Page 30 of Hearts on Ice
A few hands in, the cards stopped mattering. Conversation found its own rhythm—away trips that blurred together, half-decent diners near rinks, hotels that all smelled like the same recycled air. The kind of talk that fills long miles.
I found myself watching the way his eyes lit when he talked, the small crease that formed near his mouth when he smiled. There was something boyish about it—like the grin had outlasted every bruise life tried to give him.
Miguel told me about his parents’ place in East L.A.—his mom’s cooking that could fill the whole block with spice, his dad’s radio always playing merengue, bachata, or boleros. His abuela still ran the house from her armchair.
Something tightened in my chest. I hadn’t realized how long it’d been since I’d heard that kind of affection—ordinary, uncomplicated.
Miguel leaned back. “You ever miss home?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “I grew up in British Columbia. Winters bite harder there. The lakes freeze solid enough to skate beforeschool—before the sun’s even up. You come home numb and think it’s normal.”
He smiled faintly. “So that’s where the stoicism comes from.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Cold teaches you patience. You wait for ice to hold before you trust it.”
He tilted his head. “Sometimes I forget you’re Canadian.”
“Most people do,” I said. “Guess I’ve been south long enough to lose the edge.”
“You still got anyone up there?” he asked after a beat.
I hesitated. “Not really. My folks passed a while back. No siblings. After my wife and daughter…” I trailed off, unsure if I’d said too much. “It’s been a quiet few years.”
Miguel’s gaze didn’t waver, just softened a little. “That’s a long kind of quiet.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You learn to fill it with work. Rinks. Noise.”
He nodded, like he understood more than I’d meant to give away. “You talk like a man who’s seen forty-five winters and didn’t complain once.”
“Forty,” I corrected with a smirk. “Let’s not add five just to make a point.”
He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Still more winters than me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You’ve still got time, kid. Life’s not done with you yet.”
His smile faded to something smaller, softer. “Guess that’s what I’m counting on.”
Before I could reply, the plane jolted and made the overhead bins rattle.
Turbulence.
My pulse jumped before I could control it. My stomach dropped. The cards blurred in my hand.
Miguel glanced at me. “You good?”
“Yeah.” It came out too fast, too flat.
The plane shuddered again—harder this time.
A child cried somewhere up front. A bag shifted in the overhead bin with a dull thump.
Come on, Drew. Calm the fuck down.
The seatbelt light pinged on, that fake-cheerfuldingI’d always hated. Flight attendants moved briskly, buckling in. My fingers had already found the armrest, gripping tight.
Miguel’s hand landed on the one between us, not quite touching mine. “Hey,” he said lightly. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
