She turned to walk away.
Eric bumped my shoulder. "She likes you."
"She tolerates me."
"Same thing in Mrs. Pelletier's book."
On the walk back to the cottage, the path wound past fence posts with peeling paint and rose hip plants turned brown and brittle. When we approached home, I realized I'd been holding my breath.
Eric dropped his supply bag beside the kitchen table and immediately started unpacking, creating neat piles of batteries, notebook refills, and whatever else he'd deemed essential for another week of studying the island.
I set Mrs. Pelletier's bag on the counter and stared at it—coffee beans, cookies, and honey. The kind of thoughtful contributions that demonstrated someone had been paying attention to my preferences for years.
Eric moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, filling the kettle and pulling down mugs like he'd been sharing the space for months instead of weeks. I needed something to occupy my hands before they started drumming against surfaces or fiddling with objects that didn't require fixing.
The weather log sat open on the table where I'd left it that morning, with barometric readings half-recorded in my careful script. I settled into my usual chair and picked up the pencil, but the numbers blurred together. Instead of atmospheric pressure, I saw that kid's face when his skating clicked and made sense.
I hadn't seen that look in someone's eyes in years—the one that said I might still have something to give.
Behind me, Eric was doing something with tea bags instead of coffee and humming under his breath—some tuneless melodythat had become as much a part of the cottage's soundtrack as the wind testing the window frames.
I flipped to a fresh page in the log and tried to focus on entering the morning's wind measurements. My handwriting looked cramped and unsteady.
Eric's chair scraped against the floor as he pulled it closer to the table. He handed me a ceramic mug cradled in both hands while steam curled between his fingers, releasing scents of chamomile and honey. It was the choice that suggested he understood I was already wound tight enough without adding caffeine to the equation.
He sipped quietly at first, content to exist in the same space as me without demanding conversation. Finally, he couldn't stop himself. "You've been frowning at your log for ten minutes."
I glanced down at the weather log. The pencil had left several false starts where I'd begun recording wind speed and stopped mid-number. "Thinking."
"About skating?"
I set the pencil down and leaned back in my chair, studying his face. He wasn't pushing. It was more like he was holding open a door I could walk through.
"Maybe that's it. It was just a one-time thing, though. The kid needed help with his grip."
Eric nodded, taking another sip of his tea. He had a way of making space for conversations that wanted to happen, even when I wasn't sure I was ready to have them.
"Besides, those kids were being polite. Real coaching is different. It requires commitment, patience, and showing up."
Eric watched me over the rim of his mug with those ocean-blue eyes. "You didn't look like someone pretending. You looked like someone remembering."
"Remembering's dangerous."
"Is it?" Eric leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "Or is forgetting what's dangerous?"
I didn't have an answer for that. Eric waited while I wrestled with words that wanted to surface.
"What if there's nothing left? What if I try and find out I was fooling myself about ever being good at anything?"
Eric set his tea down and reached across the table, covering my hand with his. "Then you'll know, and knowing is better than wondering." He squeezed my hand. "They keep the rink open for drop-ins on weekday afternoons. Community skating, mostly. I used to go with Ziggy sometimes."
My spine straightened. "And…?"
"And I think you might want to see how it feels. It's not a commitment. It's one skate."
"Eric." I pushed back from the table, needing distance from the hope in his voice. "You think I can just show up at the Whistleport rink like nothing happened?"
"I think you can show up because something happened. You helped that kid and remembered what it felt like to help someone get better at something you love."
