Page 95 of Fault Lines
He glanced over, eyes glinting with mischief. “As much as I love watching movies with you all night—among other things—I thought we’d try something different today.”
I raised an eyebrow as he took a turn I didn’t recognize.
“It’s something we can try together. Probably fail at together but who cares.” He gave an easy shrug.
Twenty minutes and a few neighborhood detours later, Nate pulled into a big parking lot. The building looming ahead was unfamiliar, but the sign over the door said “Johnson’s Ice House.”
“Um, what is this?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“You’ll see.”
He got out, circled around, and helped me from the car. “Grab your coat,” he advised, popping the trunk.
Inside, the answer hit me in the face: ice-skating rink. “It’s an ice-skating rink!” I turned to Nate, grinning. “How did you know?”
He blinked, genuinely confused. “Know what?”
“That I used to ice skate as a kid?”
He let out a laugh. “I didn’t. I just thought we could try it together.”
We paid for our skates and plopped down on a bench to lace up. Now the warnings about dressing warmly made sense. I finished first and helped him with his laces, then we shuffled over to the rink.
I grabbed the guardrail for dear life, legs wobbly, but it started coming back faster than I expected. Nate, meanwhile, looked like a newborn deer. He slid and flailed more than he actually skated.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” he admitted, gripping the rail like it was a lifeline.
I giggled and let go, coasting a little as a pop song piped through the speakers. “This was agreatidea. I can’t believe I never knew about this place.”
Nate struggled with his balance. “Do you want to hold my hand and I’ll take you around?”
He glanced my way, a subtle challenge in his tone. “You said it’s been a while. Think you still skate that well?”
I let myself drift backward, hands loose at my sides. “Supposedly, it’s like riding a bike. You never really lose it.” I spun away, easing into the music, my hips falling into the pulse as I moved. He was right; it really did come back, all at once. The silvery gloss of the ice. The distant echo of laughter. I hadn’t skated since I was a teen, but now, out on the rink, it was as if I’d only paused for a moment.
I circled, lifted a leg high behind me, bent forward, testing my balance. I dared a few tight spins, even attempted the little jumps I half-remembered from before. I was so glad I’d listened to Nate and worn jeans instead of leggings. The chill out here would have bled right through anything thinner, even with the exercise warming me from inside out.
Eventually I angled back toward Nate, who was shuffling along the rail, knuckles white on the cold metal. I slowed beside him. “You ready to come with me yet?”
He watched me, eyes wide. “Why’d you stop skating, Livi? You’re… incredible. You look happy out there.”
I felt my smile slip a little. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been smiling until then—for a second, the whole place faded out and I was a kid again, worry-free, thinking only of my next test or who’d be mad if I missed curfew. I felt a knife of homesickness for my parents. Things had changed since I moved to the city with Cam; we only talked on holidays now, or sometimes for birthdays. The drifting had been gradual but real.
“I don’t really know,” I said after a beat. “It was just a hobby. After I graduated, I went to college and… I guess I just dropped it.” The words felt small in the chilly air.
“You met Cam,” Nate finished quietly, “and he never took you skating?”
“It’s not really his fault,” I said, meeting Nate’s gaze. “I never made it sound important. I think I did mention I used to skate, but I didn’t tell him it meant anything.”
“If he’d ever brought you,” Nate said, “he would’ve seen.”
I let that go, grabbing Nate by the hand and prying him off the rail. “Let’s just take a lap.”
He looked like he regretted coming out here, wobbling hard, feet splaying wide. It threw me straight into laughter when he almost did the splits, twice. I tightened my grip on his arm, steadying him, leading us forward.
The next song drifted over the speakers—a Bruno Mars ballad, “When I Was Your Man.” I started singing along as we went. I couldn’t help it; that was just one of those songs that demanded a singalong no matter what.
Nate fell three times, grumbling about his butt every time I hauled him back up, but he never told me he wanted to quit. He was a good sport, embarrassment and all.
