At the booth, Lottie took their blade guards and gave Theo a look that suggested she had watched his entire athletic career in forty minutes. "Thursday," she said, before either of them mentioned it. "Ned already told me. Names?"
"Rowan Vale," Rowan said.
"Theo Quill," Theo said.
Lottie wrote them on a sticky note in handwriting that belonged to someone who labeled everything because December made people forgetful. "If the print's any good, I'll keep it flat and out of the cocoa zone. If you don't show, it goes in the drawer with the other almosts. No judgment. Almosts are how rinks stay honest."
Outside, the taxi line had thinned. Rowan declined Theo's offer of a ride with a gentleness that was not rejection so much as pacing. They stood on the sidewalk in the smell of the food cart and the cold.
"I had a good time," Rowan said. "Including the parts that hurt."
"That might be the most complicated compliment I've ever received."
"You're welcome." She hesitated, then touched the cuff of his navy coat with two fingers, a small claim. "Text me when you get home so I know the skates didn't murder you on the subway stairs."
"I will."
"And Theo—don't disappear for three days if you feel something difficult. Send an ugly honest sentence instead. I can work with ugly honesty. I can't work with silence that pretends it's protection."
"I can do ugly honesty," he said. "I have drafts."
She smiled, and the smile reached her eyes this time. Then she walked toward the crosstown bus, cream coat bright under the streetlamp, pale pink scarf a soft flag in the wind. Theo watched until the bus doors folded her away. Only then did he look back at the rink. Ned Ashcroft was still there, a dark shape near the Christmas tree, camera quiet, as if keeping watch for people brave enough to hold a pose.
Theo's apartment was a third-floor walkup in Inwood with radiators that clanked like percussion and a kitchen table that doubled as his editing desk. He set the skates by the door, still damp, and texted Rowan: Home. Ankles filing formal complaints. Ugly honest sentence: I keep replaying the part where you caught me and wondering how long a person gets to borrow that kind of certainty.
Her reply came twelve minutes later: Borrowing is fine. Stealing without asking is the problem. Also: my knee is humming. Ice always does that. Ugly honest: I liked how carefully you tried, even when trying looked ridiculous.
Theo sat on the floor beside the skates and laughed once, quietly, the way a person laughs when relief and terror arrive in the same coat.