“No.”
“One step.”
She stares at me.
“One,” I repeat.
When she finally shifts her weight forward and slides one skate half an inch across the ice, she looks at me like she just crossed an ocean.
“I moved.”
“You did.”
“I moved.”
“You’re basically an Olympian now.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“That’s still under review.”
We move slowly after that. Not skating. Not really. Just sliding. Gliding. Laughing.
Falling once when she forgets to bend her knees, and grabs my sleeve so hard she almost pulls me off balance with her.
“Careful,” I say, laughing.
“You told me not to fall.”
“I told you not to think about falling.”
At some point, she stops holding the boards. Neither of us mentions it right away. Because if we say it out loud, she might notice. And if she notices, she might stop.
“This counts as a date,” I tell her eventually.
“This is not a date.”
“It is.”
“You brought me to physical therapy.”
“I brought you to emotional therapy.”
“That’s worse.”
She laughs again. And this time, she doesn’t look scared at all. She just looks happy. Which somehow feels bigger than the first time I stepped back onto the ice myself.
“You know,” she says after a minute,“I think this is the first time I’ve been on the ice without feeling like I had to prove something.”
“That’s because you don’t,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“Anytime,” I answer.
Chapter 26
