“It’s okay.” I smile softly. “We just wanted out of the sun for a bit. Can we—is the rink open?”
I glance away from the attendant when I say it. Bohdan hasn’t said anything, and I’m a bit scared to look.
It’s just a sheet of ice—but it’s not, not really.
One hand grips his jaw before he presses his fingers to his temple. He gives a jerk of his head before he looks at me, just a strained smile and sad eyes.
“You can skate, if you want,” the attendant says, scrambling out of his chair, the flash of his name tag finally visible. Enrique. “Won’t you be cold?”
“We’re fine,” we both say quietly and in unison.
“Oh. Sure. Yeah. Whatever you want.” He nods, holding up a clipboard. “You just need to sign the waiver and I’ll get you fitted for—”
Bohdan cuts in. “I can fit the skates.”
Enrique blinks before tugging on the end of his curls. He nods again. “Sure, yeah. Okay. I mean, that’s not strictly allowed but ... if you sign the waiver and promise not to tell.”
“We won’t tell.” I smile again, trying to go for encouraging, but I can’t really take my eyes off Bohdan.
If this was a movie—it might cut to a sad, tragic montage of what Bohdan sees.
I don’t need the visual.
I know what he’s looking at when he stares out onto the empty ice.
His whole life. His first dream. His first love, and maybe his greatest love as it turned out.
Blood.
Crimson, pooling along the ice and suffocating all those beautiful sparkles that reflect off the surface of a clean sheet.
The two of us drowning in it.
Bohdan’s eyes pinch closed, and I can’t help it—I walk behind him, dropping my chin to his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his chest. His hands find my forearms, and he drops his cheek to the crown of my head.
It’s a gesture worth more than one strike, certainly.
But everything gets so quiet—the arena, my heart, my brain.
I can’t hear anything.
Just Bohdan’s breathing. It turns ragged for a second, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut.
But it feels a bit like, maybe nothing could hurt either of us again while we’re standing there together.
Certainly not more than we’ve hurt ourselves.
I don’t know how long we stand there, but Enrique clears his throat and awkwardly asks if we still want to skate.
Leaving Bohdan staring out at the ice, I sign the waiver for both of us, and Enrique cranes his neck, like he’s looking down at my feet before he starts piling pairs of skates haphazardly onto the desk.
“Can I see them?” Bohdan asks quietly, coming to stand beside me, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“Oh, uh—yeah, sure, why not?” Enrique blinks, holding his palms out like he’s presenting Bohdan the skates.
It’s one of those surreal moments in your life—where it really does feel possible to be two places at once.
I’m here, on this cruise ship docked in the Mediterranean, skin pebbling against the cool air of the rink, watching a thirty-year-old Bohdan run his thumb along skate blade after skate blade, pushing down on the spurs, moving the tongues back and forth, and tugging on the laces.
