I’m not sure I could draw this. It’s too weird. People would think I was crazy—if I ever let anyone see my drawings, that is.
I’m openly staring at the two of them when he looks up and catches my eye. He grins and waves, then starts walking toward me. There’s something about him—a kind of brightness that radiates from within—that I know I could capture in ink. It’s in his eyes.
“Perfect weather for some ice skating,” he calls out as he approaches.
I nod politely, feeling the familiar urge to retreat into my trailer. But something keeps me rooted to the spot. “It is nice,” I agree. “Not too crowded. You should see it on the weekends.”
His blue eyes sparkle with interest. I’m not sure I’ve seen blue eyes that shade before. “Is that when all the excitement happens around here?”
I shrug, not sure how to respond to his enthusiasm. “I suppose. If you consider ice skating exciting. The ice games are a big deal.” The firefighters’ fundraiser always brings in record crowds. “You can sign up at the fire station.” I point up the street.
He laughs, a sound full of genuine mirth. If I were to sketch him, I might even add pointed ears and a Peter Pan hat on his head. Except for his five days of blonde scruff, he reminds me of a boy who never grew up.
“I’ve never competed in ice games, actually. Do you think I should give it a go?”
His question catches me off guard. “Uh, well, that’s up to you,” I stammer. “It can be fun if you like that sort of thing.”
The young man nods thoughtfully, then extends his hand. “I’m Will, by the way. Just arrived in town.”
I hesitate for a moment before shaking his hand. “Noah. I run the skate rental here.”
Will’s grip is firm and warm, and I feel an odd tingle run up my arm at the contact. It’s like I stuck my cold hand in warm water. I quickly pull my hand away, unsure of what to make of the sensation.
“Nice to meet you, Noah,” Will says, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. “Say, what else is there to do in this sleepy little town? Any recommendations for a newcomer?”
“Well, there are some good cross-country ski paths in the woods,” I offer. “If you’re into outdoor activities.”
Will nods enthusiastically. “Sounds great. But what about in town?”
The question brings Sam’s idea to mind. “There’s the annual Tree Lighting Ceremony tonight,” I say, surprised to hear the words coming out of my mouth. “It’s quite popular with the locals.”
Will’s eyes light up. “A Tree Lighting Ceremony? That sounds great. Are you going?”
I shake my head, feeling a familiar tightness in my chest at the thought. “No, I’ve never gone before. No sense starting now.”
Will’s brow furrows slightly, and he regards me with a look that feels far too perceptive for a stranger. “Why don’t you try it out? Could be fun.”
Something about his tone—a mixture of encouragement and challenge—makes me bristle. He sounds like Terra, who thinks she knows what’s good for me. I take a step back, ready to retreat to the safety of my trailer. “I’m good, thanks. I prefer to stick to what I know.”
Will’s expression softens. “Sometimes it’s good to step out of our comfort zones, Noah. You never know what you might discover.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Let me show you.” Before I can react, he places a hand on my shoulder. The moment his fingers make contact, the world around me dissolves in a dizzying swirl of color and sound. It’s like those pieces of art where they pour the paint spots and then spin the canvas around.
Suddenly, I’m no longer standing by the pond. I’m a child again, sitting at our old kitchen table, a sheet of paper covered in colorful drawings spread out before me. The smell of my mother’s pot roast fills the air, mingling with the sharp scent of colored pencils.
“Noah, what are you doing?” My father’s voice, stern and disapproving, cuts through the warm kitchen air. “You should be studying, not wasting time with pictures.”
I look up, my small hands instinctively moving to cover my artwork. “I like drawing. Miss Johnson says I’m really good at it.”
My mother’s laugh, sharp and dismissive, joins my father’s frown. “Honey, drawing is a nice hobby, but it’s not something you can make a living from. You need to focus on real subjects, things that will get you into a good college.”
“But—,” I start to protest, only to be cut off by my father’s hand slamming down on the table.
“No buts, Noah. Put those crayons away and get out your math book. I’m not slaving away to put food on this table so you can waste time with crayons.”
The scene shifts, and I’m older now, standing in front of my high school art class, proudly displaying a landscape I’ve spent weeks perfecting. My classmates are clapping, and my teacher is beaming with pride.
