Page 19 of 50 First Skates

I met Dean Rafferty for thefirstfirst time twenty-two days ago.

He says he’s given me seventeen skating lessons.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve kissed him for the first time, but I kissed him many times today.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve dreamed about him, but I’ve written about it three times and sketched his face all three times.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve told him I love him, but I know I didn’t say it out loud to him today while we were together and I regretted it. Because I felt it. And I had the sense that he felt it too. But he still feels guilty about kissing me and we still haven’t had official sex yet. According to him anyway. And I trust him. I trust him implicitly. I think Dad does too.

That’s why I decided to make Dad dinner tonight. His favorite lasagna, Mom’s recipe. The one I know by heart. And I made lemon bars for dessert, using the Fluicer! It’s not DigitalDetox Week, but I still put his favorite Eagles record on and asked if he wanted to play Spades after we ate. I could tell he thought something was up, but he went along with it anyway.

“How are the skating lessons going?” he asked as we cleared the table.

“Amazing,” I said dreamily. “I didn’t have to think about my feet at all when I was skating forward today.”

“That’s significant,” he said. “When you don’t have to think about the mechanics anymore.”

“Yeah! Something’s shifted, I think. We’ve been working on crossovers, according to the videos he showed me on his phone. And I can skate backward. Kind of hesitantly. But I can do it!”

“That’s damn impressive, honey. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks. I can’t wait to skate backward more. It’ll be great for my glutes!’

He cleared his throat. Poor guy didn’t want to hear about my glutes, but he really didn’t want to hear what I had to say next.

When we sat down with glasses of fresh orange juice and vodka in the living room, I said carefully, “I love skating the way you love something that you always knew on some level was meant to be a part of your life…”

He glanced over at me, his jaw tensing up.

“Same with some people.”

He grunted.

“I’m sure you felt that way about Mom when you first met her.”

“’Course I did.”

“That’s how I feel about Dean.”

“Today, you mean?”

“According to my journal entries and the videos I’ve made, it’s how I feel about him every day since the day I’ve met him.”

“You barely know him.”

“But Daddy, I love him.”

“You can’t possibly love him, Soleil. As far as your brain is concerned, you’ve only known him for one day.”

“But I’ve loved him all day. And my body feels very comfortable with him. And my soul feels connected to his. I don’t know how to explain it.”

He scrubbed his face with his palm. He always does that when he’s stressed about the team, and he did it all the time when Mom was sick. Poor guy. I’m sure this was the last thing he wanted to talk about with me, but it had to be said.

I got up and went to sit next to him on the sofa. “Mom would have liked him, you know.”

“I know,” he said, resigned. “I know. It’s not that I don’t like Dean Rafferty, honey. I know he’s a good guy. I see how much he cares about you. But he works for me.”

“I know.”