19. Timothy
Chapter nineteen
Timothy
My hand is still braced against the counter, right where Bethany was thirty seconds ago, and I can't seem to convince it to move.
My whole body is running on almost-kiss protocol. My brain has not caught up with the fact that she is gone.
Her coffee to-go cup sits beside the sink, half-full and already cooling.
For one heroic second I picture chasing her out to the driveway, and then I veto it.
Through the window over the sink I watch her taillights swing out of the lot and shrink to two red dots and then to nothing. Anticlimactic, watching someone drive away when your pulse is still convinced the good part hasn't started yet.
Boots thump across the second floor.
The rest of the lodge carries on as though nothing nearly happened downstairs.
I force myself away from the counter and head upstairs.
My hockey bag waits by the door where I dropped it.
I start unpacking because routine usually gives my mind somewhere orderly to go.
Tonight, it follows Bethany instead.
Her face tilted toward mine. The small movement when she leaned closer. The way she stepped back when the phone buzzed.
"Did she want it, or did she just freeze?" I ask the ceiling.
I cannot answer that for her.
I rub both hands over my face.
Bethany spends most of her life anticipating what everyone else needs.
The last thing I want is for her to feel responsible for my feelings.
My phone buzzes on the dresser. Team chat.
I open my messages instead and stare at her name.
Hey, about earlier.
I delete it. It sounds like the opening line of an uncomfortable staff meeting.
I try again.
Did you want me to kiss you?
That one stays on the screen longer.
At least it is honest.
It is also a question she would feel obligated to answer tonight, while the moment is still raw and Jenna’s name is probably sitting at the top of her call log.
I delete that too.
I set the phone face-down on the dresser.
I get two steps toward the shower. Turn around. Pick it back up.
I consider apologizing.
Then I recognize the trap in it. An apology would ask her to reassure me that I had done nothing wrong.
I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, phone forgotten beside me, elbows on my knees.
Bethany is not here to prove anything about me. She is her own entire, complicated person.
If she says no, I will survive it.
More importantly, I will not make her soften the answer for me.
My disappointment should not become another problem Bethany has to solve.
Down the hall a door shuts. A laugh track flickers on faint through the wall, somebody watching TV.
Bethany already carries everyone’s keys, schedules, and minor emergencies.
I refuse to hand her my uncertainty too.
I pick the phone up one more time, calmer now.
I'm glad I got to see you tonight. Sleep well.
I read it twice.
She can answer. She can ignore it. She can decide tomorrow that the almost-kiss was a mistake.
The message does not ask her to take care of any part of me.
I send it.
I finally get in the shower. The water fixes nothing, but it's loud enough to drown out my own commentary for a while, and I'll take it.
After I get out, I finish putting away my gear.
For once, the ordinary movements are enough.
I lie down and stare at the ceiling.
I still want her to tell me she wanted the kiss.
But more than that, I want her to know that whatever she decides, she is safe with me.
My phone stays silent on the nightstand.
For tonight, I try to let that be enough.
***
I drive the shovel beneath the thin layer of crusted snow at the rink’s edge and throw my weight into it.
Bethany never answered my message.
She did not owe me one. I knew that when I sent it.
Knowing it has not stopped me from checking my phone like a restless teenager.
My breath fogs out in front of me, thick and white. I tell myself the tightness in my chest is the cold and nothing else.
If I dig hard enough, maybe I can stop wondering what she thought of my message.
The first contractor finished yesterday. New boards, reinforced gate, repaired drainage, fresh hardware, and a resurfaced sheet of ice that looks nothing like the abandoned rink we started with. It's not completely finished yet, but it should be good enough to skate on.
Which is why the guys and I are out here with shovels this morning.
At least, that is the official reason.
Jonah ambles up and plants his shovel in the pile we have pushed beyond the boards. I can tell he's done working before he's started. He's got his phone out, thumb scrolling, boots still spotless.
“You’re doing the face again,” Jonah says without looking up from his phone.
“What face?”
“The one where you pretend manual labor is going to solve your emotional problems.”
I scrape harder.
"You should just tell her," he says, with the airtight confidence of a man who has never once been right about anything in his life.
"Tell her what." Too fast. Too flat.
“That you nearly kissed her and have been unbearable ever since.”
I hate that some tiny, treasonous corner of me thinks that isn't the worst advice, even wrapped in an idiot's mouth.
"Use your shovel or get out of my sightline," I tell him.
He finally starts scraping snow away from the boards, although his attention remains irritatingly fixed on me.
"I'm just saying," he goes on, "you should confess your undying whatever to Bethany before you combust."
My hands jerk on the handle. The shovel head skips off the ice and flings a spray of snow up my own shin.
"Nothing to confess," I say.
Shane approaches with a thermos in one hand.
“Whatever you’re doing,” he says, “remember that this is Bethany’s job. Don’t put her in a bad position.”
“I know.”
He gives me a long look, apparently deciding whether I do.
"I'm not going to make things hard for her," I say.
I grip the shovel tighter.
Maxon pauses beside me on his way back from the cleared gate.
“Being careful is good,” Maxon says. “Deciding what she wants without asking her isn’t.”
I want to argue with that. I can't find the hole in it.
I shove the next strip of snow toward the boards.
"Since when did you get so wise," I mutter.
He just shrugs, unbothered.
I drive my shovel beneath another strip of snow.
“I’ve cared about her for a long time," I say.
The words sound different outside my own head.
Maxon nods once and returns to the gate, leaving me alone with the words.
Then I hear the crunch of tires, and there she is.
Bethany climbs out of her truck with her clipboard tucked beneath one arm. She scans the rink.
The guys instantly begin making a performance of clearing the last few strips of snow.
Bethany walks the perimeter slowly, checking the new boards, testing the reinforced gate, and studying the ice near the repaired drainage line.
“The contractor did good work,” she says at last. “Boards are solid. Gate’s stable. Edges are clean.”
I catch myself checking the section she is inspecting, although the contractor finished it yesterday and I have already examined it twice this morning.
I want her to approve of the rink.
More than that, I want her to know we took her instructions seriously.
Jonah reaches for Bethany's level and manages only to plant himself directly in her path. She steps around him without breaking her stride, entirely unbothered by whatever chaos we apparently are creating.
"I need someone to test it out," she says finally. "Slow. Controlled. No stupid moves. And considering the collective survival instinct of hockey players, I know that's already asking a lot."
Her gaze moves over the group and settles on me.
“Timothy?”
Every head swings my way at once.
Bethany’s gaze catches mine, and the rest of them stop mattering.
I step onto the ice.
The blades bite in clean, and for one blessed second nobody's talking and my head goes quiet too. I skate the perimeter slowly, following Bethany’s instructions. Nothing that puts unnecessary pressure on the new boards.
The ice holds. The rink works.
Even though the contractor did much of the work, the victory still feels partly ours. Bethany and the rest of us cleared away years of neglect, hauled supplies, argued over measurements, and helped bring the place back to life.
After so many years of neglect, there is ice here again.
I glance toward Bethany. She is still watching, one gloved hand resting on the top rail.
The rink falls away until she is the only person I can see clearly.
On my next pass, I catch her gaze head-on.
I nearly miss my turn.
Her mouth curves as though she noticed.
For once, I do not wait for someone else to make the first move.
I turn and skate directly toward her.
I stop at the boards, close enough that a dusting of ice catches against her boots.
The rink goes quiet behind me.
I hold out my hand over the boards.
“Do you trust me?”