"There," she said. "Now it's plain."
Theo did not go to Chicago. His producer was cool for a week and then asked him to cover a different story closer to home, as if the universe sometimes rewarded spine with logistics. Theo attended the showcase. He sat in a folding chair that squeaked and watched Rowan's students throw themselves into jumps with the terrifying faith of children. When Tilda landed her waltz jump and cried her good tears, Theo found his own eyes wet and did not pretend otherwise. Rowan caught his gaze across the boards and nodded once, a private thank-you that was not forgiveness complete, but was not unfinished punishment either.
February brought Rowan's knee a bad week. She canceled lessons for two days and hated every idle hour. Theo brought groceries and did not try to pep-talk her into gratitude. He sat on the floor of her apartment and read aloud from a novel about Arctic explorers until she told him the explorers were annoying and please switch to something with less frostbite. He switched to a cookbook and read her a recipe for lemon cake as if it were epic poetry. She fell asleep halfway through the frosting instructions. Theo stayed until her breathing evened, then left a note: Ugly honest: I was scared watching you hurt. I didn't try to fix it because you didn't ask me to. Call if you want company that knows how to be quiet.
Rowan texted him at midnight: Quiet company accepted. Also the explorers were annoying.
In March, on the anniversary of June Ashcroft's death, Rowan went alone to the outdoor rink in the afternoon. She did not know if Ned would be there. He was, sitting on a bench with no camera, flat cap in his lap, watching ordinary skaters make ordinary joyful mistakes.
Rowan sat beside him without announcing her purpose. After a while Ned said, "You came on a hard day."
"I coach kids who think hard days are failures," Rowan said. "I'm trying to set a better example by sitting still."
Ned's mouth twitched. "June liked people who could sit still. She said motion was easy for the restless. Stillness took spine."
"I'm sorry she's gone," Rowan said.
"Me too." Ned turned the cap in his hands. "The photograph of you and the radio man—Theo—got claimed. Both copies. That pleased me more than it should. I have a superstition that claimed pictures keep the rink from becoming only a place where people pass through."
"We're still passing through," Rowan said carefully. "We're just passing through together for now."
"For now is the only tense anybody actually gets," Ned said. "Forever is a marketing term."
Rowan smiled. "Do you want company, or do you want the bench to yourself?"
"Company," Ned said. "But the quiet kind. The kind that doesn't try to improve grief."
They sat. The March wind was less romantic than December's. It was honest. When Rowan left, she squeezed Ned's shoulder once. He nodded, eyes wet behind his glasses, and did not apologize for the wetness.