Chapter Seventeen
Ivy
The clock strikes four.
After our unexpected run-in at Sparrow’s Beret yesterday, to my shock, Jace texted and asked me to go ice skating with him.
Just him. We’re going back to a remnant of where it all began, I suppose.
Different rink and location, the same us.
Theoretically, this rink would give us more privacy and a chance to create new memories since it’s indoors and also located in the next town over.
I accepted his invitation because I know the importance of moving through something that’s gotten stuck in your soul, changing the narrative by the sheer power of being in each other’s presence.
But agreeing may have been one of the worst ideas I’ve had in a long time.
Because when I arrived outside of the year-round ice rink, Jace was waiting with a hot chocolate for me and a black, cold brew coffee for himself, even in the frigid temperatures.
It took all my effort not to obsess over how good coffee and chocolate would be together, but I pulled myself away from the distracting thoughts long enough to notice that Jace seemed lighter than at the bakery.
Just the sensation of walking into a building together that wasn’t my studio or his brother’s boxing gym felt like its own sort of miracle.
Now, here we are. I’m quietly lacing up my skates.
He’s putting on hockey skates, making himself stand even taller than usual.
He leans against the barrier boards, staring down at me with a look I can’t interpret.
Suddenly, I’m self-conscious. I push back the screaming need inside my head to be perfect on every level, to impress him with who and what I am.
The lie that’s crept in over the years—maybe from my time in professional ballet or maybe from my own personality and experiences—that I need to be perfect to have a chance at being fully loved wanders through my brain.
“C’mon, Starlight,” Jace breathes between us as he holds out his hand.
I take it, following him onto the rink, the tension in my legs from pushing against the ice a reminder that the future may be uncertain, but I’m alive.
It’s a reminder that every sensation I have with him is not only otherworldly but also somehow real.
Though the skates are restrictive, it’s a surprisingly nice sensation, like a comfortable grip on my muscles to keep me in line as I make tracks across the frozen water.
The rink is quiet, despite the group of children in the corner, taking off their skates after their recent class.
Jace takes us gliding onto the ice as soon as the last little one hops off with a squeak.
I’m beside him, the air whooshing past me and blowing my hair in a way I only allow while skating.
Usually, my hair is pulled back, not a hair out of place unless I’m alone in my studio or, ironically, when I met Jace.
It’s a habit I’ve never lost from dancing for most of my life.
But today, at the rink, I allow myself to be a little freer, even though it’s been so long.
For some reason, it feels right to be a little less polished and a lot more reckless on the ice.
A fact that is evident by the huge man skating just a few cross steps behind me.
His six-foot-five-inch height is now nearly six-eight, and that alone is enough to make a woman swoon.
And by the looks of the moms wrangling their kids and the college-aged woman we paid for our rink time, they’ve noticed and are already figuring out how to accidentally run into him.
I round the corner and spin toward Jace, catching a dangerous grin when we make eye contact.
A smile breaks across my own face, the momentum pushing my hair forward like it’s reaching toward him, the sound of our blades coasting over the ice.
We’re moving faster and faster, in an unspoken race to .
. . something. All I know is that I’m lost in the way we connect, even in silence.
I’ve only ever felt this way with him. With each moment that passes, I sense the connection tightening like a ribbon being wrapped around my heart instead of my ankles.
Then his eyes widen, and I register that I’m falling.
Too distracted by Jace’s intensity, my skate hits a groove in the ice, and I lose my balance.
Desperate to focus on something, my brain tracks the LED lights on the ceiling above.
They center themselves in my vision as I fall backward.
I have time to grimace and tense my frame, expecting to hit the cold ice, when a warm hand grasps the back of my neck and curls me forward.
I collide with a body instead of the ice and gasp when we both fall.
Jace lands beneath me, the two of us falling face-to-face.
Jace’s breathing snaps me back to attention, his rib cage pressing against my own with deep inhales.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his head lifted, scanning me for any signs of injury.
His hands move over my arms, swiping across my spine, touching my shoulders gently.
Even though he’s the one pressed against the uncomfortable ice, he’s treating me like I mean something to him—like I’m valuable—and the unfiltered action has tears stinging my eyes without being summoned.
This is the Jace I’ve always believed him to be.
Instead of moving, my body weight sinks a little more onto his, a knee coming to rest on the ice, the cold a contrast to my other knee draped over his waist. He takes a breath, most likely realizing that I’m okay. Leaning his head back on the ice, his exhales follow a staccato rhythm.
In no hurry to move, I study him and his smooth-shaven face, the fall heightening my senses.
While people expect me to be elegant and full of grace—and I can be—falls are often a part of the equation within my profession.
It’s true in dance and true in life. You can’t expect to execute anything flawlessly without failure.
Even though, intellectually, I understand that the idea of perfection is a myth, it’s been my lifelong struggle to accept it.
I’m strong on welcoming failure with my students, encouraging them to be themselves instead of who or what they believe they should be.
But staring at Jace, I’m not so sure if my theory is true anymore.
Magnificence radiates off him, even through the sadness that he seems to carry with him like a mantle, even when I know he makes mistakes.
Maybe perfection isn’t being free of flaws.
Maybe perfection is knowing that someone gives you the feeling that there never would or never could be another person who affects you like they do.
Jace is perfect because he’s Jace, not because of anything he’s done or hasn’t done.
Without overthinking it, I extend my gloved hand. “Pull, please.”
Jace obeys without questioning, his cool fingers still causing a shiver as he gently pulls the glove from my hand, and they brush my wrist. Subtly, he’s checking if I’m okay.
Always checking if I’m okay. I give his hand a press and release him, moving my now free hand to slide it slowly up from his jawline until the tips of my fingers find the hairline above his ear.
He studies me. His jaw clenches slightly, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat.
We haven’t touched each other like this since our almost kiss at the town lighting, and it’s taking everything in me to remember why.
I’ve waited years, chasing the idea of the Jace who lived in my head. And now he’s here in real life, not perfectly the same but still the standard. He’s told me he’s not sure if he’s ready to pursue us, and I need to respect that. But for now, I need him to know that he’s seen.
“Thank you for catching me,” I say softly, so quietly I wonder if he’ll even hear me, but he does. Something flashes across his face, another hint of the man I first met, the man he was before he claimed that he was broken, when his heart was more clearly visible.
He nods, a softening around his eyes I haven’t noticed before.
In one swift motion, he sits up, my hand falling to wrap securely around his warm neck, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist. I shift my legs until I’m almost straddling him, embarrassment creeping over my face, but I don’t care. Jace grins, a rare gleam in his eyes.
“I thought you said you were a pro at this,” he challenges, a teasing tone in his deep voice. I let out a laugh, the realization that he cracked a joke warming my heart.
“Even the best fall down sometimes,” I reply with a shrug.
“Okay, Howie Day, let’s get you back on your feet.”
Mortification courses through me as I use all my remaining energy to push myself off him, kneeling on the ice, in need of help to pull myself to standing again. He saved me from a gnarly fall, and I’ve been resting on him like I’m a creature finding a place to hibernate for the winter.
“Whoa, whoa,” Jace coaxes. “A real person here.” He chuckles, and the sound is as satisfying as slippers sliding across a dance floor.
“Steady, Starlight.” Casually, he moves to his knees, his hands on either side of my arms. He lifts one knee.
One not privy to the cause of this clumsy experience (on my part) could think he was proposing, and while this is in no way a romantic gesture, I know this is the image that will stick to my thoughts when I’m fighting sleep later tonight.
Only seconds pass, but when he stands to his full height and looks down at me, a shiver runs up my spine.
“Are you cold?” Jace asks.
I can honestly say that I’m not. A shake of my head, a wringing of my hands, and I stand to my full height, assisted by his outstretched hand, my chin lifted high to meet his gaze.