When she returned for that humid June weekend and he turned forward beside her on the wood, the wobble was not failure. It was the body telling the truth in public. Elena's grab for his lapels was not rescue so much as collaboration. Afterward they sat on the sticky bench and ate soft pretzels and watched Mikey teach a younger child how to fall funny on purpose. Jake's hand found Elena's. His palm was warm, a little rough from work.
"Small confession," he said.
"If this is about not being able to stop going backward, I will take the pretzel back."
"I can stop," he said. "I chose not to for a long time because choosing felt like giving up the only trick I had. Turns out I have more than one trick. One of them is calling you. One of them is trying forward even when it's ugly."
Elena leaned her head on his shoulder, chestnut curls and gold clip and the scent of rink wax.
"Ugly forward still counts," she said. "So does pretty reverse. I'm multilingual in directions."
In June, Elena took a weekend bus south. They went to the rink on a humid night that made the mirror ball look sweaty and glamorous. Mikey had grown a ridiculous amount and still wore orange when he could get away with it, a loyalty Elena respected. Jake took Elena's hand for couples skate and, halfway through the song, turned himself around so he faced forward beside her. He wobbled. She grabbed his satin lapels—he had worn the jacket for her, despite the heat—and steadied him without yanking him into a crash, a gentler echo of Christmas Eve.
"I got you," she said.