresh popcorn hangs on a gentle wind. I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia so sudden, it almost brings me to my knees.
Gayle directs us to the booth where we’ll get our skate rentals, and I follow the crowd. My fingers tremble partly from the brisk cold, but also because of the eager buzz humming through my body. I didn’t realize how badly I missed this, how much I’ve been neglecting the little girl in my heart.
The attendant hands the skates over, and I hoist them in the air, tossing a smile over my shoulder that I somehow know will find Nick. My heart stutters when I realize I’m actually smiling back, that he’s been watching from a distance this entire time. I shake my head, scuttle over to a nearby bench and slip out of my boots and into the skates. I glance over to him again, but he’s back to fiddling with his camera, so I finally make my way onto the ice. It’s like butter under the blades of the skates. I take a couple of laps just gliding, careful of the children and amateurs as I pick up speed.
It’s like riding a bike after years of not owning one. At first, your movements are a bit unsure until your body remembers that it knows what it’s doing. Then your confidence chases away the caution, and you can hover over the seat; all of a sudden, you can ride with no hands again.
That’s how it feels when, without even thinking, I pick my leg up and tuck it under myself. My arms lift above my head and I know I’m twirling, but it doesn’t quite feel like it. It feels like shedding all the insecurities, bad memories, and lonely nights. I feel like I’m flying. I don’t know when the smile on my face blooms, but I feel my cheeks burning and I hear the sound of my voice tumbling out of me in laughter.
I remember when I was packing my things, getting ready to leave our old place, and finding an old picture of me from college before we started dating. It was worn — creased down the center, dog-eared, and the laminate began to separate from the paper backing. I remember not recognizing her. The Krystal in that photo — with bright red streaks, laughing uncontrollably with a red cup, double stacked and tilted precariously, with chaos and wanderlust filling her eyes — didn’t exist anymore.
Out here on the ice, outpacing the wind. I feel the spirit of her awaken.
For the first time in two years, I think I love this time of year.
Nick
Ifix the lens cover on my 35mm as we pull into the driveway of the bed and breakfast. The van’s usual hum of conversation is replaced with silence tonight. Krystal’s head lulls against my shoulder as she dozes in and out of sleep. Somehow, she senses we’ve arrived and sits up, rolling her head from side to side.
“Tired?” I confirm.
“Worn the hell out is more like it,” she chuckles.
My lips spread into a slow smile that I can’t seem to help when it comes to her. “You said you used to skate, I didn’t know you were the Ice—”
I cut myself short, remembering how she asked me not to call her Princess. She smiles knowingly, patting me on the leg. “Thanks.”
As we walk back inside, I can’t help but flick through the pictures I took while we were at the park. Anticipation bubbles just beneath the surface of my skin when I think about getting these on my hard drive and into Lightroom. “You gonna show me what’s in there?”
I run my tongue against my lower lip. She might think I’m a creep when she sees how many of these shots are candid picturesof her. If the camera is an extension of myself, then I can’t stop seeking her out. I’ll spend minutes with the viewfinder pressed to my eye and somehow, she ends up filling the frame every time.
I finally remove the strap from around my shoulder and hand the device over to her. As everyone else filters out of the living room, we stand by the fireplace. Ashes sit where flames usually roar, and instead of the rich hue of its glow, the only thing lighting Krystal’s soft features is the faded amber lamp in the corner and the dull glare from the tiny LED screen on the back of the DSLR.
I can still see her cheeks grow more rosy, and her eyes more awake as she thumbs through today’s captures. She sucks in a tiny breath, resting a delicate hand just across her collarbones. “Nick,” she sighs, and I fight the urge to tuck the unruly strand of hair that came loose behind her ear. “This is breathtaking,” she continues, turning the screen so I can see which shot she’s referring to.
She had just ended a lap around the rink, her arms spread wide right before tucking them close to her body in a rapid spin. I slowed the shutter speed so I could catch the blur of her motion, and by some miracle, I caught her in a moment that allowed her face to be perfectly sharp. Her eyes are turned up toward the sky, her skin blotchy and raw from the cold, and her smile is the brightest thing in the picture despite the pristine hills of snow in the background.
“Nowhere as breathtaking as watching the real thing,” I reply.
She hands the camera over to me, the tips of her fingers brushing mine and sending a spike of energy through my body. “You have to send this to me,” she instructs. I nod, slipping my phone out of my back pocket and handing it over to her.
She adds her name and email, but hovers over the space to enter her number. My lips roll in on themselves as I stop myself from convincing her to put it in there. There’s a pit in the bottom of my stomach, a knot of nerves winding itself up the longer she takes to make her decision.
When she finally types it in, I swallow the sigh of relief threatening to rush through my nostrils and close my eyes in a silent prayer of gratitude. My heart is racing like I’ve never asked a woman for her number before. But, everything with Krystal feels like teenage fever. The connection growing between us is youthful — innocent, in spite of the undeniable physical attraction we share.
I shoot her a text when she hands the phone back so she can save my contact, and tuck it back into my pocket before shutting the camera down and swinging it over my shoulder.
Silence stretches between us, seemingly filling the entire house. My eyes fall down the curves of her face, along the long lines of her neck, and over the roundness of her shoulders. As my gaze drops to her chest, I watch her nipples harden and feel a twitch in my palm. I haven’t touched her, and I won’t until I’m invited to, but goddamn, I want to.
“Ahem,” she clears her throat, running a hand up and down her other arm. “I guess I should go to bed.”
“Yeah,” I snap myself out of my daze, suddenly aware of how long it’s been since a woman has been in my bed. I played it cool earlier, but this time of year is always a time of abstinence for me. Not by choice, it’s just…difficult. Getting through December is like wading through swamp water. The only thing pushing me forward is the knowledge that Juno would have expected me to continue celebrating the holidays. I don’t care as much about the spirit of Christmas as I care about keeping his alive.
Krystal moves to head to her room. I follow, mine also being on this side of the B&B. When she stops outside the door right next to mine, another spike of energy runs through me. One that prompts me to be risky, to take her face in my hands and pour all this pent-up tension into her.
“Thanks for walking me to my room, you didn’t have to do that,” she says.
