Emerson
Where are we going?” I ask.
Jake keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s a surprise.”
“Another surprise?” I ask. “I could get used to this.” My stomach dances with butterflies. Are we heading back to his place?
I turn in my seat and watch Jake drive, taking him in, trying to memorize every detail and imprint him onto my memory. Even though we’ve talked about it and agreed we’ll commit to a long-distance relationship, there’s a little niggling doubt in my mind that refuses to quiet—an unspoken fear that when he leaves, that will be it—that he won’t come back, that things will fizzle and die between us.
I brush the thought away, bury it deep, and watch him as he signals and turns right. I like watching him drive. Like everything he does, there’s a certain easy, graceful skill to it.
Feeling me staring at him, he turns and smiles, but I note the smile doesn’t quite make it to his eyes and that there’s a furrowed line between them. He’s worried about something. He signals again and pulls into a parking lot. I glance out the window and my heart does a double slam into my ribs before starting to hammer madly.
“What are we doing here?”
Jake pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. His hands stay on the wheel, but he turns to face me. “Okay, you can tell me if you think this is a stupid idea, and maybe it is, I don’t know, but I want you to get back on the ice.”
Dumb with disbelief, I look out the window again and catch a glimpse of the skating rink sign and a billboard advertising the Bainbridge Eagles. My pulse starts to skitter and slide like a puck smashed across slow ice.
“Just hear me out,” Jake says in a gentle voice. He takes my hands in his. “You were good, Em,” he says. “And you loved it. And you had to give it up.” I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “I get why you did. I totally get it. But isn’t there a part of you that’s angry about it?”
I scowl at him. “Of course there is,” I hiss.
Jake gives a small shrug. “So take it back. Don’t let him win.”
He already has! I want to yell, but I stop myself. I glance out the window at the rain-lashed parking lot and the entrance, and my gut does a sudden loop the loop, relief shooting through me when I see the sign on the door.
“It’s closed,” I say, gesturing at the rink. “It’s Monday.” Lightness fills me up like helium.
Jake pulls something out of his pocket and waves it in my face.
“What’s that?” I ask, pulling back, my gut clenching.
“The key.”
“The key to what?” I ask.
“To the rink.”
“How did you . . .”
Jake shrugs. “I still know the owner. And I promised to come teach a boot camp next weekend in exchange.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. No words can make it up my throat because my heart is in the way.
Jake takes my hand again, his thumb stroking a pattern over my knuckles. “Come and skate with me,” he says. “It’s just going to be you and me in there. Just the two of us. Come on, we used to dream about breaking in and having the place all to ourselves.” He’s grinning at me, still a little uncertainly, trying to nudge me into it. His eyes have a low glimmer in them. “I dare you . . . ,” he whispers.
I breathe in deeply, my body responding as much to his touch as to the look in his eye and the challenge he’s just laid down.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I say. My gaze is tugged once again back to the door. And suddenly, out of nowhere, memories start to assault me, flickering thick and fast in front of my eyes: Coach Lee stepping toward me with that smile on his face, the echoing chill of the changing rooms, the metallic smash of my head against the locker doors, the stabbing of his fingers on my body as if I were made of clay and he was trying to shape me into something that was to his liking, the angry slash of his mouth.
“It’s okay, breathe, just breathe.”
I look at Jake, confused, then realize that I’m gripping his hand hard and hyperventilating, sucking in air, which doesn’t seem to be filling my lungs at all.
“Em,” he says. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I rest my head back against the seat and Jake breathes with me, stroking my hair, trying to calm me.
“You know,” I say to him after my heartbeat has gone back to normal and my lungs are cooperating once again, “for ages after it happened, I just wanted to forget about it. I actually wished that I could go back in time and change things. I wished that I had fought back. And even if I couldn’t change what happened, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut or lied to my mom. I used to think that maybe if I had, everything would have just gone on being the same.” I look at Jake. “You wouldn’t have left. My parents wouldn’t have been screwed financially. No one at school would have known. The teachers wouldn’t have treated me the way they did. I might not have dated Rob.” I pull a face. “Actually, there’s no way I would have dated Rob.”
Jake’s scowl deepens.
“All those things could have been different if I’d just kept my mouth shut. But you know what, Jake?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m glad I didn’t. Even though I had to go through so much crap,” I whisper, “and no one believed me, even though there were days when I honestly thought about running away or, I don’t know . . . giving up . . . I’m glad I told the truth. I don’t regret it. Because it was out there, you know?”
He nods, still scowling.
“Even if no one believed me, at least it wasn’t a secret. It felt like the only way to not be a victim was to come out and tell the truth. If I’d kept it a secret, it would have been worse in the long run.”
“I just—I wish I could undo it all. I wish I could turn back the clock and make things right.”
I laugh under my breath and dip my head to kiss his palm.
“I think we should get out of here. I’m sorry I brought you.” He turns on the engine, sticking the car into drive with an angry motion. He’s mad at himself.
I grab for his arm. “No,” I say.
He takes his foot off the gas and looks over at me.
“I want to do this,” I tell him.
He studies me for a beat. “You’re sure?” he asks. “Because we can just go. It’s not important. We can go back to my place and just hang out.”
“No,” I say, louder, taking a deep breath and rolling back my shoulders. “Let’s do this. I want to do this.” Before I change my mind, I almost add.
Before he can say anything else, I’m out of the car. My legs feel wobbly, but I’m determined. Jake told me that it was okay. But it’s not. It’s not okay. I’m sick of feeling this way.
Jake takes my hand and steers me toward the door. I focus on his palm against mine, the solidness of his body—a barrier between me and the world—and try to banish the images jostling in my head.
Jake unlocks the door and we enter the echoing dark. I shiver instantly. I’d forgotten how cold the rink was, had forgotten the smell, too: sweat, ice, ripe foot odor, stale popcorn. It brings back more memories—of games, of practicing with Jake, of the euphoric buzz of winning.
Jake fumbles for the light switch, and when the fluorescents flicker and flare on, I blink. I’m primed to react—expecting to be hit by more memories—but actually the place looks so different that I can hardly reconcile it to the place from my memory. They’ve changed the layout of the reception area and painted it in garish reds and blues. It could be a different place altogether. I glance over toward the double doors that lead to the locker rooms, the place where Jake first kissed me. The doors are the only thing that is still the same.
“You okay?” Jake asks me anxiously.
I nod. He takes my hand again and leads me toward the doors. My body tenses. Jake feels it. He stops at the doors, barring my way.
“What?” I ask. I just want to get this over with. I’ve decided that this is like therapy, like climbing back on a bicycle or a horse after falling off. I just need to do it once—skate one lap and then we can go. Five minutes at the most. I’ll have proven to myself I can do it and that I’ve won.
Jake drops his bag—which I realize now must contain skates—and takes my face in his hands. The world falls instantly away as it does every time he touches me. He takes it slowly, tauntingly, as if he’s been given a do-over for that first kiss we shared five years ago right in this very spot, and, by the time his lips meet mine, I’m not sure if I’m floating or have my feet still firmly planted on the ground. When Jake releases me a few seconds or minutes later, I’m as dizzy as if I’d just done a flying sit spin on the ice.
“What was that for?” I ask, breathless.
“Old times’ sake,” he murmurs, his lips still brushing mine. “Come on.” He picks up the bag and swings it over his shoulder. Then he pushes open the door, holding it open for me, and leads the way to the rink.
I stare at the ice—polished as a mirror—and I experience that loop-the-loop feeling once again, as if my stomach is on a spin cycle. I grin at Jake. He grins back, revealing his dimple.
“Here,” he says, crouching down and unzipping his bag. He pulls out a pair of skates. “Your size,” he says, handing them to me.
I stare at him in wonder. “You bought me new skates?” I ask.
He shrugs and nudges me back into one of the plastic seats lining the rink. He hands me some extra socks to put on, and when I’ve pulled on the skates and stood up, he also hands me an extra sweater. “Until you warm up,” he tells me.
I pull it on. It hangs almost to my knees.
“It’s one of mine,” he says. “Sorry, it’s too big.”
He helps me roll up the sleeves. I want to bury my nose in the collar and breathe in deep, but I stop myself, at least until he’s not watching.
Jake’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I watch him pull on his own skates—an old, battered pair that he must use for practice—and start to feel a tingling feeling shiver up my legs, bubbles starting to simmer in my stomach. I used to feel like this before a game.
Jake jumps up when he’s done with his skates and takes my hand. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod, so nervous I can’t talk.
That first step onto the ice is as perfect a rush as our first kiss. With Jake’s fingers linked through mine, it’s easy. I realize that I’d been worried I might have forgotten how to skate, but I haven’t. As we pick up speed, Jake skating backward, pulling me with him, the tingling feeling takes over, spreading down my legs and arms. “I can do this!” I shout in glee.
Jake lets go of my hands, skating out of my way, still facing toward me. I hunch down lower, and drive into the ice. It’s good ice: cold, with no snow layer on it; easy to accelerate on. The speed is indescribable.
Jake takes the corners without even looking behind him. There’s a light in his eyes—one I recognize from when he was younger—he comes alive on the ice. It’s the same joyful, triumphant, electrified look that he gets when he’s daring me to do something. The same look I saw the other night in the tent when he was kissing me, and that time outside the restaurant when his hands were hovering against my sides, his fingers sliding over my dress.
That’s what this feels like: sliding over silk sliding over skin. I’m laughing—it’s bubbling up and out of me, and suddenly Jake’s skating toward me, grabbing me by both hands, spinning me around. He digs his blade into the ice, braking, showering us both in a snowstorm of ice, and then catches me against his chest as we slam to a stop.
Out of breath, I look up at him. “Again,” I say.