“Very brave,” he says, a smirk on his face. Everything he does makes me suspicious now.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to tell me this was all part of some plan.”
Leo presses a hand to his chest. “Gwen. I would never.” He looks genuinely shocked by the accusation.
“Why did you have to date the intern?” I sigh to Tess.
“I sometimes wonder myself,” Tess replies, making me laugh.
“Well, Gwen, you’re the one who wanted to face your fears,” he points out. “Personal growth. Very on-brand for you this year.”
“I did not say ice was one of my fears.”
“You didn’t say it wasn’t.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop.
Because here’s the thing: I don’t actually hate ice skating. I hate the version of myself that ice skating tends to produce, the one who flails, the one who draws attention, the one who becomes a punchline. The one people stare at and laugh at.
I have always been the DUF. Early on, I gave myself the label: the designated ugly friend. The funny one. The clumsy one. The fat one. The girl you bring along because she’ll make everyone laugh and never make things awkward by being desirable. Never a threat. The one you can leave around your boyfriend because it “doesn’t matter” anyway.
I shove that thought down.
“This is different,” I say. “This is public.”
“So is life,” Leo says.
I stare at him.
“You sound like a motivational poster.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Are you two done?” Tess sighs, though I can tell she’s enjoying every second of our banter.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, cheerful and loud, thanking sponsors and donors and reminding everyone that tonight is about community, connection, and fun.
Fun.
The bowl is visible now, held up by a volunteer in a Grizzlies beanie. I can see the folded slips of paper inside, my name somewhere among them like a tiny ticking bomb.
I shift my weight.
Leo watches me.
“You ok?” he asks, quieter now.
I shrug. “I will be. Probably.”
He bumps my shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re really uncomfortable.”
I glance at him. “You say that, but I feel like you’re actively rooting for chaos.”
“I am rooting for you,” he says. “Chaos is a bonus.”
