-Montana, 2025-

CRYING TIRES DAKOTA Evans out – he puts so much effort into holding his emotions back that the tears end almost as quickly as they've begun. I, on the other hand, seem to possess a veritable Fountain of Youth. It's like someone forgot to shut off a valve at the waterworks. I look at him for longer than a few seconds and can already feel the emotion building in my eyes.

It seems fair, then, that I'm stuck with only my thoughts for company in one of the emergency room's in Montana while Dakota sleeps on my fluorescent blue dress.

There's a lot to process. Today we took place in partner skating at Worlds after two years of hard practice. There'd been crying, and laughing, and hugging while cry-laughing when we first found out. Within the first few hours I was already brainstorming lifts and other ideas for our competition, to which Dakota carefully reminded me that we should run this over with Élise. Today had also been the last day that Dakota Evans would ever skate in competitions- and it was my fault.

It had always been a delicate balancing act, our partnership.

People love to tell me how natural and right Dakota and I look together, like we were put on the earth as two perfectly formed halves, destined to slot exactly into place. I wish I could tell them about the years it took us to get here: the edges that had to be rounded, the hands that were taught how to hold, and to feel, and to cherish.

I'm fiercely and immeasurably proud of what we have together. Our partnership is my life's greatest work – and to pretend it was anything other than a great deal of work is a disservice.

We're always asked to talk about our relationship, to distill all our memories into a single soundbite. Dakota never fails to surprise me with the emotional honesty of his answers, but I find it difficult to summarize exactly what we have together, not in a way that anyone else would understand. It would take days to cover the ups and downs of our relationship to a point where I was satisfied that someone really understood, didn't just box us in as friends, or lovers, or co-workers, or partners – and who has time for that?

But if I could sit down with someone, explain to them the moments I remember and the ones I wish I could forget, I suppose it would go a little something like this:

———————————-

-15 years earlier-

Wyoming, 2005

The first part of myself I give him is my hand.

I pull off my fluffy pink mitten and offer my bare palm up for him to take—as instructed. His hand is sweaty and he awkwardly fumbles around with my fingers in his until we find a comfortable hold. We skate three laps around the rink, hands clasped tightly together, and don't say a word the entire time. I want to say hi, to say anything really, but my tongue feels dry and swollen, like sandpaper in my mouth.

So instead of talking, I listen to the scraping of our blades as we carve into the ice and the humming of the fluorescent lights that flicker brightly above us.

We're clumsy at first, our movements disjointed and awkward. The ice beneath us feels foreign, unforgiving. But with each lap around the rink, we start to sync up, our strides gradually falling into a more natural rhythm. Despite the absence of words, there's a silent communication between us. I can feel the tension in his grip as he squeezes my hand, urging us to pick up speed, and I respond in kind, matching his pace with a gentle squeeze of my own. It's as if we're dancing on the ice, I think then, a silent conversation, spoken only through the language of our movements.

When we come to a stop in front of our coach he doesn't immediately give back my hand. He pulls it in towards his own body, like he wants to keep it. He plays with my fingers, like he is studying them, like there may be a test on the shape of my hand later. He tickles my palm with the pads of his fingers and when he reaches the inside of my wrist, running his thumb over the sensitive skin there, I giggle. He smiles at me then but drops my hand.

It feels cold now that he's let go and I find even though he's a boy I don't mind him having my hand in his. Even when he won't give it back. I am seven and don't really reflect much on what it means that I have given this boy my hand to hold and that it feels so comfortable--so natural. Don't think about the fact that I won't mind him holding my hand every day, because now that I have it back it feels foreign, as if it isn't really mine, not anymore.

There is a tingling in my fingers, a little tug at the ends of them that I can't really explain and a small red mark right there on my wrist--where he'd run his thumb over my skin to tickle me--that just won't fade. It looks almost like a small burn. A brand. If I were to know what that meant. The tingling persists until a week later when at the rink we are made to hold hands again. We skate in a pattern dictated by our coach, my hand snug in his, and I feel whole. And I swear when he touches me, that tiny red thumbprint on my wrist heats up and spreads a pleasant warmth throughout my body so that I can't even feel the chill of the rink. I'm cold again, as soon as he lets go.

Our parents and Élise are huddled together a few feet away while Dakota and I sit next to each other untying our skates. I'm still not as good at it as some of the older skaters, or even Dakota, so it takes me a little bit of work to unfasten the laces from each eyelet. Dakota stays next to me, even after his skates are off, kicking his socked feet along the ground—his socks don't match, I notice, one is a dark blue, while the other is black. He shuffles closer to me on the bench, so that that our arms arm brushing against each other and I feel flooded with warmth again.

"They are talking about us," he whispers, nudging my shoulder. He is wearing a lopsided grin, and his voice carries through the open space, an excited echo, even though he is trying hard to be quiet.

I nod, still not sure how to speak to the boy in front of me.

"They just fit," Élise says, a hint of excitement and maybe pride in her own voice. "From their heights, to their strides, even their looks."

Our moms both nod. They saw it too. I strain to hear what my mom says. I don't quite catch it or what Lilith, Dakota's mom, says next. But then my mom is looking at us with this strange sort of smile that is both happy and sad and maybe a lot of other things in between.

"They really are a perfect little pair," she says with a sigh.

"Hear that," Dakota says from beside me. "We're perfect."

I shake my head and find myself smiling, showing off my missing front tooth, "Not perfect yet. 'Cause I'm better than you. But maybe one day, when you catch up."

It's the first thing I've really said to him and he bursts into laughter. A warm all consuming laugh that shakes his little body, and mine next to it. The warmth in between us grows and I can't help but start laughing right back at him.

"No way. I'm way better," he says between giggles. "I'll prove it, next time."

My smile grows even wider at the thought of next time.