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“Thank you,” I say, and then I can’t fight it anymore.
She’s a diamond at the periphery of my vision. When I turn, I see it’s because she’s wearing a dress in a glittery material. It hugs her body as though it was shaped for her, but not in an obvious way. I don’t think she did it intentionally, but the effect is the same. Her hair is wavy down past her shoulders, and she’s still got that flush in her cheek. She hasn’t hidden it with makeup.
“Here, Dad.” She places an open bottle of water on the bar.
Michael takes it, sips it, then places it down. “Ah, thank you, Em. I’m not much of a drinker, Logan, but when in Rome…”
I laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, but I still have to force it. Maybe that’s a contradiction. It’s just that everything is more difficult with Emma standing right there. I didn’t look at her long enough to tell if she had any cleavage on display. I can’t do it now. “I get it. Don’t worry about it. Want a ride to the hotel?”
“Aride?” Michael stands, gripping the bar with one hand and clapping me on the arm with the other. “I remember when you were a little kid,mon frère. Please come up to the suite. Spend awhile. We’ll talk about old times. Maybe I can even tempt you to have a drink.”
How could I say no to this? I was the one to reach out to Michael, finding his email online through his contracting business. I thought he might see me as desperate. Maybe, on some level, I was—desperate for a real friend. It’s my fault. I lock people out like Chuck. I haven’t gone for a drink with him in years, using the booze as an excuse, but really, it’s just me.
Dammit. The loss, Michael… It’s got me thinking of old times. Or maybe it’s Emma breaking me open.
“I don’t want to impose,” I say.
Michael looks at Emma. I turn, too, even if I know I shouldn’t. Her dress is high cut, not showing cleavage, just the shape of her breasts. She looks me in the eye bravely this time, far more confident than she was earlier today. “I don’t mind.”
I swallow, knowing I should somehow stop this. This is my chance to make another excuse. Fake another phone call, but I don’t. Instead, we all walk toward the exit together.
* * *
“He… was…obsessed.” Michael waves his hand. “Hours and hours, until the blades fell off his skates, and then he’d glue them back on andkeep going.”
The hotel suite has a small balcony area with a fire. It flickers in the grate, the warm light dancing on Michael’s liquor bottle, my glass of juice, and Emma’s flushed cheeks. She’s tied her hair up, closing her eyes to let the warmth bathe her, but it’s like she’s tempting me. I’m hungry for her. It’s so bad, but I can hardly focus on what Michael’s saying.
“He sounds it,” Emma says, looking at her dad. “Sorry,yousound like you were obsessed.”
I nod. “It’s where I learned how to approach problems. Every stride on my skates was a lesson. There was feedback in every twitch of my muscle. It was a clean and simple world.”
Emma watches me. Every so often, her eyes flit, but mostly, they’re on mine, those bright, interested eyes. She’s so much younger than me, but it’s not like I’ve got huge amounts of experience. By choice. Am I already making excuses?
“If you wanted simple and clean, why not take up math or something?”
I smirk. “I needed to exercise my body, too. I needed to be as tired as any person could. That’s why I always pushed myself, every day,pastfailure. Sometimes, I’d have to claw my way across the ice. I could’ve died a few times, falling asleep in the snow.”
My voice has become dark. I’ve gone into too much detail about the past. It’s Emma’s acceptance, Michael’s presence.
“It’s funny, this stuff,” I say. “I’ve gone years without thinking about it. Even on the video chats, Michael.”
“Different in person, isn’t it?” Michael says.
“Don’t go falling asleep in the snow again, ’kay?” Emma says.
Michael laughs, and I can’t help but join in.
“Let me ask you something,old friend,” Michael says, standing, weaving from side to side. He raises his hands. He looks like one of those men on a street corner, selling or preaching. “Why, after, let’s say… at a reasonable estimate, ten hours of video chats, are you not calling meMichel?”
I grin and say in French, “I thought you might have forgotten your French in America.”
Michael narrows his eyes at me. “IfAméliewere still here, she would hate me for being unable to answer that. Whatever you said.” He laughs wildly, then sits down. “I’m sorry. I think I’m very drunk.” I remember his sister, Amélie, and all the pain there.
“You’re on vacation,” I say. “Don’t sweat it. We can grab some lunch tomorrow.”
“Won’t you be busy?” Michael asks.
“Michel, not too busy for you.”
