To talk about the thing which shouldn’t be a thing but most definitely is a thing.
“For safety purposes.”
To force me to expose my soul because you are a sorceress that I can’t resist.
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t blink. “It’s about an hour each way. We can work on exercises in the car.”
This is definitely a trap. Not about the car. About me.
“Fine.” I close my laptop. “Let’s go.”
Her smile is entirely too satisfied, but I’m already committed. Following her out to the parking lot feels like walking toward something I can’t see clearly, and my instincts are screaming at me to turn back.
I ignore them.
Gisele’s car is a sensible Honda that she’s had since cosmetology school—scratched up, probably worth less than my gear bag, but meticulously maintained. The weird noise she mentioned is barely audible, a faint clicking that could be anything from a loose heat shield to a pebble in the wheel well.
“This is what you’re worried about?” I settle into the passenger seat, which is smaller than I expected and puts me approximately six inches from her at all times.
“Safety first.” She starts the engine, and the clicking continues. “See? Weird.”
“That’s nothing.”
“You don’t know that. You’re not a mechanic.”
“Neither are you.”
“Which is why I’m bringing backup.” She pulls out of the lot, and we’re on the road.
The first twenty minutes are fine. Normal. She asks about the team, I give non-answers, she pushes for details, I deflect. The usual rhythm we’ve developed over years of friendship, now slightly charged with everything we’re not acknowledging.
Then she merges onto the highway, and the space between us shrinks even further.
It’s psychological, I know. The car hasn’t gotten smaller. But something about leaving Sorrowville—watching the familiar landmarks disappear in the rearview mirror—makes the air feel thicker. Like the rules that govern how we interact in our town don’t apply out here.
“Tell me about your first hockey game,” she says.
“What?”
“Your first game. The very first one you ever played. What do you remember?”
I blink at the unexpected question. “I was five. Maybe six. My dad took me to the outdoor rink behind the community center.”
“And?”
“And I couldn’t stay upright. I spent more time on my butt than my skates.” The memory surfaces, clearer than I expected. “But my dad kept picking me up. Every time I fell, he’d haul me back to my feet and tell me to try again.”
Before the drinking got bad. Before he stopped showing up at all.
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah.” My voice goes rough. “He was different then. Before everything.”
Gisele doesn’t push for more, just lets the silence hold the weight of what I’ve said. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about her—she knows when to press and when to wait.
“What about you?” I ask. “First memory of the salon?”
“Easy.” She smiles. “I was seven, and my grandmother took me to get my hair done at this fancy place in the city. I hated every second of it—the smells, the noise, sitting still for hours—but when they turned my chair around and I saw myself in the mirror...”
