"I evaluate everyone like a journalist," Theo said. "I'll try to evaluate them like a guest."
That night, after dinner at a place where the waitress called them honey without irony, they found a small outdoor holiday preview event near a hotel—premature string lights, a temporary rink no bigger than a living room, a Christmas tree that looked slightly embarrassed to be working before Halloween. Rowan laughed at the absurdity and rented Theo a pair of better-fitting skates against his nostalgic objections.
"Your childhood blades can watch from the bench," she said. "They're moral support, not destiny."
On the tiny rink, Theo still wobbled. Rowan still caught him. They spun, less by accident than by invitation, into a close embrace that made a passing stranger lift a phone and then lower it, deciding some frames belonged to the people inside them.
"If I fall," Theo said into her hair, "are you coming with me?"
Rowan pulled back just enough to see his face. The string lights put gold in both their eyes. "That's flirting," she said. "And a little panic. And a yes, for the kind of falling you do on purpose when you trust the person catching you is also learning."
"Is that forgiveness?"
"It's a renewable visa," Rowan said. "April can keep its scar. Scars are information. They're not stop signs."
A man near the boards—younger than Ned, camera different, motive unknown—called out, cheerful, "Hold that pose!"
Theo glanced at Rowan. "Should we correct him?"
Rowan smiled, slow and sure and unfinished in the best way. "He looks busy."
They held the pose without needing a flash to make it real: two people mid-try, far from the park where a yellow taxi had idled and a twin-lens had caught their first almost-fall, carrying the old photograph in a shared album on their phones and a newer courage in their hands. Somewhere in New York, Ned Ashcroft would soon return to his December haunt, flat cap low, looking for honest seconds among strangers. Somewhere in a booth, Lottie would file Vale & Quill — mid-try among the winter scrapbook pages. Somewhere Bridie would bake and Otis would learn and childhood skates would wait by an apartment door for the next cold night someone chose practice over pride.
Theo rested his forehead against Rowan's. "Ugly honest: I'm still scared of the distance."
"Ugly honest," Rowan answered, "me too. Stay anyway. Visit anyway. Call when the silence gets ideas."