Page 74 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Don’t get excited. I’m still one bad push from a concussion.”

“I’ll catch you.”

He would, too. That’s the annoying part.

I get bold on lap six. Bold is generous. I let go of the boards entirely, both hands out at my sides like a toddler crossing a balance beam, and manage four whole strides before my left skate shoots out sideways. I go down hard on one hip, skid a solid two feet, and lie there on the ice for a second just to fully process the indignity of it.

Jeremiah skates up and looks down at me, lips pressed together, visibly fighting a losing battle.

He offers both hands, and the second I take them, the corner of his mouth finally gives out and he laughs, unfairly delighted, hauling me upright like I weigh nothing.

“For the record, that was a nine out of ten.”

“You absolute liar.”

He laughs and doesn’t let go of my waist, and I savor how much I like the weight of his hand right there, steady and low on my hip. Eventually, I’ve got something resembling footing, wobbly but functional. He skates a slow circle around me, checking my form.

“You have done this before,” I accuse, both skates finally, miraculously under me.

“Once or twice.”

“It’s almost like you’re some kind of professional skater or something.”

“I dabble.”

Then he lifts a hand toward the glass booth and calls out something short in Spanish. Up in the booth, Martín’s silhouette shifts, and a thumbs-up appears in the window.

“What was that?”

“You’ll see.”

An acoustic strum echoes throughout the rink, and then the electric guitar slams in over the top of it. I know this song, and I let out a laugh that is ridiculously unladylike.

“No. You did not.”

“Happy birthday, America.” Jeremiah skates backward away from me, spreading his arms wide like he’s presenting the whole rink, the lights, the moment. “Now you get to sing this song unironically.”

He remembered. Back in the Hall of Mirrors when I off-handedly mentioned “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes was a twenty-five-year-old’s rite of passage.

We skate to the song. Badly, on my part, gloriously on his, his hand never fully leaving mine even when I insist I’ve got it, which I do not, not really, but he lets me pretend.

I hold his hands, letting him tow me into a wide loop around center ice, singing along while I try to catch my breath. The cold air bites at my cheeks. The lights blur into long gold streaks every time we pick up speed. Somewhere under the panic of not falling, something in my chest starts to loosen.

The chorus builds. Jeremiah leans in, close enough that I can feel the words more than hear them.

“Let go,” he says over the music.

“Of your hand? I will fall and die.”

“Of the rest of it. Just scream it. Sometimes it feels good to scream.”

I laugh, a little too sharp, and shake my head. “I’m good.”

“It’s part of the song. You have to scream ‘What’s going on’ at the top of your lungs.”

I mouth half the words. I keep it small, controlled, safe.

Jeremiah watches me do it, his hands tightening around mine to let me know he won’t leave me hanging.