“Kids have a lower center of gravity and haven’t learned to fear death yet,” I say. “And their bones are rubber. And falling from two feet off the ground hurts less than falling from six feet off the ground.”
“That’s no excuse,” she grumbles. “Ben couldn’t have had tickets to a sleigh ride?”
“We’re a mile from the beach. How many sleighs do you think there are here?”
“A winter-themed booze cruise?” she says, then glances over at me before wobbling again. “Or whale watching, or something where you sit down.”
We’re skating side by side, slow and careful, along the outer circumference of the rink. It’s noisy, the speakers playing a combination of country music and mainstream hits from twenty years ago, and the rink is full of people on and off the ice. She’s not wearing her hat anymore. On a whim, I lean over and kiss the crown of her head, warm blue hair under my lips.
Madeline looks up at me, and there’s a moment where I think she’s about to tell me I shouldn’t have done that. Then she smiles, cheeks already pink from exertion, and I smile back helplessly because everything seems sopossibleright now. Like it’s me and her, together, and nothing else—parents and family and distance and life—matters. Maybe it doesn’t.
“I’m glad you came,” she says, still looking up at me.
“You thought I might say no?”
“I thought there was a chance you’d want to just go to my place.”
“But then I’d miss watching you swear at children,” I say and carefully,carefullytake her hand. I’m not wearing gloves, but she is, fuzzy and scratchy against my skin. “And I’m really enjoying that.”
“They’re too good at skating,” she says, and she squeezes my hand in hers. My heart might explode. “It’s unfair.” She’s silent a moment. “But I’m enjoying this, too.”
There are dozens of people on this rink right now, but we’re looking at each other again and it’s like we’re alone, the rest of the world an unimportant blur. I’ve got the dizzy impulse to open my mouth and tell her everything—I think about you all the time, I love you, I think I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you—but I stuff it down, and instead I lean in as she tilts her head up.
Then my foot hits hers, or hers hits mine, and Madeline yells “Shit!” and I grab the railing in a death grip and try to get my feet in the right place and fuck, fuck,fuck,don’t fall on Madeline, but she sprawls on the ice and my feet slide out from under me.
“Are you okay?” I gasp, trying to haul myself up.
“Ow.Fuck,” she says. “I’m fine.”
“Sorry.” I’ve managed to get one knee on the ice, and I’m doing my damnedest to get my feet under me. It’s not going very well.
“I think that was me,” she says. She kneels up, shaking out her hands. She gets one skate under her and slips. Meanwhile, I haul myself to standing.
“Here.” I offer a hand.
“I’m just gonna pull you down again.”
“You’re not. I’m good,” I tell her, so she grabs my hand and then we’re both flailing until she lets go and sprawls back on theice. This time she’s sitting, leaning back on her hands with her skates in front of her. She laughs with her head thrown back.
“That almost worked,” I lie as I get upright again. There’s ice sparkling on her knees, quickly soaking through her tights. “Here, what if you?—”
It takes a minute, but we work it out: Skates braced against the wall, I grip the rail like it’s a lifeline, and finally she stands in front of me and we’re both of us back on our feet. Her hair’s wet where it touched the ice, and she’s breathing hard, but she’s smiling again.
“Romantic enough?” We hover near each other, almost touching.
“There’s no one else I’d rather face-plant with while ice skating,” she says. “You sure you’re okay?”
My shoulder has felt better and my ankle might need some ice later, but I’ll live. “I’m positive,” I tell her. Other skaters go past. On the other side of the rink, Ben and Amy are lazily skating hand in hand. Someone races past us going backward. It’s all peripheral, the hum of life around us, bright and cold and alive as anything.
“I really want to kiss you, but I don’t think I should risk it,” I say. “I’m too far from the ground.”
“You can owe me,” she says, eyes sparkling, and then someone in a uniform comes by and tells us to keep moving, so we set off again, wobbling and laughing, and I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.
“There go my Olympic dreams,”says Madeline, clomping toward a bench, still in her ice skates. The only thing harder thanice skating is walking in ice skates. We both look like drunks trying to pass a field-sobriety test. “Shot to hell.”
“Come on, I believe in you,” I say.
“You’re sweet when you’re delusional.”
