Chapter 22
Nikolai
An hour later, I’m stretched out on a bench in a quieter area of the park next to Isabelle, spoon in my mouth as I ponder
if mint chip is better than pistachio. She’s sitting cross-legged, a cup of cotton candy ice cream in hand, watching me like
I’m playing an overtime period in the Stanley Cup Final.
It’s adorable. I’ve been putting on a show for her for the past ten minutes, dutifully tasting each flavor and giving her
a verdict. One of the things I like best about her is how much she cares about everything—whether that’s the welfare of koalas
or Love Island drama or if I have a favorite ice cream flavor—and I don’t want to disappoint her.
“I don’t know, I still like coffee best,” I say, shaking my head.
When she walked into the ice cream store and declared that we needed as many tasting cups as possible, the two girls manning
the counter, alone in the shop and taking advantage of the quiet to listen to a murder podcast, giggled the entire time they
filled a tray with mini scoops of ice cream. Isabelle made conversation with them so seamlessly that in a matter of minutes,
we learned that they go to Moorbridge High, they’re applying to colleges out of state, and they both love birthday cake ice
cream the best. She’s so good at making herself at home with other people, a skill that I’ve never been able to master.
“Are you dating?” one of the girls had asked bluntly as I paid and shoved all the cash in my wallet into the tip jar.
“No,” Isabelle said, balancing the tray carefully in her arms. “We’re just friends.”
“Good friends,” I added before I could help myself.
Worth it, since she beamed at me on the way out the door.
Now, she groans, tipping her head back. “Coffee? Could you be more boring?”
“What? The espresso bits were yummy.”
She gives me a sideways look, mouth full of ice cream. “Okay,” she says once she’s swallowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard
you use the word yummy, so I’m still considering this a success.”
“Pistachio is a close second,” I say, mostly to make her groan.
“Are you secretly a grandmother? Coffee, pistachio. What about rocky road? Or cotton candy? Even mint chip would be a better
pick.”
“Isabelle,” I say with faux seriousness, “cotton candy was the worst.”
She gasps. “You take that back.”
“It was even worse than birthday cake.”
“I regret everything.”
I burst out laughing. “It’s so easy to wind you up.”
“You’re the one being ridiculous,” she says, poking me in the ribs.
“I think you like it,” I say, catching her hand before she can withdraw it.
“Nik?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t your dad let you have stuff like ice cream?”
I stiffen; I can’t help it. “He just... I had a training plan.”
She sets her ice cream cup in the tray and moves the whole thing to the end of the bench so she can scoot closer. I put my
arm around her, even though suddenly, moving feels so incredibly difficult.
“But you were just a kid,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.
Part of me wants to deflect, to make her laugh or kiss her, but she’s looking at me so earnestly that I can’t bring myself
to do it.
“He wanted me to play hockey professionally from the moment I was born. I learned to skate before I learned to run.”
“So? My dad played football professionally, but he treated us like kids. Even James. He didn’t try to turn us into little
athlete robots. What about your mom?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
It was, but I can’t bring myself to say so. Not to her. Not when it would skirt too close to the actual truth. I don’t want
her pity and I don’t need her indignation. Or worse, for it to ruin what we have.
“But if he controlled what you ate —”
“It’s fine, Isabelle,” I interrupt. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
She lifts her chin stubbornly. “But—”
“Drop it.”
My voice is a touch too loud, and sitting this close to her, I can see how it makes her eyes shutter. She unwinds herself
from me. Fuck. I can almost hear my father’s voice, his raspy laughter. I work so hard to act nothing like him, but the moment
someone touches that nerve—even her—I want to snarl.
“I’m sorry,” she says, an uncertain note in her tone. “I just thought... we’ve been sharing a lot...”
It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know.
And she never will.
“We should go back.” The tips of my fingers are going numb; I dig them into my palms. “I’ll walk you home.”
“I can walk myself.”
“I’m walking you back.” Frustration colors my words. I feel ugly, I feel broken, I feel like I’m breathing through a punctured lung. Panic tries to dig its claws in. I have to stave it off long enough to drop her at her house. “I’m not leaving you alone in town at night.”
“Fine,” she snaps. “Not to the door.”
“Obviously not.”
Her eyes are glassy, the ocean on a day without a breeze. I reach for her, but she turns her shoulder, effectively cutting
me off. My stomach rolls. If I’m not careful, I’m going to throw up every bit of the ice cream.
“Obviously,” she repeats.
I try to take her hand, but this time, she doesn’t interlace our fingers.