She turns to me, her face probably pink, but in the moonlight I can’t tell. “That slipped out.”

“I’m not saying I mind.”

“It’s just that Vada said some girls never feel, um, that way. At least not the first time someone touches them. That it sometimes takes a bit of practice. She said you must have magic fingers.”

“Yeah?” I ask, inordinately pleased with myself.

“I told her maybe it’s got nothing to do with your fingers. Maybe it’s just you. And me. Maybe it’s the way with us. It’s magic.”

I think about that. “I can’t disagree.” Meg tucks her hair behind her ear, earrings glinting, and I swallow hard.

“I was thinking,” she continues, “maybe we could try something else and see if it works the same.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says softly, biting her lip. “But this time, I want to do the touching.”

I inhale sharply, and my heart thuds. “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

She nods, still biting her lip. She moves closer. “Do these seats lean back?”

23

Meg

Figure skating was always a thing that my dad and I had in common. Not Andrew, obviously. Declan and me. Which, now that I think of it, is odd, since it wasn’t genetic like I always assumed.

Maybe that makes it more meaningful. Declan knew I wasn’t his, but he chose to share this important thing with me. I wonder if it broke his heart when I quit. It left a sharp ache in mine that I still feel.

But the rink helps. Being with these little ones and teaching them how to spin and glide and dance along the smooth expanse of ice carries a potency of healing I never expected.

Which is probably why I don’t immediately lash out when I wrap up my final lesson of the afternoon and see Declan waiting in the stands. My stomach lodges somewhere in the vicinity of the center of my chest, but I paste a wide smile on my lips, skating over to where the parents are waiting. I share a few words of encouragement, confirm plans for the upcoming session, and talk to a mother about her daughter’s blades, pointing her to the service booth, where they can be sharpened for a few dollars, which will most definitely improve little Cecelia’s coordination on her sit spin.

At last, when the final student has left, and the concession stand flips their sign to CLOSED, I take a seat next to my father and work at the laces in my boot, loosening them.

“How in earth did you find me?”

He gestures, and I automatically lift my foot to his outstretched palm. He skillfully plucks at the laces and motions for the other when he’s done.