ME
Good call.
I click off the screen and drop my phone onto the nightstand, giving myself space to think. Which was pointless, really, because it only takes me two seconds to realize that if I declined entirely, I’d just lay here staring at the ceiling, wishing I hadn’t. Still, I’m not ready to tell Peyton that I’m getting worse. I still haven’t fully accepted it myself. I grab my phone and click on her thread again.
ME
I can’t go on the ice…
ICARUS
Oh.
ME
I’m sorry.
ICARUS
Do you want to talk about it?
ME
Not yet.
ICARUS
That’s okay.
Do you want to keep me company in the stands? I can bring my stadium cushion.
A smile—equal parts sad and amused—breaks across my face.
ME
I’ll be there in 40.
I feel like I’m home. I’ve been “home” for the past week, but here at the rink with Peyton?
It’s become my sanctuary.
Even just sitting on this slab of green foam, watching her whirl around the cones, and sink shots into the net, feels comforting. I never thought watching would be enough. It still isn’t. But for now, it satiates me.
“You know,” she pants, dragging the back of her wrist across her cheek to wipe away a bead of sweat. “I’m kind of relieved you can’t show me up today. My ego was starting to take a hit.”
Under the sickly pale stadium lights, her salt-slicked porcelain skin glows, beads gathering along her forehead like a crown. It’s hard not to look at her for too long.
Harder not to think about the hotel.
About how she sounded.
How she felt.
Hardest of all is that I want it to happen again.
I smile something bittersweet. Not just from Peyton’s words, but from this aching realization:
I missed this. Missedfeelingsomething.
