“It’s fine.” Zack didn’t look upset. He also didn’t move his arm. He looked curious and amused, the way he had every time Aaron had said or done something figure skater-y that, apparently, civilians didn't do. As if touching someone uninvited was on the same plane as tying their skates for them.
Aaron shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
A smile tugged at the corner of Zack’s mouth. "Aaron. Relax. You're fine. I've dealt with some creepers in my day but, believe me, you are nowhere near being one of them."
"I—" Aaron tried to stammer out a reasonable explanation that wasn't we spent all morning together and I apparently got used to being around you and having to touch you a lot and also your tattoos are cool and I wish I got to see them more. Because that would have been way beyond bad boundaries.
He decided to shift the topic back towards something like professional. "The only tattoos anyone has around here are Olympic rings. Once they get there, that is. The judges hate anything else. So it's not something I'm used to seeing."
“Or feeling?” Zack looked arch.
Aaron’s face flamed again, but they were smiling at each other.
“Is it cool if I ask about them?" Aaron gestured with his index finger, but otherwise kept his hands tightly clasped in front of him.
“Of course.” Zack moved his arms forward on the table so Aaron could get a better look. “I got the first one before I went out on my first assignment in a conflict zone, and then I kept adding to it. There was no reason to stop, once I had started. My ex-husband thought they were me coping with stress badly, which was probably one of the few things he got right about me.”
He paused, like he thought Aaron might have a comment about that, but he didn’t. That Zack had been married was one of the first things that popped up on the internet about him, after glowing reviews of his book.
When Aaron said nothing, Zack went on. “I thought it was funny to keep telling people it would make it easier to identify my body. First of all, pro tip, I wasn't funny, I was an asshole. And what it did was make it easier to identify my live body as the asshole journalist no one wanted around."
"Oh, so we're both space aliens!"
Zack gave Aaron a baffled look. Which was justified. That probably wasn’t how most people would have responded to such a confession.
“I'm from somewhere really weird,” Aaron tried to explain. “So I get excited when I meet other people who also can't make polite conversation about who they are.”
“So which planet are you from, space boy?" Zack smiled at Aaron, his arms still on the table between them.
Aaron took a deep breath. "A string of islands in the middle of a lake that only a hundred people live on when it's not tourist season."
"Ah. I’m from Florida. It’s always tourist season there.”
"Yeah, not where I’m from."
"What are they called, your islands?"
"In the tourist brochures, the Key West of the Midwest."
Zack’s face was bright with amusement. "No, fuck you! You have to be making that up."
"I am not, because if I were making it up it would sound cooler and I wouldn't spend my summers gutting perch."
He had to resist the urge to clap his hands over his mouth again. He hadn’t meant to mention that—the island or the fish. Unlike Ari, he didn’t resent every outsider who came on to the islands, but still, they were a treasured home for him, one that was too easy for outsiders to misunderstand. He didn’t particularly want a piece about his dreams of the Olympics prefaced with too-intimate details of his life there.
Zack peered at Aaron, seeming to consider something. Aaron braced himself to be asked to have a conversation on the record regarding everything he least wanted to talk about.
But instead, the other man stuck his hand out across the table. "Well, Aaron, space boy from the planet perch, nice to meet you. I'm Zack and I'm a damn fool who thought covering wars would make me special."
Aaron shook his proffered hand. Zack’s grip was sure and strong, with a hint of calluses on the palm. He didn’t want to let go.
In his pocket, Aaron’s phone barked. He reluctantly withdrew his hand to check it—a calendar reminder.
“I’ve got to go in a few,” he said. “I’ve got a class in an hour. But can we do this again?” He still didn’t know what this was, but he sure hoped it would prove to be something other than professional.
Zack looked surprised. “I got the impression your minder wouldn’t be too happy about that.”
Aaron stirred the dregs of his tea. “Katie has very good instincts about things that are significant, she just doesn’t always know if things are going to be a problem.” He paused, trying to find words that would make it make sense. “Sometimes, if she’s wary about something, it’s as much a sign to run towards it as away from it.”
“Is she wary about me?”
“Not professionally, I don’t think,” Aaron decided to leave out the part where she had encouraged him to show off for Zack.
“That’s good.”
“But I don’t think this coffee had particularly professional vibes for her,” Aaron tried, hoping to get a sense of what Zack’s intent had been.
Slyly, Zack clicked his own empty cup against Aaron’s. “Indeed.”
AARON DROVE BACK TO the rink with the windows down and the radio turned up, singing along happily to the songs of the summer. Coffee with the journalist definitely wasn’t a date. But Zack was very nice to look at, and weird in a good way, and Aaron felt fizzy with the delight of it.
He got back to TCI a little earlier than he needed to, and was standing at the front desk chatting with Cal, one of the zamboni drivers who Aaron had dated very briefly two
