She slides into the passenger seat with visible reluctance, placing her skates on the floor. I close her door and walk around to the driver's side, giving myself a moment to breathe.
This was a terrible idea.
Marcus was right. What the hell am I trying to accomplish here? Two weeks of forced proximity with someone who hates me. Someone who has every right to hate me?
I get in the car. The space immediately feels too small. Too intimate. Isla stares out the window, her entire body angled away from me.
"Seatbelt," I say.
She clicks it without looking at me.
I start the car. Classical music fills the silence, Chopin, because of course I'm that pretentious and I quickly turn it off.
"You can keep it on," she says. "I don't care."
"It's fine."
"No, really. Don't change anything on my account. Wouldn't want to disrupt your aesthetic."
There it is. The acid in her voice that I've earned and probably deserve.
The drive to the campus ice rink takes three minutes. Three of the longest minutes of my life. Every second feels weighted with things neither of us are saying.
When I park, she's out of the car before I can get her door. Independent to the point of stubbornness. I grab my own skates from the back and follow her to the rink entrance.
The campus rink is small but well-maintained another donation from a founding family, naturally. On Thursday afternoon, it's mostly empty except for a few couples and some figure skating club members practicing jumps.
We pay the minimal entrance fee. I try to pay for both of us, but Isla shoves cash at the attendant before I can.
"I can afford ice skating," she says coldly.
"I know. But I'm the one who bid on you, so?—"
"So nothing. I pay my own way."
Fine. Let her have this small rebellion.
We sit on benches to change into our skates. Hers are old, the leather cracked, laces frayed. Mine are practically new because I've ice skated maybe twice in my life and I'm not even sure why I suggested this for her date package.
Except I do know why. There was a moment, watching her fill out that participation form last week, where I imagined holding her hand on the ice. Imagined her laughing instead of glaring at me.
Pathetic.
She laces up efficiently, clearly experienced. Meanwhile, I'm struggling with my third attempt at a knot that won't immediately come undone.
"You don't know how to skate," she observes.
"I know how to skate."
"Then why are you strangling your laces?"
"I'm not—" I stop. Try again. Fail again. "Fine. I'm not great at skating."
Something that might be satisfaction flickers across her face. "And yet you bid on a date package that includes ice skating."
"I'm adaptable."
"You're an idiot."
