I smirked at my phone, having way too much fun with a complete stranger.
Cherry:
Okay, Six. Let’s agree to keep this anonymous, okay? No real names. No details about our lives. No pictures. Just confessions.
I agreed at the time, thinking it was funny. Mysterious. Like something out of a cheesy chick-flick I loved watching every now and again—blame my thirteen-year-old sister for getting me hooked.
But now? Weeks later? I hate it.
I don’t want anonymous. I want to know who the hell she is.
My phone vibrates and I glance down at the screen when I see her reply.
Cherry:
Me too. It makes me feel like I’m a helpless child.
A grin tugs at my lips as I type out a reply.
I rewrite it three times before finally hitting send. Still looks wrong, though.
I hate texting. Always feel like I’m spelling shit wrong. I probably am. Which is why I use voice-to-text half the time whenever I text her. I don’t want her to think I’m stupid like everyone else. So I spend extra time trying to get my words right, the punctuation and all that crap.
Me:
Exactly. I just want to be able to do shit on my own. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of some stranger I barely know.
Cherry:
Well, as a stranger you kinda know… I would have been more than happy to help you out with whatever it is you needed.
I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. Because it always comes to this.
I want to meet her. I want to see her.
And she won’t let me.
She thinks anonymity is what makes this work. That once we meet, it’ll lose the charm of not knowing who the other is and we’ll get bored, and eventually stop talking.
I don’t agree.
Not knowing just makes me want to find her.
Me:
Hate that you can’t.
I pocket my phone and head toward the rink, spotting Ryan sucking face with Isabella outside the arena. I shake my head, laughing under my breath. Coach hates catching them making out, so they always get their fill before stepping inside.
The guy’s an idiot for messing around with Coach’s daughter, who also happens to be Nathan’s sister. But I guess when it comes to her, he really doesn’t give a fuck.
As soon as I step inside, the cold air hits me, and I take a deep breath. Smells like home. Like ice, sweat, and the faint, weirdly comforting scent of Zamboni fuel.
I glance toward the ice, watching some of the figure skaters still practicing. My eyes track a few of them, noticing their moves. It’s kinda cool. They’re like us in a way, skating in circles, pushing themselves, but they do it with way more grace. If a hockey player tried that shit, we’d faceplant in two seconds.
Except for me, of course. I’m awesome at tricks.
A hard slap lands on my shoulder, knocking me out of my thoughts.
