Page 179 of We Can't Be Friends

I pass him again, blue eyes glowing with admiration.

Five, then ten more laps. Cutting to a stop in front of him, he asks, “How does it feel?”

“Free,” I respond. Flipping my palms up, I offer him my hands. “Come see.”

CALLUM

I take her hands, eager to experience this with her.

She pulls me, skating backward.

“It’s like rollerblading,” I tell her.

Audrey and I begged Dad for rollerblades for Christmas one year. She never caught the hang of them, hating every minute of me skating laps around her in Hyde Park.

“I guess,” she shrugs. “I only ever ice skated.”

My head locked on my feet, she guides me around the ice.

“Don’t watch your skates. You need to pick your head up to see where you’re going.”

When I do, I met with molten pewter eyes. Does it matter where I’m going if she’s the one leading? I’d follow her anywhere.

After fifteen minutes, I tell Chloe I’m taking a break.

Skating solo to the door, I sink into one of the practice arena seats, fumbling for my bag. Typing in my passcode to my phone, I get nervous about this next step. I went back and forth with myself while we skated about whether I should do this, but ultimately, I believe she’s ready. She can do it—she needs it.

On Spotify, I queue up the song.

Miller gave me access to the Bluetooth speakers in the practice rink. Chloe hasn’t noticed the playlist, a pop punk and alternative I curated of our favorite songs, the entire time, but I know the next one will stop her.

I locate Chloe as the current song fades out.

There’s a beat of silence before the next song starts.

Chloe halts. Spinning to me, she finally realizes music is playing. “Turn it off.”

“No.”

“Callum Jasper Sullivan.”

“Chloe Isabella Henry, no.” Her hands fist at her sides. “You’ve come this far. Skate.”

“No.”

I pause the music. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“Then prove it. Skate your last routine. Close out this chapter of ‘This is my fault,’ and we can start a new one.”

Rolling her shoulder back, sheclenches her jaw before mumbling under her breath, “Screw you.”

“I’d like you to.”

Her eyes narrow, slits fit for a black cat. “Fine,” she says between gritted teeth.

I restart the song.

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