Chapter Sixteen
Directly inside the building is a small party room on the right, with dark carpet patterned with neon concentric circles and squiggles, and every inch of wall space occupied by arcade games.
There are two girls who are laser focused on the claw machine in the corner, clearly attempting to win a very specific stuffed penguin that’s in the bottom corner and should be an easy grab, but they stomp their feet as it slips through their metal grasp.
Other than those children and a worker behind the rentals desk, the building is empty on this Thursday afternoon.
There are posters on the wall advertising upcoming themed events—including a singles night—so I guess this place stays in business, despite feeling and looking like a relic from the past.
The primary attraction is obviously the rink itself, a large oval of polished wooden floor encased by a wall about four feet tall. There’s a disco ball hanging directly in the center, and other colorful flashing lights moving around to shine across the room.
“Should we grab something to eat?” Declan asks, pointing to the counter. “If we’re not skating, we should probably still spend money somehow.”
I nod toward his backpack, where he stashed away the grocery bag from Grady. “Even though we have all those snacks?”
We take another step toward the menu board. “Maybe nachos?” he suggests.
“Sure.”
He pays, and the worker slides a small paper tray of chips across the counter, nodding toward the cheese dispenser next to the napkins, utensils, and straws. Declan chuckles as he drizzles the orange goo atop.
We choose a table, and I climb onto the tall chair, finding myself mesmerized by the light show on the empty rink. It’s easy to imagine this place in its heyday, with plenty of skaters rolling around.
“I haven’t skated in years.” I wave my hand, turning down the nachos as Declan holds the bowl out to me. “Amelia and I used to roller-skate up and down the sidewalk in front of our house.”
“That sounds fun. I was more into bikes.”
“I didn’t like riding my bike because Amelia was so much better at it.
She was always first to figure things out, like how to ride a bike without training wheels or how to tie her shoes.
And I know that makes sense because she’s older, but it always just seemed like she was inherently better at everything than me. ”
“Well, you know that’s obviously not true,” Declan says, but he only seems to be half listening.
“Right,” I agree. “Though she still seems to think I’m that little kid she needs to take charge of or make arrangements to get out of her hair.”
If Amelia were here, we’d probably be skating, though. She wouldn’t want us to sit around being boring like this, not when there’s something interesting we could be doing instead.
“Maybe we should—” I start, but realize Declan isn’t listening at all.
He’s been lost in his own thoughts, equally annoyed to have been ditched by our siblings, by the look of it, not clueing me into what exactly he’s been thinking.
His phone buzzes with a text message, which he glances at but doesn’t respond to.
“Let’s see how Grady enjoys having to spend time later with Mom and Dad all by himself,” he mutters.
“You’re glad to not be getting home yet?” I clearly understand this is about his frustration with his parents and his brother, but it’s also the first glimpse I’m getting that he considers being stuck with me the preferred outcome. “What’s wrong?”
Declan averts his eyes to the empty rink, where the song has changed to a more upbeat tempo and the lights are flashing with more dramatic frequency. He gives up on the rest of the nachos and wipes his fingers on a napkin. “I don’t want to bore you.”
I lean forward, trying to be encouraging. “I’ve been complaining about my sister; it’s your turn.”
“But it’s boring,” he says, yet the words slide out of his mouth, almost desperate to be voiced aloud.
“My parents are getting divorced, oh no.” He shakes his head, trying to act unbothered, but his eyes dart away.
“They thought it was best to wait until I left for college, which made the last two years since Grady left for school absolutely miserable because the hatred between them became so much more apparent.”
“Yikes. I’m sorry, that must be tough.”
“They only talk to each other through me. And if I got home late, or got a bad grade, they’d both separately lecture me about it, double the punishment, for any minor infraction. It’s intolerable.”
“Super shitty to put on you,” I agree. How did I not pick up on all that he’s been going through? He did seem to shut down when elaborating on how his family is moving, but he always kept the conversation light enough that I didn’t realize there was something deeper lurking beneath.
“I don’t even know why I’m mentioning it, other than the fact that one of my absolute favorite places to be is Roll Again. Especially when I get to play against you,” he says, leaning closer to me as well.
I nod so many times my head might roll off. “I understand that. I love playing against you too.”
“I don’t know what the rest of this summer is going to look like.
But absolutely everything is changing, and I’ve been thinking…
that means that I want as much of it to stay the same as long as it can.
” He takes a deep breath. “If it can,” he adds, withdrawing again, tangled up in thoughts I’m not privy to.
“If it can?”
“And right now it’s hard not to feel like I’m also somehow causing a rift between you and your sister.”
This catches me completely off guard. “What does Amelia have to do with anything?”
“You’re mad at her,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“Sure, yeah, but we’re not, like, fighting. This is just the same normal shit it’s always been. Which has nothing to do with you?”
“But I’m not exactly helping the situation,” he points out, digging in his heels, the wheels in his brain spinning way off the track. “You’re mad that she left you here with me.”
“No, I’m happy to be here with you.” My expression isn’t too delighted right now, however.
There’s a loud noise from the arcade area, and the two girls come running out, bickering and shoving each other to get to the worker at the desk.
She must be their parent or caretaker, because she shushes them and quickly plays mediator before sending them back to the games with a few more quarters.
I turn to Declan, still confused about where he’s going with all this. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“That everything’s complicated, and I don’t want you to be complicated.” His eyes are wide, earnest.
Yet I respond with a fighting tone. “So now I’m complicated?”
“No, that’s not—”
“Or you’re saying that I’m easy?” I ask, lashing out with the opposite. “But somehow that still doesn’t mean things are simple enough for you?”
He’s stern again, jaw set, brow furrowed. Where is he going with all this? I miss happy-go-lucky Declan. Maybe he’s the one who’s too complicated, honestly; this does feel like a projection. “Iris, that’s not at all what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying? Because what I’m hearing is a lot of leaps. Like, I promise things always turn out fine with my sister. And you and me are good.” I reach out to take hold of his hand, but he pulls away. “Oh.”
Declan’s conclusion dawns on me slowly. He’s calling it quits, and I don’t fully understand why.
I get that it’s his choice. Yet we could’ve talked about it first, right? Figured it out together, like a team. But that’s the whole point—he doesn’t want to be a team. He doesn’t have to consult me…to decide to end things with me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, laying his arms on the table as though surrendering. “I don’t think I’d be a good boyfriend right now.”
“Hmm.” I blink several times, not prepared for this at all.
He’s framing it like it has nothing to do with me, but that could just be him trying to let me down easy.
I thought he liked me. He apparently doesn’t like me enough to want to be with me.
Even though this whole thing was his idea to begin with, wasn’t it?
Admittedly, didn’t I sort of pry it out of him? In the hot tub, when he said he had something to tell me, he immediately chickened out until I insisted that he say whatever it was he wanted to say. It’s not like I forced him to tell me, though.
He didn’t have to tell me. We didn’t have to be in this position right now.
Either way, we’re over before we ever really started.
I refuse to let Declan see me cry. I hop down from the tall barstool chair and walk toward the rental counter, my ponytail swaying in my wake.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me.
“To rent a freaking pair of skates. Because I want to roller-skate.”
“Okay.” Declan slides off the chair and takes a few steps to follow me. “It’s just that I don’t know how to roller-skate.”
“Good thing I didn’t invite you to join,” I call over my shoulder.
The worker, who definitely heard the latter half of our conversation, guesses my shoe size correctly and slides them to me across the counter as I hand her the cash.
I find a seat in a lower chair closer to the rink’s entry and lace up my skates tightly until I might cut off the circulation in my feet, which seems impossible because of how worn out these old rentals are.
But the skates do keep my ankles secure as I stand with a wobble and slowly march my way from the carpet onto the smooth wooden flooring.
I hold on to the wall for a few paces until I get the hang of things, then round the bend, going slowly, where I observe Declan sitting back at the table, not on his phone or anything, just staring down at the floor.
Maybe I should’ve complained about Amelia less. Maybe I should’ve been more attentive to asking about what was going on with his family. Or maybe this was always the inevitable outcome and I should just be glad the Band-Aid was ripped off quickly before it’d take too much of my skin along with it.
I want to be mad at him, but right now Declan seems so sad.
With my shoulder, I try to discreetly wipe away the water pooling in my eyes, but it throws me off balance, and I rush into the wall to avoid falling to the floor. It must’ve been a loud thunk, because Declan looks my way.
I hold my head high and skate around again.
And again, and again, gaining confidence with each lap, floating into a sort of meditative state as my mind replays the conversation with Declan, except with my own imagined flourishes—additional questions, or anger, or compassion—until I’ve altered the outcome so many times that my memory can’t be certain exactly how it all went down in reality.