“I’ll behave. For you.”
“Sure you will.”
I go back to my laptop. He goes back to radiating boredom at the wall.
Two weeks later - April 7
“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Romeo asks for what has to be the third time, phone pressed to his ear as he paces in his bedroom. “They’re really the exact ones?”
I’m getting ready in the bathroom, but I can hear him through thedoor. He’s been weird all day. Jumpy and secretive and checking his watch every five minutes.
“For the hundredth time, yes,” a male voice says loud enough that I can hear it through the phone. “The exact blades, original weight distribution, not the redesigned ones with the reinforced edge you requested. Exact replicas of the discontinued model, but dare I say, better.”
My hands still on my mascara wand.
Blades?
“They have to be perfect,” Romeo insists. “You don’t understand. This woman can spot a toe pick flaw from across the rink while blindfolded.”
“Romeo,” the voice says with exaggerated patience, “I’ve been crafting custom blades for Olympic athletes for fifteen years. If I say they’re perfect, they’re goddamned perfect.”
Custom blades. For me. For my birthday.
I set down the mascara and move closer to the door.
“But—”
“If you ask me one more time, I’m selling them to the Rangers’ center who’s been begging for custom blades for his figure skater girlfriend.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Romeo gasps, genuinely horrified.
“Try me. Now, are you picking these up today or not?”
“Yes. Definitely yes. Thank you.”
He hangs up and I hear him let out a long breath, like he’s been holding it the entire conversation.
I finish getting ready with a smile I can’t quite suppress, my mind spinning. Custom blades. He remembered.
Months ago, back in January, maybe early February, I’d mentioned in passing that my old blades had been discontinued. The ones I used during my competitive days. How I’d been making do with an inferior replacement model for years but it wasn’t the same. Just a throwaway comment while we were having lunch.
And he remembered.
Dinner isat a seafood place downtown with windows overlooking the water. The kind of restaurant that requires reservations weeks in advance.
Romeo is fidgeting.
He’s trying to hide it by keeping his hands busy with his water glass, his silverware, the edge of the tablecloth. But I can see the nervous energy radiating off him.
“You okay?” I ask after the waiter takes our order.
“Yeah. Great. Why?”
“You seem anxious.”
“I’m not anxious.”
“You’ve reorganized your silverware three times.”
