She rubs the back of her neck. “My family is more important than skating. I would have given up all of that and then some to see Aria again.”
I nod in understanding.
“The first few months after she died, none of us could believe it. Dad withered away once she was gone. He died a few years after Aria.”
Her words click inside me, like a puzzle snapping into place, and the result is an image that’s inherently familiar. “And you were left to pick up all the pieces.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m the oldest. I was eight when Mom took off, so I basically raised all of them except Mindy. Dad couldn’t do it alone. But things got easier as we all got older. Then when Aria died, they were only fifteen. Taylor and Piper were still in high school. Mindy was off at college. She’s only a year younger than me, but she had a scholarship to Vassar. I couldn’t ask her to give that up to come home and take care of everyone.”
“But you could ask it of yourself?”
“There wasn’t a choice.”
I frown, not liking the decisions that have been placed in front of her but understanding all the same. After all, my story is similar. I had to pick up all the pieces for Mom, because there was no other choice. I want to know more about her dad, about why her mom left, everything, but I don’t want to pry. She’s already shared more than I thought she would.
“Teaching is rewarding,” she says. “I still get to skate, but in front of smaller crowds.” She smiles. It’s a tiny slant of her lips, but it’s sincere. “It is gratifying, being a part of other people learning new skills, the joy, the freedom, the hope—passing it on. Besides, I’m too old now to be an Olympic hopeful.”
“Really? You’re barely thirty.”
“I’m over thirty. There are fifteen-year-olds competing. I might as well be sixty.”
I chuckle. “Despite your advanced age, watching you was . . . I can’t even describe it. You were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Surprise fills her eyes with warmth. “You need to get out more.”
I grin. “That might be true.”
The sense of awareness already pulsing in my chest expands, filling the space between us. It’s the only explanation for why I share a piece of my past I hardly ever talk about. “My mom died when I was nineteen. She was my only family. It doesn’t go away. The pain, the grief. It never goes away; it just changes shape.” We share a look, connecting in mutual understanding.
She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. “That’s an amazingly accurate description. It’s so true.” Her hand squeezes mine. “I’m sorry about your mom. How did she die?”
The simple gesture lightens the dark edges around me. “She was sick most of my childhood.” While the statement is true, it’s not the full, unvarnished truth. My mother’s illness is not a conversation to be had under the dusty lights of a casual-dining establishment while a kid with chocolate covering half his face stands in the booth next to us, hitting his dad in the head with a fork.
Of course, it’s hard not to spill my guts out all over the table when her small hand is on mine. Her hands aren’t soft and weak; they’re strong and calloused from work. Real hands. I stare down at our fingers. When did we twine our fingers together? We fit. I don’t have soft hands either. Although she is much smaller. I could hold four of her hands in one of mine.
“Even if you expect it, it doesn’t make it any easier.” Her voice is low, intimate.
“No. It doesn’t.”
Her thumb rubs over mine, shooting an electric spark up my arm. “What about your dad?”
It takes me a second to answer, even though I know she won’t judge me. Childhood taunts ring in my ears nonetheless, schoolyard bullies who used to tease about how I must have done something to drive my father away. “He died. I never knew him or anything about him. He passed before I was born, according to my mom, but in hindsight, that could have been something she made up because she didn’t know.”
When I don’t say anything further, she gives my hand one final press and then pulls back across the table.
I resist the urge to capture it back in mine, instead picking up my glass of water and taking a big gulp. “Tell me about Aria. What was she like?”
“She loved animals.” Her smile is wistful. “She stole a mouse once from the school science lab that they were going to use to feed a snake.”
I chuckle. “Did she get to keep it?”
She grimaces. “No, thankfully. But she did convince them to release the mouse back into the woods. After that, they waited until after her class to feed the snake.”
We smile at each other, and then she continues. “Another time, when she was about five, we took a family road trip to Niagara Falls. We passed some roadkill and she started crying. She was inconsolable. She kept saying, ‘Tell the deer to look both ways!’”
I laugh. “Sounds like she was a gentle soul.”
“She really was.” Her wistful gaze meets mine, and she grins. “She would have tried to keep that raccoon.”