Page 21 of Put a Rink on It

“And some maple syrup,” Marina adds. Somehow it never escapes her notice when it’s not on the table.

“Oh, good call.”

“Be right back.” She disappears, back in a minute with real maple syrup and an extra plate. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

Marina sizes up my plate, her eyes huge and hungry. I push it toward her. “Might as well take what you want now before I eat it all.”

She claps her hands, happy to help herself to my meal. She douses the pancakes with syrup before cutting into them.

If she were anyone else, I’d never share my stuff, but somehow during the years of our friendship, we fell into a routine of sharing meals and drinks—non-alcoholic and alcoholic. I suppose “sharing” is a loose term since she always ends up with whatever I order and I’m stuck with her leftovers.

While we eat, we come up with a tentative plan for moving forward. I jot it all down in my notebook, hoping I’ll be able to read it when I need it.

By the time she’s full, she’s devoured a third of my plate and half of hers. And drunk most of my latte. I’m not surprised in the slightest. One more thing I’ll have to get used to on a more permanent basis. Shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.

“What time do you need to head back to Connecticut?”

“I have to be at practice by one, and it’s less than two hours as long as there’s no traffic or any snow impeding the travel. So by ten-ish. Gotta stop at home and change.”

She glances at her phone. “We don’t quite have time to tell Millie. I suppose we should probably wait until I have a ring on my finger to sell it.”

“Let’s go to Boston next weekend. They’ll have better choices than Vermont and Connecticut. We’ll need a private showing, maybe arrive at different times. I’ll do some research on places that might be good.” As I speak, I jot down notes on a different page, my mind making plans of how we’ll do it covertly. I don’t want to blow our cover on day one. “What kind did you mention in your proposal earlier? Is that what you’ve always wanted?”

Her cheeks tinge with a layer of pink. “I’ve never given it too much thought before then, to be honest. Not the specifics of what it would be like. Just that I’d have one. If I were lucky enough to find a man who wanted to give me one.”

“If we’re doing this and selling it as real, it has to fit you. It has to be something you’d like and want. Something you’d potentially wear for the rest of your life. So don’t settle for anything. You can choose whatever you want."

“You’re going to drop thirty grand on a pretend engagement ring?”

“Is that all it would cost?”

She shrieks, her brows jumping to her hairline, her mouth remaining dropped open. “All it would cost? Do you hear yourself?”

The waitress appears at our table. “Anything else before I ring you out?”

“We’ll take two of the maple lattes to go. Oh, and another slice of the coffee cake.” Marina was right. Since I’m here, I’m taking another piece, prepared to share it with her or leave half at her house.

She glances at Marina, who nods her agreement, before sauntering off.

“We have more to discuss about the ring. I’ll do some research, you do some research. We’ll reconvene before the weekend.”

“Yep, ‘cause I’m not letting you drop a quarter of a hundred grand on a ring for show. That’s insane. Maybe the most insane part about all of this.”

“It’s not like I can’t afford it. Think of it as an investment.”

“Pfft. An investment. I’ll get right on that.” She rolls her eyes.

I love her snark, though it’s too infuriating the times it turns me on and I can’t do anything about it. Which has been all the time since our brief dalliance in college over a dozen years ago. Way too long since I’ve tasted her, if you ask me.

“Here you go. You can pay at the register.” Our waitress leaves our to-go items and the bill on the table and marches off.

“Ready to get back to your house? I gotta hit the road soon.”

“Yeah.” Marina’s agreement is crestfallen. She grabs the cups and bag.

We stop at the register, paying the bill with cash so as not to use my credit card. Once paid, I wrap my arm around Marina, stopped by a woman’s gasp.

“You are Nero Champion. I knew it.” I glance over my shoulder at our waitress, wondering how she finally pieced it together. She points at our backs. “Your sweatshirts. Wait. You called her ‘wife.’ When did y’all get married?”