by Stella Gray
And it is. But I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve only skated once in my life, and that was at a mini rink set up in the middle of our local shopping mall during the holidays. I was such a disaster on the ice, I still can’t believe I didn’t fall and crack my face open.
He leads me to a bench, where a pair of skates is waiting for each of us, along with two pairs of knit gloves, two matching hats, and two scarves. They’re all covered in the Bulls and Blackhawks logos, which makes me laugh. I sit to pull off my shoes, and pick up a skate.
“These are my size,” I gasp in wonder.
“You think I don’t know my wife’s shoe size?” he says, laughing. “I got you.”
I don’t know why, but it’s this small detail that has me blinking back tears all of a sudden. He’s been devoting himself to me all along in the quietest ways, and I never noticed.
Slowly, I manage to get the skates laced up. He gets his own on a lot quicker, and I realize he’s done this before. Great. He’s going to skate circles around me. In fact, I bet he’s a pro. He must be, or how else would he have come up with this idea? Boy, am I in for it.
I catch a whiff of whatever deliciousness is waiting for us at the table.
“Let’s do this,” I say. Sure, I might fall on my ass and make a total fool of myself, but I’m determined to get to that food.
Gloves on, Luka steps out onto the ice with absolute confidence and holds out his hand.
Forcing a smile, I carefully pluck my way out onto the rink, grabbing onto anything I can until there’s nothing left to hang onto. I wasn’t exaggerating about being a disaster on the ice. Luka’s eyes twinkle with amusement.
“I should have asked if you could skate,” he says. “You grew up in Chicago, so I just assumed you knew how.”
“Well, you assumed wrong.” I make a mad reach for him, flailing my other arm needlessly. Luka’s got me now, and I look up into his face with a mortified grin. “Yeah, so, my parents had me in piano lessons and ballet at our local rec center. You?”
“Played hockey since I was six. But that’s okay, I can teach you. And just think. You’ll get to spend all night in my arms.”
“Ha-ha,” I say drily, but I can’t keep the smile off my face. With nobody else here to watch me struggle, and Luka being kind enough not to laugh, I have to admit that this is fun.
He leans down to kiss me and it’s the warmest kiss I’ve ever shared with him. Then he takes both of my hands and starts skating backward while pulling my ungraceful self along.
My feet don’t want to stay directly under me and keep splitting like scissors, but I manage to make it to the chair in one piece. Luka skates around the table a few more times and then pulls a two-bladed stop, spraying me with a fine shower of ice crystals.
“You show off!” I yelp, but I’m loving this playful side of him.
I get settled while the aroma of whatever is under the warming plates on the table teases me. Luka pours us wine and removes the cloth napkin covering a basket of steaming bread.
He raises his glass. “To my wife, for letting me kidnap her on our first date.”
Clink. “To my husband, for keeping me upright on the ice. Mostly. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Our meal is lobster risotto and lamb chops, roasted endives, and white chocolate mousse for dessert. We talk quietly, but mostly just enjoy each other’s company. The flickering candles, the ice, the sight of him across from me, his presence—it’s all completely perfect.
When we’re done, Luka skates around to help me out of my chair. I’m like a wobbly newborn fawn.
“This isn’t going to end well,” I shriek.
“I’m here,” he soothes. “And I’m gonna hold on to you no matter what, so don’t worry.”
I catch his eyes, the promise in that statement running through me. My heart feels full.
Luka makes a slow spin, pulling me along while I grit my teeth and try to get my balance. Then he puts an arm around me and we glide over the ice. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. We find a rhythm together and before I know it, I’m not thinking about my feet or my balance or falling down. I’m gliding with my husband’s help. His support is the only thing I’m focused on and as we spin across the ice, it almost feels like flying.
Finally, just before we call it quits, he gives me a few pointers and then instructs me in skating toward him across the rink. I’m slow, a little jerky in my movements, but I make it all the way across. Without falling. Not even once.
“I’m an ice skater!!” I yell, collapsing into his arms. “Olympic skate team, here I come!”
We both laugh.
“See?” he says. “There’s nothing to it. It’s all practice and muscle memory.”
He kisses me, wrapping his arms around my waist and holding me close.
As I lose myself in the touch of his lips, I think about the fact that I’ve come back to my husband a few times already—and each time our relationship has healed, grown, and gotten better.
Now we both just need to figure out how to stay.
Luka
Chapter 17
“A man’s balls are sacred, Brooklyn.”
My wife rolls her eyes at me. “He’s a dog. He doesn’t really care about his balls.”
Sitting in the veterinarian’s office is giving me the cold sweats, especially since my poor dog is smiling at me and wagging his tail like he thinks he’s about to go in for a spa treatment.
“He’ll care when he notices they aren’t there anymore,” I insist. “Are you sure this is necessary?”
Brooklyn puts her hand on my knee. “Luka, he’s tried to hump our couch so many times, he’s ripping the leather. It’s time.”
“What if he gets depressed? We’ll have to put him on doggie Prozac. Do you want that?”
“Luka.” She pulls out some paperwork from her purse and holds it out to me. “See that, there? We agreed to get him neutered when we adopted him. The vet has to sign those papers to show that we’re compliant, otherwise Kibby goes right back to the rescue. The balls gotta go.”
“But—”
Just then, the vet tech calls Mr. Kibbles back. Instead of just handing over his leash and leaving like I’m supposed to, I tell the tech I’ll take him back myself. We already met with the vet at the pre-surgical appointment, so really this should be a drop and run, but I can’t walk out on my dog like this. Sensing trouble, I’m sure, Brooklyn hurries to follow me down the hallway.
The vet is bustling around in the operating room with her surgical mask on already, and I take this as the final opportunity to plead my case. She must notice the trepidation on my face, because she comes right out into the hall, giving me an expectant look.
“Mr. Zoric, is there a problem? Did you think of more questions?”
I can feel my anxiety peak as my eyes skip over her shoulder and take in the operating table and the gleaming tray of surgical instruments waiting in the room. “Not really. No.”
“Great. I’ll take him back, then,” she says, holding her hand out for his leash.
Gulping, I look over at Brooklyn, but she’s just standing there with her arms crossed, smirking a little. Apparently she’s amused by how nervous I am about our dog having a minimally invasive operation. But I’m not.
“I was, uh, just wondering,” I tell the vet. “Do you think if maybe we didn’t take Mr. Kibbles out in public, we could skip the neuter?”
Her brow wrinkles. “You live in an apartment building. Eventually, your dog will have to do his business outside of the apartment. Unless you plan to keep him inside your home forever, but I certainly can’t condone that.”
Yeah, that’s a no. “Right. Well, how about if we just rig sort of a tent around his harness, like those blinders that horses wear except full-body? That way he can’t see any lady dogs.”
Brooklyn grabs my arm, turning me toward her. “First of all, no. Second of all, he can still smell the pheromones even fr
om miles away, and third, did I already say no?”
“Mrs. Zoric, if you’d like to resched—” the vet starts.
“We’re good, Dr. Liu. Today’s great,” Brooklyn says, tugging the leash from my grasp and handing it over to the vet along with the rescue paperwork. “Just give us a call when he’s ready to be picked up, and thank you so much.”
With that, my wife hustles me out of there, but I can’t help looking back at Mr. Kibbles as the vet leads him into the OR. Dread washes over me. That poor son of a bitch won’t know what hit him. When Brooklyn and I step back out into the late morning sunshine, I can’t help feeling like I’ve betrayed man’s best friend.
“I should have fought harder for him,” I say dejectedly. “Someone has to be his advocate. He’ll never be the same after this.”
Brooklyn wraps me in a hug, murmuring softly in my ear about how he’s going to be fine. “Why don’t we go grab brunch while the deed is done?” she suggests. “Maybe a stiff mimosa will help calm your nerves while we wait for them to call us.”
“I guess we could do that.”
We go to a bistro not far from the veterinarian’s office. I set my phone on the table next to me in case the vet calls with any problems. I know plenty of dogs get neutered every day, but I can’t help feeling worked up about it as I sip my drink and poke at my steak and eggs.
“Luka, for someone who didn’t want a dog, you’re awfully worked up over a simple snip-snip,” Brooklyn says.
“Don’t say that,” I chide her.
“Say what?”
I make a scissoring motion with my fingers. The corners of her mouth tighten, her eyes sparkling as she struggles to hold back a laugh.
“Go ahead and laugh. Just remember, if anything goes wrong, it’s on you.” I slurp my drink loudly, pretending to be annoyed at her.
She finally lets out that laugh. “I love Mr. Kibbles! You know that. But I’m tired of him humping everything in sight. Besides, we have a good vet, she’s done this a million times, and he’ll be fine. Just think of how much more energy he’ll have for walks when he’s not bumping and grinding the furniture all day long.”
Fine. She can mock the sacred bond between a man and his reproductive organs. Not me, though.
The patio we’re brunching on is nice, and we were lucky enough to get a shaded table under a huge tree, but all I can think about is the dog going under the knife while we act like this is any other Saturday. Brooklyn tries to distract me with chatter and YouTube videos, but how can I possibly be carefree at a time like this?
My wife finishes her blueberry pancakes, eats half of my steak, and then orders an affogato. Normally, I’d share the espresso and gelato with her, but I don’t have much of an appetite right now. She seems to have stolen it from me. I’ve never seen her eat this much in one sitting. Perhaps stress has the opposite effect on her as it has on me.
Finally, as we’re waiting for the check, my cell rings. Mr. Kibbles is ball-free and out of recovery.
Throwing a wad of cash on the table, I pull Brooklyn out of her seat and practically drag her back to the vet’s office. When they carry the dog out to us in the waiting room, plastic cone of shame wrapped around his head, I jump up from my chair. I’ve never been so happy to see that damn furball in my life. He’s wrapped in the blanket Brooklyn brought with us when we signed in earlier, and he looks groggy from the anesthesia.
“Kibs!”
“The e-collar needs to stay on for the next ten to fourteen days,” the tech instructs, “and they’ll give you his pain meds when you pay at the counter.”
The dog looks up at me, eyes glassy, tail barely wagging. The technician assures us it’s normal, but I’m not buying it.
I sit in the back seat next to his carrier on the way home, and then take him out and hold him in my arms as we ride the elevator up to the penthouse floor.
“Pull his bed over to the couch,” I tell Brooklyn once we’re through the door, “and get him a couple warm towels from the dryer. Hurry.”
“Sure thing, Florence Nightingale,” she mocks, heading for the laundry room.
After she returns, and I’ve got Mr. Kibbles wrapped up in a nest of softness, I can’t help adding, “Maybe get a bowl of ice chips, too. And what about his pain pills? Did we forget his pain pills? Brook, where are the pills?” To the dog, I whisper, “You’re gonna be okay, bud.”
“Luka, the meds they gave him for the surgery haven’t even worn off yet. We’re not supposed to give him any more drugs until tomorrow. Okay? Try to relax.”
“Are you sure he needs to wear that cone? It looks uncomfortable.”
Mr. Kibbles gives me a lethargic blink and then lets his eyelids fall, clearly still out of it.
“He’s so zonked out he doesn’t even know he’s wearing it,” she points out. “The cone stays on.”
I shoot another concerned look in his direction, and Brooklyn puts her arm around me.
“This is actually kind of adorable,” she says sweetly. “You’re going to make a great dad someday.”
“Pfft, am not!” I scoff. “I am not parent material. I just care ‘cause it’s his balls! I have sympathy for the little guy.” But inside, I feel all kinds of warm from the comment.
It makes me wonder: Do I really not want kids, or did I always think that was the case just because my own father shouldn’t have had any? With someone like Brooklyn, would things be different? Or would my cursed genetics kick in? Stefan must have had these same thoughts, yet now Tori is pregnant…although my brother and I don’t have any precedent for discussing this kind of thing, so I’m not exactly going to call him up right now and ask him about it.
Brooklyn’s planning to spend a few hours volunteering at the Heart and Home shelter, leaving me to keep watch over Mr. Kibbles. While she’s getting ready, I get the dog up gently and take him outside to do his business. He’s cautious about it. I cringe just watching him.
“You know, you’re turning into a helicopter parent,” Brooklyn teases me when we come back in and she sees me covering Mr. Kibbles with his blankie. I make sure the back corners aren’t tucked too tightly around his backside.
“What’s a helicopter parent?”
“It means you’re hovering. Like, really hovering.”
I just shrug and feed the dog an ice chip. I wouldn’t know. No one ever hovered over me. No one really gave two shits about my well-being as a kid. We had plenty of nannies when I was young, but most of them didn’t stick around long enough to get really attached to us. When I got sick, I stayed in bed and took care of myself. Minor injuries? I learned early the benefit of the first aid kit under the kitchen sink. My father only took notice of us kids when we misbehaved, and we either got spanked, verbally humiliated, or sent to our rooms. Sometimes all three.
She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be home in a few hours, okay? Call if you need anything, or if you want me to pick something up for Kibby on my way home.”
“Sure. Have a good time.”
“I will.” And with that, she’s out the door.
Sinking onto the couch, I let out a deep exhale. The TV is on, but I barely pay attention to what’s on the screen. I still can’t believe Stefan is going to be a father. Despite everything we went through as kids…he’s going to be a dad. It’s hard to wrap my head around that.
I watch Mr. Kibbles for a while, making sure his breaths are steady and even. I secretly wanted a dog when I was a kid, but I never asked. My father wouldn’t have allowed it. I used to fantasize about sneaking one into my room, a little one, like a Chihuahua or something. But then I’d wake up from nightmares about my dad finding it and killing it. It sounds horrible, but it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have done.
We had a pet once, for two days. I was eight or nine. The fish’s name was Criminal and he was a betta with beautiful turquoise and bright orange fins. I’d won him at a school carnival, and when I showed Stefan, he helped me get him home on the bus without anyone no
ticing.
But our dad found the fishbowl hidden under my bed and made me flush Criminal down the toilet, to remind me of who was in charge of making the decisions in our house.
“Sometimes, it takes a lot of tough love to learn a lesson. You understand, Luka?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t do that again.”
I’d sat down on the floor afterward, cradling the empty bowl in my arms, staring hard at the carpet so I wouldn’t cry. My dad turned on his heel, didn’t say another word to me, and left. Most of my childhood was spent desperately wishing my mom (who I scarcely remembered) hadn’t died—not so we could all be one big happy family together, but so she could take me away from my father, and so my siblings and I could have grown up somewhere else.
The next thing I know, Brooklyn is softly shaking me awake and the light in the room has dimmed to the soft haze of early evening, the TV having turned itself off thanks to my inactivity.
“You think you can handle a little salmon and asparagus?” my wife asks. “I just threw together something quick—didn’t want to wake you.”
Looking over at Mr. Kibbles to find him still snoozing, I nod. “What time is it?”
“Just after five-thirty,” she says, leading me over to the bar in the kitchen, where she’s already plated our dinners and sliced up a fragrant loaf of fresh garlic bread. Classic rock plays from the smart speakers on the counter, Brooklyn’s go-to for when she’s doing chores.
“Want me to turn the music off?” she asks.
“No. This is perfect,” I tell her, sliding onto a stool. She kisses my cheek, hopping onto the stool next to mine, and everything feels exactly right.
Later, after checking on Mr. Kibbles for the millionth time, I curl up in bed next to my wife and hold her close. Having her next to me is more comforting than I can explain.
“You did great with Kibby today,” she murmurs. “He’s a lucky boy, having you to take care of him.”
Something about her praise makes my chest feel full. I fall asleep thinking about Stefan’s impending fatherhood again, still debating having that talk with him. And wondering about the possibilities I’d never considered open to me before.
