“Faster,” I insist. “The leg comes up quick and high, then snaps back.”
“Snaps back,” she repeats, continuing to bounce.
At the height of each jump, her chin tilts up and her fingers flick out with style. She looks like a star up there. It’s gratifying to see her improve after months of working together.
And after seeing Dimitri last week, that’s what I need: I have to know that I’m helping Hallie, not hurting her. If I pass down what he did, I would never forgive myself. Hallie screws up her mouth in concentration as she tracks the distance between her and the trampoline. Her full body weight plunges down on the black mesh and she rebounds brightly into the air once more. Her limbs soar jubilantly into shape; at the peak of her jump, she beams. She knows she nailed it.
* * *
I haven’t seen Ryan outside of practice since Dimitri and Jasmine’s cocktail party. I’ve gone to yoga after work twice, and on the nights I’ve been free, he’s had plans with friends. All week, I’ve felt starved for attention; I had forgotten what it’s like to crave somebody like this. I could physically feel the way I yearned for quality time with him—sometimes, low in my gut; other times, like an actual pang in my chest. When he texted me yesterday evening to ask if I’d be free for a date night tonight, I replied yes practically while my phone still buzzed with the incoming message.
He texted confusing instructions: I have a secret plan for us. Wear something warm, and make sure you have socks.
Socks? What’s the plan? I wrote back.
He replied, Like I said—it’s a secret ;)
I knew I wasn’t going to weasel the truth out of him, so instead, I tried to puzzle out what we could possibly be doing—hiking? skiing?—and took great care to find a matching pair of socks without any holes. Tonight, after drilling stag jumps with Hallie on the trampoline, Ryan and I waited until Hallie had left the gym’s premises in her dad’s car before we both climbed into his car. We decided earlier that I’d stay over at his place and he’d drive me back to the gym the next morning. The plan made me feel as if we were serious and committed, or at least on the way toward it.
“So, now you can tell me where we’re going,” I say once he’s pulled out of the parking lot.
“Nope,” he says.
“Not even a hint?” I ask.
He’s resolute. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
He talks about how much fun he had dreaming this up, and how it’ll be the perfect way to chill out in the midst of Nationals prep, but I just can’t focus. My mind ping-pongs from sleuthing out where he’s taking me to our last in-person conversation about Dimitri’s job offer. We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. There’s so much I could say to him—and as much as I want to ask how he’s feeling about what Dimitri said, I don’t want to ruin the romantic mood.
He drives through the town center and pulls into Osaka Sushi. The familiar wooden sign gives me a burst of nostalgia, but it takes me a moment to piece together why he’s so excited.
“I told you about this place, didn’t I?” I say, suddenly recalling. “When we were driving through Greenwood after Lolly’s.”
“Your family likes to come here for special occasions,” he says.
“Ryan! You remembered.” I take off my seat belt so I can properly lean across the car to give him a hug and a kiss. “But wait, the socks? Warm clothes? Was that just to throw me off?”
I’m overheating in a thick turtleneck and knit scarf. There are gloves stashed away in the pockets of my parka.
“That’s for after dinner,” he says, winking as he gets out of the car.
* * *
Ninety minutes later, when we’re happily filled up on a sashimi platter and a sake flight, I still don’t know where we’re going next. But Ryan did insist on heading out of the restaurant as soon as the bill was paid, rather than lingering at the table. I get the sense we’re on a deadline. In the car once again, I feel warmed by the sake from the inside out, touched by the romantic gesture of bringing me back to Osaka Sushi, and high on the anticipation of discovering where this adventure all leads. Whatever desire I had earlier tonight to ask Ryan about Dimitri has faded away. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that moments like this don’t come around often. It’s not every day that a gorgeous man throws together a surprise date packed with personal touches at a series of secret locations. I slide my hand into Ryan’s and squeeze a silent thanks.
Finally, the jig is up: he pulls off a main road down a narrow street that winds into the town forest. He drives slowly through the heavy thicket of pine trees until we reach a clearing. There’s a cul-de-sac full of cars streaked with winter grime parked near an outdoor ice-skating rink. Although it’s a dark night, the rink itself is bright, thanks to white floodlights and golden Christmas lights wrapped around aluminum poles. I’ve been to this rink a few times for my elementary school classmates’ birthday parties, but it’s only now, as an adult, that I see how charming this spot really is.
“This is so sweet!” I exclaim, getting out of the car.
“Do you skate?” he asks.
He looks hopeful but hesitant, the way people do when they hand you presents with the tags still attached in case you want to return them.
“I haven’t skated in years, but I always liked it as a kid,” I say.
“Me, too,” he says.
A rink attendant in a red clapboard shed asks for our shoe sizes and hands us clunky skates. We lace them up and totter to the edge of the rink. He steps over the threshold first, then extends his hand so I can steady myself as I step onto the ice. I take a few tentative glides with my hand hovering over the railing in case I lose my balance.
We make a slow first lap side by side, getting used to being on the ice. There aren’t many other people here—three couples in casual clothes and a single skater in athletic gear who makes sharp turns and elegant spins—so it’s calm enough to go at our own pace.
“So far, so good, but I bet I’ll fall flat on my ass at least once tonight,” I say.
“I’ll catch you,” he says.
“Don’t you dare. I’ll probably pull you down with me,” I warn.
“You’re not gonna fall,” he predicts. “I remember you on beam back in the day—your balance is absurd.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I say.
He’s right, though; by our second lap, I feel sturdier, and by our third, I’ve regained my confidence. I slip my hand into his and trust my balance enough to plant a kiss on his cheek as we glide. I can’t help but see flashes of the future—maybe we’ll hike this spring, canoe this summer, train for a half marathon together this fall. We’re both used to solitary sports, but there’s something appealing about tackling new adventures as a pair.
As we continue to skate circles around the rink, we whisper theories about the other couples—which ones seem happily in love, which seem more like old roommates who couldn’t give a damn about each other—and resolve to never fall into the latter category. We trade stories about ice-skating experiences as kids, and the Olympic skaters we’ve met over the years. On some laps, we don’t talk at all, content to enjoy the twinkling lights nestled into the forest and the blur of our hazy reflections gleaming on the slick ice. With Ryan, silence doesn’t feel like pressure.