The rink opens at 6 AM for open skate. I grab my bag and leave before I can think better of it.
The ice isthe only place where I can actually breathe right now.
I’m not supposed to do anything intense, doctor’s orders are still no jumps, no hard landings, just basic skating while the fracture fully heals. But I need this, need to feel my blades on ice, need the cold air in my lungs, need something that makes sense.
The rink is empty except for a few early morning recreational skaters doing lazy laps around the edge. I lace up my boots, pulling the laces tight enough that they bite into my fingers, and step onto the ice. The cold hits me immediately and everything else falls away.
This is where I’m in control. Not of my relationships or my future or anything else in my life, but here, on the ice, my body knows exactly what to do. Push off. Glide. Turn. The physics of it are simple and unchangeable. If I lean wrong, I fall. If I do it right, I fly.
I start with basics. Crossovers, feeling the familiar pull in my hip flexors as I cross one leg over the other. Figure eights. Building speed, feeling the burn in my legs, testing my ankle. It holds. A little tender, a little weak, but it holds.
A simple waltz jump, just enough height to test the landing, and my ankle protests, a sharp twinge that shoots up my shin, but it’s manageable. I do it again. Cleaner this time. The repetition is soothing, gives my brain something to focus on besides the endless loop of last night’s conversation.
I love her.
I push harder. Faster. The wind whips against my face, stinging my cheeks, and I can feel tears starting to form but I don’t know if it’s from the cold or from everything else. A single salchow, one rotation, landing solid enough that I know I’m pushing my luck but I don’t care, I need to prove something to myself, need to prove I’m still capable of something.
The sun comes up while I’m skating, pale winter light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the ice. I’ve lost track of time. My legs are shaking and my ankle is screaming at me, each landing sending sharp protests through the joint, and I can’t think about Garrett anymore because I’m too busy remembering how to breathe between movements.
I stop at center ice and my lungs burn, sweat has broken through my layers despite the cold, dampening the fabric against my back and the tears have dried on my face, leaving my skin tight and itchy.
The ice doesn’t care though. It just holds me up.
After a while I skate off and unlace my boots, my fingers clumsy with cold and exhaustion. My ankle is swollen, pressing against the inside of my skate, which means I’ve definitely set back my healing timeline. My physical therapist is going to be pissed when I get to therapy on Wednesday.
Worth it though.
My phone has seven missed calls from another unknown number and three texts from Olivia.
Olivia
Jules seriously call me back
Are you okay?
You’re worrying me If you don’t respond I’m calling Mom
I take a breath and type out a response.
I’m fine. Sorry, fell asleep early. What’s up with the dresses?
Her response is to immediately call me.
“FINALLY. Okay so the bridal shop needs our final measurements by Wednesday...”
I let her talk about satin versus chiffon, about hemlines and alterations and the absolute horror of trying to coordinate five bridesmaids into matching shoes. I make appropriate noises at appropriate times. She doesn’t notice anything is wrong.
Why would she? I’ve spent three years perfecting the art of sounding fine for everything.
When she finally winds down, she adds, “Oh, and Garrett texted Owen this morning. Said he’s not moving to Seattle after all? What’s that about?”
My throat closes up completely, tightening until I can barely swallow. “It’s a long story, I don’t really want to talk about it right now, Livi.”
“You sure? I’m here if you want to, you know that?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Okay, well, anyway, can you get your measurements to me by tomorrow? The shop is being super annoying about their timeline.”
