“Oh, she was a lot. I went through my One Direction phase; a lot later than I’d like to admit. I once went through a British phase, where I forced everyone in my house to speak with a British accent for a week. I also forced my family to eat my terrible creations that I thought were gourmet meals after watching Master Chef, but they were really just random condiments that I found in the refrigerator. I was just a general nightmare. I thought that I didn’t have friends in middle school other than Scarlett, Kennedy, and Gigi because I was skating all the time but it’s because I was a little weirdo,” I say in one go, surprising myself at how much I just rambled. Miles stares at me with wide eyes and a huge smile.
“I think that’s the most you’ve spoken to me in one sitting,” he says through his wide smile. I roll my eyes and he laughs. “Why do you always talk about skating like you hate it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. The other day, you were saying how hard you work and how it isn’t fun. It sounds like you’ve quite literally been training all your life. If you don’t like it, why don’t you just quit?”
No one has downright asked me that in a long time. What can I say?
This has been my mom's dream for her whole life until she was injured.
Her first daughter couldn’t handle the ice and I was her only hope. I put the work in, I got good and now it’s the only thing I can do. The only thing I’m good for.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter but he doesn’t seem convinced. “That’s a story for another day. What was little Miles like?” He gives me a sympathetic smile before dropping it. If we got into that now, we’d be here for hours.
“I wasn’t as crazy as you, that’s for sure,” he begins. “I don’t think I went through any phases exactly. The only thing I can really remember loving as a kid was hockey. Carter and I lived and breathed hockey. It was all we talked about. We could go weeks at a time talking about the same game over and over. I guess I’m still in that phase, though.”
I see the way his face changes when he talks about him. It’s nostalgic but pained. Something in him smooths out when he talks about him. Remembrance. He looks a little lost. Distant. As if talking about him has made him materialise in front of him.
“Sorry, I don’t think that really answered the question,” he says after a while.
“No, it’s okay,” I reply. I’ve always been a physically affectionate person, so I don’t hesitate before I reach out and put my hand over his. He flips over his hand, so his palm is facing up. We both look at our hands before I slip my hand into his. It feels strange but I need to comfort him in some way. “I can tell you really miss him.”
“He was my best friend. My brother.”
“We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to,” I whisper. He shakes his head.
“It’s okay. I brought him up.” He squeezes my hand before letting go. He stands up, groaning as he stretches. “Come on. We need to get back to work.”
“Do we have to?” I moan, falling on my back. Miles stands next to my aching body, towering over me.
“This was your idea. What is it that you say? Beauty is pain,” he chants. I reach my arms up and he grabs my hands, pulling me up. When I’m standing upright in front of him, I almost sway over.
“Aw, are you calling me beautiful?” I mock as I shake out my arms and legs.
“You didn’t need me to tell you that, Wren,” he whispers before tapping me on the shoulder and sprinting to the other side of the gym. Why does this grown man love to play tag?
*
The car journey home is more chaotic than it was on the way there. Miles still sung – horribly –but it was absolute torture when we was stuck in traffic. We’re almost outside his house when Miles stops the music abruptly and looks at me. I turn to him for a second before pulling into his driveway.
I look back at his house.
Then back to him.
He’s still staring.
“What?” Suddenly I feel uncomfortable under his hot gaze.
“How many guys have you slept with?” he asks without hesitation.
“Is that one of the questions?” I ask back, turning to him. His face is serious but there’s something swirling in his eyes. Curiosity? Desperation?
“No.”
“Then why do you need to know that?”
“I’m your boyfriend, I think I’m meant to know,” he argues.
