“Ugh, you know I hate skating,” Mason groans.
“When you’re in the doghouse,” Margaret scolds lightly, “a little effort goes a long way. We all know how much Sydney loves it.”
“Don’t worry, Uncle Mason,” Beck pipes up. “You can’t possibly be worse than James. He was terrible last time.”
“Har, har.” James rolls his eyes, but there’s warmth in his smile. “I’ve been taking lessons, so watch out. I’m basically a threat to the NHL now.”
I do the unforgivable and glance up. Our eyes lock.He took lessons.
“Syd, will you hold my hand? Help keep me upright?” Mason cuts in with that smile, the one that once got him what he wanted. Now it just looks smarmy.
“They have carts. Come on, Bug, let’s get bundled up.”
“Okay, Mom and Ivy, you’re with me, Syd, and Anna,” Jules announces, already clearing plates. “Boys, find your own way.”
“This is great. James, we can scope out the ballroom at the resort. Might be perfect for the reception.” Ivy fluffs her hair with perfectly manicured nails.
She glances at me and smiles. A reminder that, skating lessons, soft looks, and earth-shattering words aside,he’s still hers.
***
Thecarisbarelyout of the driveway when Jules snatches the Bluetooth.
“Sorry, Syd, but mom jams aren’t cutting it today. We need something to unleash our inner ice queens.”
I lift a brow. “You mean like Elsa?”
“Please. Elsa wishes she had this energy.”
A beat later, Doja Cat’s “Boss Bitch” blasts through the speakers, bass thumping hard enough to rattle the glove compartment. Jules cranks the volume, tosses her curls, and dances in her seat with wild abandon.
“Woooooo!” Anna squeals from her car seat. Her little arms wave in sync with Jules, a miniature mirror of her aunt. Margaret rolls her eyes but laughs.
“Isn’t this song too much for Anna?” Ivy glances up from her phone, her brows lifting with disapproval.
Jules spins dramatically. “Oh, sorry. I left my Stepford Wives playlist in the trunk. Make sure to spend some time with your new books today. Might help pull the stick out of your ass.”
I bite back a laugh, because honestly? I miss the old Ivy. The Ivy who snuck wine into movies, who cannonballed into the resort pool in a designer dress, wholaughedwith us.
This watered-down version is a far cry from the woman she was just a few short years ago.
Outside, snowflakes swirl through the morning light as we head toward the rink, Doja Cat still unapologetically raging through the speakers. I forget about Mason—about what happened, about the choices in front of me. For these few minutes, I’m just a woman in a car with her daughter, her best friend, and music turned up loud enough to drown out everything else.
Until we park and there he is, a dark cloud hanging at the edge of the lot: Mason.
“Hi, Bug,” he says warmly as we exit the car. “I thought we could all skate together.” His eyes dart to mine, gauging my reaction.
“Sorry, Mase. Go get your skates on. I need to talk to Syd.” Jules sticks a hand up to stop him from coming any closer.
He looks at me, hoping I'll run interference. I let Jules pull me away with a defiant lift to my chin. His head drops, shoulders sag, maybe realizing last night isn’t going to blow over.
Jules’s voice turns uncharacteristically gentle. “I don’t know what happened, but you don’t have to pretend you’re fine with me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Jules. When I’m ready, I will.” I inhale. Exhale. Repeat. “Let’s just skate. Get Anna on the ice for the first time.”
“I’m here for you. One hundred percent in your corner, you know that, right?”
“Do you mean that? Like no matter what?” I ask, holding my breath. This answer is suddenly the most important answer to all my questions.
