Page 78 of Beautifully Messy
The ice beneath me feels solid, certain.
“Come on, Aunt Syd! Do a jump!” The boys cheer.
“You know it’s been a while, right?” I laugh, shaking my head.
“Come on!”
The ice calls to something deep in me—the part that remembers joy without fear. Freedom. Fun for the sake of it. Those tiny moments I carved for myself as a little girl, a teen alone in a foreign country.
I pick up speed, cold air slicing my cheeks: swizzles, long glides, muscle memory returning in waves. I pull out moves from routines I learned as a girl. I remember how to line up, the instinct to launch myself off the ice. I start with a single axel and land it smoothly. I take a lap, center my breath, and line up backward, lifting my back foot and pushing off with my right leg. My skates cross, my eyes stay up, and the ice welcomes me back: a double axel.
Claps and cheers burst through my haze.
“Aunt Syd, that was awesome! You’re so cool!” Leo shouts while his brother throws his hands in the air.
“Mama!” Anna’s little voice carries.
From the corner of my eye, I glance to where Mason was, but he’s gone. His absence doesn’t surprise me; he only ever shows up for appearances, never for the parts that matter.
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week!” I throw my arms in the air and take a bow.
“Will you show us some new moves?” Beck skates forward. He glides into the spin we worked on the last time we were here.
“Anna, are you okay hanging out with Uncle J?” I ask my daughter. I know it’s not even a question worth asking as she gazes up at him.
“I’ve got her. Go have fun,” James says. He keeps Anna’s hand clasped tightly in his as they take another slow lap, her giggles trailing, cutting through the cold like sunlight.
I spend the next thirty minutes skating between the boys and Anna. The rest of the family is outside the rink, sipping warm drinks. Ivy stormed off after James declined to check out the ballroom with her. Mason is still nowhere to be seen.
James skates up with Anna in his arms. “I think she’s wiped. You want some hot chocolate, Bug?”
“P’ease!”
Looking between them, I can’t help myself. I smile. Wide and free. Somehow over the last hour, I went from pretending to actually being okay. And as my smile grows, last night softens and becomes less important.
Because I’m pretty sure my future is standing right here.
“Sydney,” Margaret calls out. “You were marvelous out there.”
I cough, hoping my red cheeks look flushed from the skating. “Thank you. It’s been a while since I’ve skated like that.”
“I’ve seen you skate plenty, but I’ve never seen you do a jump. What’s it called?” She smiles, all motherly affection.
“It’s a double axel. I don’t know if I ever told you I skated competitively until I was thirteen.” Margaret leans against the wall, listening attentively. “I moved and lost my coach, so I gave it up. I wasn’t good enough for the national team or anything.”
“How lucky are you guys?” She says, turning to Leo and Beck. “Your aunt looked like an Olympian out there. She has to be able to help with your hockey skating.”
Anna’s giggles draw my attention. James extends his arms, supporting her as she stretches out like a bird, gliding toward the hot chocolate stand. Her laughter bubbles up, pure and uninhibited.
My eyes track them until I remember myself. Margaret is watching me. She looks away, but not before I catch a flash of something crossing her face. Whatever it is, she tucks it away and smiles broadly.
A hand brushes my arm—Mason. A massive bouquet of expensive flowers in one hand, down on one knee. Performance-ready.
“Syd, I’m so sorry for how I behaved last night. Can you forgive me?”
I look from his face to the people behind him. His parents’ expectant smiles. Jules’s pinched frown. James’s unhidden frustration. Tom discreetly moves the boys away. Mason’s saccharine smile says he thinks this grand gesture can erase last night—or the years I’ve put up with him. I’m supposed to be a good little wife and say,it’s okay.
He doesn’t even realize I don’t want cut flowers. Never have. There’s something so perverse about giving someone a bouquet—something that will die in a week—as a symbol of love. He doesn’t know that staying, skating with us, would’ve meant more than a thousand roses.
