I guide him over with a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to your mom, Squirt.” He flops down, laces flying everywhere.
Lane bends to help him, her hair slipping from her scarf. I crouch too, working on the other skate. For a moment, we’re side by side, heads bent, our son between us. It’s a picture I don’t let myself hold onto, but the tug in my chest says otherwise.
“Got it,” Sanders crows, jumping up, nearly clocking me in the chin with his elbow. He grabs the wall and stumbles toward the gate, grinning so hard his cheeks must ache.
Lane fusses with her own laces, frowning. “I haven’t been on skates since I was twelve.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “It will be like riding a bike. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp, but not entirely annoyed. A flush creeps into her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold.
We shuffle toward the entrance, Sanders already halfway out on the ice, hollering for us to hurry. The rink is pandemonium in the best possible way. Kids shriek, teenagers are showing off, and couples cling to each other like they’re on a date straight out of a movie.
Lane steps gingerly onto the ice, knees stiff, arms awkward. She lasts three seconds before her ankle wobbles. My body moves without thought as my hands catch her waist and pull her steady against me.
Her breath hitches, visible in the cold air between us. My palms burn through her coat.
“Careful,” I murmur.
“Don’t let go,” she says, almost too soft to hear.
And just like that, I'm holding her up and she's letting me. For the first time in I don't know how long, she isn't fighting me when I want to support her, help her.
“Careful,” I murmur. Her breath catches, warm against the cold air. Our eyes lock, and her cheeks flush deeper than the wind chill can explain.
“I got you.”
Sanders zips up to us, nearly colliding with a teenager. “Mom, you're amazing at ice skating,” the little twit says with a grin as he passes.
We both laugh, the sound unguarded, dangerous. For half a heartbeat, it feels like something I’ve missed every day since I lost it.
Lane steadies herself, but she doesn’t move away. Not right away. Her hand is still in mine, warm even through the gloves. Sanders spins past us, yelling something about teaching us tricks, but I barely hear him.
For one dizzy second, this is all so natural. Even if only for the length of a Christmas trip in New York, it could be fun acting like a family again.
Then she shifts, pulling her hand free. The cold rushes in where her touch was, sharp and sobering. I skate backward, giving her space, pretending it doesn’t matter.
But I'm suddenly aware that I'm not sure what I'm pretending anymore.
NINE
Lane
I step off the ice, my legs wobbling like a newborn deer. My cheeks burn from the cold and, if I'm being honest, from falling on my butt three times in twenty minutes.
"That's it for me," I declare, tugging off my gloves finger by finger. My thighs shake as I shimmy around the edge. My pride can't take another spectacular tumble in front of five thousand people.
I lean against the railing, catching my breath. Woody and Sanders wave at me as they zoom by.
I take baby steps around the wall, holding on until I get off the ice and to a bench.
The boys circle the rink again, my son's arms flailing as he attempts some move he definitely saw on YouTube. My heart jumps to my throat every time he wobbles, but Woody's right there, matching his pace, ready to catch him.
The Christmas lights twinkle all around, casting everything in a golden glow. Music drifts across the ice. The current song is some pop version of "Silver Bells," mixed with laughter and squeals from other skaters. I swear it'slike we're inside one of those snow globes Sanders loves to shake at my mom's.
"You're better at this than I thought, old man!" Sanders shouts, skidding around a corner.
Woody's mock-offended expression makes my lips twitch. "Old man? Watch this."
