Rhodes (9:42pm):Need a ride?
In an attempt to redraw the aforementioned line, I put a hard stop at riding together to the rink.
Monroe (9:43pm):I have a car, Rhodes.
Rhodes (9:44pm):Mine’s already warmed up, though.
Monroe (9:45pm):I have remote start.
Rhodes (9:46pm):Let me pick you up.
Monroe (9:47pm):I’ll meet you at the rink.
I climb into my very muchnotpreheated car, shivering as I turn the ignition.
My music from earlier blasts so violently loud through the speakers that I jump, scream, and slam the volume down like my life depends on it.
Monroe from this morning isnotthe same girl as right now.
The drive to the rink is short, but the wind is brutal when I park in my usual spot in the back and step out, tugging my jacket tighter around me.
Rhodes is already here. I pass his obnoxiously warm-looking Land Rover on the way in.
He’s leaning against the concession stand window when I push through the doors, arms crossed, smirking.
“You’re late.”
I flick my gaze to the clock. Two minutes past ten.
“I am not late.”
“You wouldn’t have been if I’d picked you up.”
I roll my eyes and push past him. “You’re not my boyfriend, McKnight. We don’t need to carpool.” His jaw clenches in annoyance at the barb. We’re both dancing around what definition offriendswe’re going with.
Well, I’m dancing. He seems to have a better idea than I do on what he wants.
“Friends can pick each other up, Monroe. I drove you this morning.”
“That’s different. I didn’t know what we were doing.”
“Oh, so it’s better to be taken to an unknown second location? Monroe, have you ever listened to a true-crime podcast in your life?”
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I sling my skate bag over my shoulder and head for the rink doors.
“You gonna jump tonight, or are we chickening out again?” I hear his footsteps fall in line next to mine. He seems to have let go of my bitchy comment. I should apologize, but I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I’m not in a mental place right now to want anything other than friendship.
I stop and look through the viewing window toward the rink. I had been unsuccessful in jumping since I fell on the ice again. Every time I get to the point where I’m supposed to actually lift off the ice…
Nothing. It’s like my body has simply forgotten almost twenty years of skating.
I huff at him, dropping onto one of the benches to pull on my skates.
“I guess we’re going to see, aren’t we,” I mumble at my feet.
“I feel like tonight’s the night, Abrams,” he says next to me, pulling on his own skates.
We lock eyes before I stand to go out onto the glassy rink surface. Elsie’s Zamboni guy must really hate us messing up the ice at night. Rhodes follows me out.