I'd given him my real name, and he'd said it back like it meant something.
And then he'd wiped his hand on that rag and gotten into an Uber, and disappeared.
I spent four days waiting and got four mornings of showing up to an empty rink.
Tuesday night was supposed to be my night.
Derek had Dad. Alibi was open. I could go out, have a few drinks, find someone who didn't know my name and didn't want to. That was the system. That was what had worked for years, the pressure valve that let me survive the rest of it.
The neon sign buzzed and flickered, casting pink light across my dashboard. I sat in the parking lot for ten minutes with the engine off.
Inside, the music was too loud, and the bar was packed. I found a spot at the end and ordered a Bud Light just to have something in my hands.
A guy caught my eye from across the room. Tall, dark hair, the kind of jaw that photographed well. He raised his glass. I raised mine back, and he took that as an invitation.
"Haven't seen you here before," he said, sliding onto the stool next to mine. "I'm Trey."
"Red."
"Like the hair." His smile was practiced, charming in a way that knew it was charming. "I like it."
He was attractive. He was interested. He was exactly the kind of guy I would have taken into the back room six months ago without a second thought.
His hand landed on my arm. I looked at it and waited to feel something.
He was talking about his job, something in marketing, and I nodded in the right places while my brain kept pulling up a different hand. Different fingers. The way Joel had gripped my wrist hard enough to leave marks, and how I'd checked for the bruises every morning since, watching them fade from purple to green to yellow like evidence of something I couldn't prove anymore.
"You want to get out of here?" Trey asked.
"I can't."
"You sure?" He leaned closer. "My place is close."
"Yeah." I pulled my arm back. "Sorry."
He shrugged, already scanning the room. "Your loss."
I watched him walk away. The Bud Light was going warm in my hand, and I set it down without finishing it.
Outside, the parking lot was cold and empty. I sat in my truck with the engine running, going nowhere, watching my breath fog up the windshield until I couldn't see through it anymore.
I drove home.
The TV was on low in the living room. Derek's silhouette moved against the blue flicker. I walked past without stopping.
"Red?"
"Tired," I said. "Going to bed."
My room was dark. I lay on my bed and pulled out my phone.
Joel Coffey figure skating.
The search came back with hundreds of results. Competition footage, practice clips, interviews, fan edits with dramatic music. I scrolled past anything where I'd have to hear his voice and clicked on a video titled "Joel Coffey - US Nationals Free Skate."
The program started with Joel in the center of the ice, head bowed. He was wearing all black, matte from throat to wrist to ankle, no sequins or rhinestones.
The music started, and he began to skate.
