Archer loosens his grip. I step back, find my balance, go to the boards. He skates over to Lily and scoops her up, and she tells him she’s going to be in the Olympics, and I stand at the wall gripping the ledge and trying to get my heartbeat back to a rate compatible with human life.
Luke glides over to me along the boards, still careful, still methodical.
“Auntie Syd, you look funny when you skate.”
“Thank you, Luke.”
He nods, satisfied that he’s delivered both knowledge and honesty, and glides away.
I pull out my phone and text Lauren from behind the boards where Archer can’t see my screen.
Me:I’m so screwed.
Lauren:???
Me:I think I almost kissed Arch *!$%&!!!
Lauren:Finally.
Me:That’s not helpful!
Lauren:It’s the most helpful thing I’ve said in fifteen years.
I put my phone away. Archer is skating with Lily on his hip now, making lazy circles around the rink, and Luke is following along the wall at his own pace, and I’m standing here with my pulse still hammering and the ghost of his hands on my waist and the memory of his breath on my face, and Lauren is right.
She’s always right, and that’s what scares me most.
We go for pizza after because Lily demands it, and we all decide pizza sounds good.
The place is a block from the rink—red vinyl booths, paper plates, a jukebox in the corner that only plays songs from before any of us were born. Lily wants pepperoni. Luke wants cheese. Archer orders a beer, and I order a glass of prosecco because I’ve earned it, and the four of us wedge into a booth, and it feels the way it always feels when we’re out together—easy and warm and a bit like a family.
Lily is telling Archer about a girl at preschool who has a pet lizard, and Luke is carefully pulling every piece of pepperoni off the slice Lily convinced him to try, and Archer is half-listening to both of them while eating his pizza with one hand and wiping Lily’s face with a napkin with the other, and I’m watching him do all of this at once and marveling at the way he makes it look natural.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, and the shift in his voice makes me set down my wine.
“Sure.”
“Why are you still single?”
The question lands in my chest like a rock thrown into still water. I stare at him across the table.
“I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, which is what he does when he realizes he’s said something that came outbigger than he meant it to. “I just always figured by now you’d be, uh—married. Maybe have kids of your own. You’re so good with people, Syd. You’re good with the twins, and you’re good at taking care of—you’re just—” He stops. Regroups. “I guess I always assumed someone would’ve figured out how great you are by now.”
I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I’m going to say the reason I’m single is you, and it’s always been you, and every man I’ve ever dated has been a placeholder for the one sitting across from me, and I would rather die than say any of that in a pizza restaurant with two toddlers between us.
“I need more napkins,” I say, and I slide out of the booth.
“There’s napkins right—”
“I’ll be right back.”
I walk to the counter at the front of the restaurant and stand there looking at the napkin dispenser, and I breathe. In and out. Upbeat oldies music plays overhead, and a teenager behind the register asks if I need help, and I say no, and I just stand there holding a stack of napkins I don’t need, trying to pull myself together.
I always figured you’d be married by now.
He always figured. Like it was a given. Like some other man was supposed to find me and keep me and give me the life he never offered. Like the idea of me ending up with someone else was not only possible but expected, and he’s confused about why it hasn’t happened yet.
Because of you, Archer. You absolute ass.
