“If you’re going to go regardless, why waste time feeling bad about it?” Ari kicked at the water, as if for emphasis.
“We’re Jewish. We’re very good at feeling guilty about things.”
Ari laughed. “If you don’t want your outside to match your inside—that is, if you’re not going to let your guilt stop you—”
“I got that, thank you.” So much was easier said than done.
“Then make your insides match your outsides!”
“I’m not sure my insides and outsides have ever matched.”
“Yeah.” Ari looked thoughtful. “Me neither.”
AARON WAS ALMOST GRATEFUL for the length of the days at the restaurant as the tourist season finally officially kicked off. Business and exhaustion served to quiet his brain, and when Monday night came the conversation with his parents was less painful than it might have been. Aaron felt guilty through the entirety of it nonetheless.
There was enough money for ice time and coaching fees for now, and whatever difference the extra weeks added up to, Aaron knew that Luke’s accident would leave some sponsorships and federation funding up for grabs. And he could always teach a few more basic skating classes if he needed to.
As for the restaurant, Aaron volunteered to do what paperwork and administration he could via distance and the magic of the internet. He knew that organizing spreadsheets and making calls to suppliers after a day of training would be the last thing he’d want to do, but being able to contribute mattered.
But even with those problems solved, he still had to get to Saint Paul. Aaron had to confess to his parents that he’d already called the Put-in Bay airport and arranged a flight to Cleveland for the next morning. Getting off the island itself was a little like taking a taxi. You just let the airport know you needed to fly. If someone who could pilot one of the six-seat prop planes that served as a connection between the islands and the mainland was around, you paid them a hundred dollars and off you went. It was summer, so he could have taken the ferry to the mainland and driven to Cleveland, but flying was easier and faster. And he wouldn’t have to rent a car. Once he got to Cleveland, he would need to get on a big plane like anyone else.
Chapter 2
THE WEEK BEFORE MEMORIAL Day
Miami, FL
ZACK KELLY STOOD ON his balcony and looked out at the ocean. It was supposed to be soothing. Compared to his recently ended career—rattling around the world’s conflict zones in search of stories people didn’t want to read about horrors they didn’t want to admit were happening—it probably was.
But Zack was not soothed. Whatever healing he’d been supposed to find on Miami’s beaches had largely been eclipsed by the book deal he was currently living off of, a somewhat hasty marriage, and a now even hastier divorce. At least he had a decent therapist who was helping him get a handle on his journalism-induced PTSD.
His cellphone, shoved in the back pocket of his shorts like an accident waiting to happen, rang. He fumbled it out, barely caring who was calling enough to check the ID. Was it his in-process ex, his supportive but exhausting local friends, more spam? It didn’t matter. None of it was appealing.
He frowned at the screen; it was his best friend from college. Which, while his world was falling apart in the most boring way possible, felt like a halfway decent consolation prize.
“Sammy,” he said, answering the call. “What brings you to rubbernecking my disaster life?”
“Work, if you want it. Assuming you’re in the country.”
Zack dragged his hand through his hair. “I’m here. Packing for my ex, who still can’t be bothered to do domestic tasks even if they are the ones required for him not to be living here anymore.”
“I don’t want to tell you I always knew it would end in tears....” Sammy began.
“But you always knew it would end in tears?” Zack finished for him.
“Ten thousand percent. I don’t know what you thought you were looking for, but you weren’t going to find it in a trauma rebound six months after you got back from a shooting war.”
“You know I have a therapist for conversations like this, right?” Zack tucked his phone between his shoulder and ear and went back inside so he could toss things that weren’t his in boxes. “Anyway, I’m terrible company, but I still have a mortgage, because I got the condo. What’s the gig?”
“That depends,” Sammy said, his voice coy, almost flirtatious, despite his heterosexuality.
Zack chuckled. They’d been roommates their freshman year in college and had somehow survived getting journalism degrees together. But while Sammy had excelled at a life that didn’t involve an excess of adrenaline and unwise risk-taking, Zack had not. Which made Sammy’s call right now a bit of a godsend. Whatever the job was—and he really could use the work—it probably wouldn’t mess with Zack’s head too much.
“How soon can you get on a plane?” Sammy asked.
The words themselves were familiar. But the circumstance was definitely not. Zack stopped sorting DVDs and straightened up. “Dude. What the fuck? You edit a sports publication.”
“With a circulation of over three million,” Sammy said proudly.
“Yes, yes, you have an awesome job and seem almost as cool at reunions as I do.”
“Almost?!” Sammy protested.
“I have more tattoos and also literal battle scars.”
“Fair.”
Zack went on. “But unless something really bizarre has happened involving Division I NCAA players toppling foreign governments, ‘how soon can you get on a plane?’ is never a question you should be asking me.”
“It’s about figure skating,” Sammy said, his affect completely flat.
Zack stared at a framed picture above the TV. It was one he’d taken of his now-ex, showing rope coiled against skin. This had to be a prank. “Are you joking?”
“No.”
“Figure skating?!” Zack
