Wicked Restless

Andrew shakes his head slightly as we scoot along the rubber floor out to the ice, his grip growing in strength. We switch to the icy floor and my skates begin to slide out from under me. His arm swiftly moves from my hand to around my body, steadying me on my wobbly legs, and he chuckles to himself.

“Emma, I don’t have a foot obsession…I have a you obsession,” he says, and my breath stops short, my ears working hard to make sure they heard that right, my heart secretly knowing they did.

Andrew leads me slowly to the other end of the rink, careful to keep us closer to the center of the ice, where the light reaches. We’re far away from the wall, though, so my grip on him is a little more desperate, and I wonder if that, too, was maybe part of the plan.

“You’re better on your feet this time,” he smiles.

I giggle because just as he says it, my left leg sweeps out from under me, and I nearly fall on my ass. Andrew’s hands are fast, though, and he saves me again, this time spinning me around so I’m facing him, his hands under my elbows and forehead against mine as we both stare at my awkward feet.

“Sorry,” I say. It comes out in a breath, very little sound, because being in front of him like this brings me back to our last kiss—a feeling I want again so desperately.

I roll my head against him and shut my eyes, letting him guide me in a slow circle around the middle of the rink.

“Hey, it’s our first dance,” he says. I pull my head back a few inches and spare a glance at him, glad I did as the right side of his mouth is raised just enough to leave a dimple.

“It is,” I say. “You would have been such a better date for prom.”

His smile fades, and I kick myself for mentioning anything about those years that we missed.

“I would have taken you,” he says, his words coming out a little somber. I feel his fingers move along my sides, almost as if they’re grasping to hold onto me tighter—to keep me from going away. I dare myself to move in closer to him, to embrace him more, and his grasp tightens again to steady me. He wants me here, too.

“I didn’t have a real prom date for my senior prom,” I say.

“Liar,” he challenges. I feel his body shake against me in quiet laughter. He thinks I pity him.

“No, really. I went with a few girlfriends. I don’t even have a picture,” I say, closing my eyes as I rest my head against his chest. “And that dance you saw me getting ready for—homecoming, junior year—was a guy who just wanted a date to make someone else jealous. He was the first guy I thought was really into me since you. He left with the other girl.”

I feel the rhythm of his heart against my cheek, and I let myself imagine what our prom pictures would have looked like—what Andrew would have looked like, how he never would have let go of my hand the entire night.

“I’m really sorry, Emma,” he says, his chin resting on top of my head now, all of him cradling me. “I really wish I was there.”

We’re moving in inches, my feet never leaving the ice, letting him do the work and gliding us in slow motion with no destination in mind. In his embrace, and out of his view, I let a single tear slide down my cheek, because I really wish he were there, too.

“You’re here now,” I say, my voice raspy and giving me away. He squeezes me tighter, and I shake with one more cry, bringing a hand up to wipe the tear from my cheek before he sees it.

“I am,” he says softly. “I am.”

I can feel him breathe, and I can feel the pause each time he opens his mouth, wanting to say something more.

“You can tell me anything,” I say, finally. “Really. Anything, Andrew.”

I feel him swallow hard.

“We don’t have to talk about it…if you don’t want to. But Graham…” My stomach revolts just hearing his name, and I clutch to Andrew a little harder. His hand finds the back of my head, stroking my hair and cradling me. “Did he…?”

I shake my head quickly, knowing what Andrew’s worry is, and thankful that there was help and that I was able to fight just long enough, loud enough. “He only hit me. He tried—” I stop short before retelling everything.

Andrew whispers “Shhh,” above my head and adjusts me in his cradle once more. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop him from hitting you, Emma. So very sorry,” he says.

“Like I said…you’re here now…” I say against him.

We sway in our hold on each other for the next fifteen minutes, until a bright light clicks on near the exit, and Andrew sighs, waving a hand to his friend who let us in. He never lets go of me for long, though, guiding me safely back to the bench and swiftly finding my hand again once our skates are off and we’re walking to the car.