Claire exhaled. Then, softer, she added that their mother had called from Florida: she was lonely, she wished Jake would visit for Christmas Day, she still did not understand why he "played at that rink like a teenager" when he could be "settled." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. He loved his mother. He also loved not being measured against the boy who used to skate forward as if the floor owed him miracles.
"Tell Mom I'll call tomorrow," he said. "Tell her the rink is not a failure of adulthood. Tell her—actually, don't tell her that. I'll tell her myself when I have coffee and courage in the same cup."
When he hung up, Elena was lacing Mikey's skate for him because the kid had yanked it crooked in a burst of snowflake confidence. She looked up, glossy deep-pink lips pressed together in a question she had not yet voiced.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Overnight duty," Jake said. "And a guilt trip from Florida with a side of maternal confusion. Holiday special. Comes with cranberry sauce."
"Ah," Elena said. "I know that menu."
"You got one too?"
She shrugged, arched brows drawing together for a second before smoothing.