Page 69 of On Ice

I bobble the phone, letting it clatter to the floor. When I bend to pick it up, there’s a crack running through the middle of the screen. Miraculously, the call hasn’t dropped, so I slide it back to my ear, trying to avoid slicing open my skin on any sharp edges.

“A date,” I repeat, and I know it’s not true. I know that because Quinn and I are Quinn and I, and she told me she was meeting a coworker for drinks. And I trust her. I trust her. I fucking trust her. But it still feels like the edges of my ribcage cinch in around my heart and lungs, squeezing until I can barely gasp in air.

Quinn.

My Quinn.

Copper curls rioting around her heart-shaped face. Strong shoulders and bouncy tits, soft stomach and wide hips. Smiling at some lucky bastard who doesn’t know half the things that make her special, make her unique, make her everything. Quinn with a book stashed on her person, just waiting for the time when she can pull it out, not a care in the world. Quinn’s bow-shaped lips curving into a soft pout as she presses them to someone else’s. Fuck.

It’s not a date, I remind myself.

“Yeah, some big blonde guy down at that little coffee shop off Pine. They split some fancy cake thing and--”

I can’t hear more past the thundering rush in my ears.

It’s not a date, but someday it might be. Someday it will be because whatever we’ve decided, just the two of us, for us, right now, can’t last forever. Because eventually everyone wants the long-distance to end, the random visits to become a permanent stay. She’ll want more than what we’ve agreed to, no matter how much she might love me. Hell, I want more already, but I’m pretty sure I’ll never walk away from her. I’m pretty sure I can’t.

Quinn Cooper is the first person I think about every morning. She’s the one I want to talk to at the end of a long day. She’s the one I think of when something makes me laugh, or rage. She’s the one. I’m done kidding myself. Life doesn’t just hand us what we want whenever we want it. Waiting for the right time to start a life with the only woman I’ve ever loved is ludicrous. Especially when I know better than most that we have to create our own opportunities. I know better than most that things can change, we can lose, in an instant.

“—turns out it wasn’t a date after all. He’s a colleague with a wonderful husband named Terrance.”

Vic is still chattering away when I tune him back in.

“What?” I ask.

“Not a date,” my brother repeats and I knew it, never doubted it, but relief still turns my limbs soggy, heavy. “I promise that your redhead didn’t spot me herself, but I asked Jen about him. Music teacher at the same school. They sometimes coordinate lessons. Kind of cute that they debrief with coffee each week.”

“Should I be concerned that you have Jen’s number?” I ask because I’ve been meaning to for a while now. The last thing I need is for my twin to put moves on my Quinn’s roommate. That would be an extra complication we don’t need.

“Nah, she got my number from Quinn and asked me to talk to her class for career day or something like that. Do they do career day for kindergarteners?”

“I don’t think career day is a thing that young,” I say.

“Well, it was something. I wore my gear. Took some pictures. Told them how much I have to practice, when I started skating, that kind of stuff.” His voice is subdued again, and I don’t like it.

“I bet you made their year.” I tell him, thinking of Graham at that very first game.

“Don’t worry,” Vic says, “I won’t mess with your girl’s girl, but aren’t you glad she called me a few weeks ago? And aren’t you glad I uncovered the not-date-date?”

“If you knew it wasn’t a date, then why say it was a date?” I ask.

My heart is still out of whack, puttering along a little too fast and dropping beats at random. I need a sedative, an aspirin, a defibrillator. I’m pretty sure my building has at least one in the lobby.

“To help you pull your head out of your ass so that you’d admit that you were jealous. Jealous because you’re head over heels in love with Quinn and you need to move here to claim your lady for your own.”

Melodramatic, but not wrong, because if Vic is right about one thing, it’s that I’m in love with Quinn Cooper. He just doesn’t know that I already have done something about it. Jealousy isn’t goosing me into action. My twin is wrong about that, but it is helping me in another way.

“Vic,” I say into the phone, cutting off my brother’s rant about true love and soulmates. “I think I’m going to need some help.”

The knock on my door is the first surprising thing about Saturday. The man standing at my door is the second. My heart gives two wild thumps in my chest at the sight of sandy blonde hair and wide shoulders, but the smile is all wrong. It’s a little too wide and open for the man I love. The twinkle in the brown-green hazel of his eyes is just a touch off.

“Victor Varg.” I open the door wider and gesture Erik’s twin into my living room. “How can I help you?”

“Quinn Cooper, just the woman I’ve been dying to see.” Vic toes off his boots before walking across the room to my small brick fireplace. He peruses the photos framed on the mantel, a large finger running over each smiling face as though he wants to commit them to memory. “You don’t have any of my brother.”

“I haven’t known him that long.” I say, trying not to sound dejected. We don’t take photos when we’re together. We talk. Or lose our clothes.

“He’s known you long enough.” Vic plops down onto the couch and stretches his arms along the back. “He has a picture of you with some super large fluffy orange thing. It’s framed and everything. Don’t worry, he keeps it in the living room, so I doubt he’s using it for inappropriate reasons.” Vic winks.

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