Page 103 of ClickBack

“You went through my shoe?”

“I read a number. Don’t make it criminal.”

She laughs once, then looks back at the boot. “I told you about skating when we were just talking.”

“I was listening.”

I want to reach for her. I wait while she checks the other skate, pulling the tissue back carefully enough that I wonder whether she is giving herself time to decide what she wants.

“What time does the session start?” she asks.

I tell her the time, the rink’s name, and where it is. All the information I made such a production of withholding fits into two sentences.

“And you’d still take me home?”

“Right now, if that’s what you want.”

She looks toward the front. “Could we change the destination?”

The driver checks the mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I want to go skating.”

Graves gives him the address. Giselle keeps one boot in her lap and reaches across the box for my hand.

Inside the rink, she knows what to do. She finds a bench, changes shoes, and checks the fit of the boots before tightening the laces. I sit beside her doing the same with the plain pair I bought for myself. Finding my size was enough work without making them pretty.

“Those are yours?” she asks.

“I’m hoping they’re somebody else’s by the end of tonight.”

“You haven’t even stood up.”

“I know my strengths.”

At the edge of the floor, she rests a hand on my shoulder, tests her balance, and pushes away. For the first stretch she moves cautiously, watching the other skaters. Then a woman passes her backward and says something that makes her laugh. Giselle follows. By the time they come around again, her shoulders are moving with the music.

I step onto the floor and immediately miss my sneakers.

“Bend your knees, Bambi,” she calls.

“They’re bent.”

“Then convince them.”

She turns backward to watch me, traveling easily while I work out how to stop going toward people. The woman from her first lap takes one look at me and tells Giselle not to leave me unattended.

“I’m right here,” I tell them. “I can hear you.”

“That’s a long way down, baby,” the woman says, and skates away.

Giselle has to stop laughing before she can help me. She shows me how to shift my weight, keeping her hands near mine until I manage a few yards without grabbing her. When I tell her to go ahead, she checks my face.

“I’m good,” I say. “Go.”

She does. One foot crosses behind the other and she catches a rhythm I can see before I understand how she is doing it. The woman joins her again. They try a step together, miss it, laugh, and try it on the next lap. Giselle gets it first. She throws both hands up, delighted, and I nearly fall watching her.

I have seen her pleased with a finished job, amused by her daughter, happy to find me at her door. This is different. She wants another lap before the song ends. When the next song starts, she wants that one, too.