Page 251 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

But as always, he surprised me.

Because helaughed.

“Too cocky,” he said, grumbling to himself as he shakily got back up onto his feet. “Just need to?—”

And then he was off again.

By the end of the night, George was a self-proclaimed “professional figureskater”. He’d seen a few people out on the ice for public skate, a teen most notably in the center of the rink performing tricks. Spins I didn’t know the names for—and a jump or two. George’s eyes had gone bright, this almost manic smile on his face as he’d stared and stared and stared.

I got the feeling we would be going ice skating together a lot more often.

Which was definitely surprising.

And fucking awesome.

I knelt at his feet to help him get his skates off. I figured he could do it on his own, but it was more fun this way.

“I want to do one of those things that girl did,” George told me, leaning back and letting me take care of him. “The…swirly things.”

“Spins?”

His cheeks flushed, embarrassed he hadn’t guessed the word. “That, yes.”

“We can get you lessons,” I promised, unlacing his second boot and pulling that one off too. I rubbed his feet, even though he kicked at me, grunting something about his socks being sweaty. I leveled him with a look, and he didn’t complain again.

“Can’t you teach me?” George asked.

“You want me to teach you how to spin?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“Baby, I play hockey, that isn’t the kinda shit I know how to do.” Some of the guys on the team got fancy with it and mimicked the figure skaters sometimes, but it was always far less graceful—and without toe picks on our skates, there wasn’t much I could do when it came to jumping.

George sighed, glaring at me like I’d planned this all along. Like I’d brought him here to get him obsessed with figure skating only to pull the rug right out from under him.

“How about I teach you all I can do, and then we go from there?” I offered, pressing my lips into a line so I wouldn’t laugh at his adorably disgruntled face.

“I suppose that’s acceptable.”

“Glad to hear it.” Okay, I lost. Because then I laughed—unable to help myself, and George kicked at me with his free socked foot.

I was on cloud nine the rest of the night. I took him to the Italian place we’d never gotten to visit. He ate his spaghetti in the bitty bites I knew and loved—not because he was uncomfortable now, but because he hadn’t wanted to spill on his sexy little outfit.

We snarked and joked and kissed at every opportunity.

And life…life was good.

So fucking good.

I’d started seeing my therapist again. We’d only had one session, but already that had helped. George didn’t mind my “affirmations”—homework, that I’d been given between now and the next time I’d see my doctor to try and help me boost my self-esteem. George liked to listen. Liked to stand in the doorway to the bathroom as I stared at my own reflection and attempted to find good things to say. Confidence building.

When he was watching, it made it easier to be kind to myself.

Sometimes, when I’d draw a complete blank, he even stepped in.

“You have a nice smile,” he’d say. “Maybe start with that.”

Or.

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