Page 52 of Ice Princesses
A blur of black and white launches off the arm of the couch and lands squarely in the middle of the entry, right between Cecilia and me.
She startles on instinct, one hand half-lifting like she’s about to defend herself.
“What the?—”
“Shit, sorry,” I say calmly, toeing off my shoes. “That’s Natalie Portman.”
There’s a beat.
Cecilia looks at the cat. Then at me.
“You named your cat Natalie Portman?”
“I did.”
The cat blinks up at her with enormous, judgmental eyes and flicks his tail.
Cecilia’s mouth twitches. “Why?”
I lean down to scoop Natalie up, who immediately melts into my arms like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to be dramatic.
“Because,” I say, stroking behind his ears, “I watchedBlack Swanat a formative age.”
Cecilia freezes, a slow smile working itself onto her face. I move into the living room so I can see her better, and she follows, removing her shoes like I did just moments ago.
“Is that movie your queer awakening?”
I look at her over the cat’s head. “In hindsight? Absolutely. Also, Natalie Portman is a male cat. So…”
Her laugh breaks out fully this time—warm, unguarded, filling the room with an unfair kind of ease.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says. “And I mean it in the most literal sense of the word. This is all… very cinematic.”
“Starting with my nickname,” I reply with a smile and a small shrug. I’m sticky still, but my body does not seem to want to move away from her.
Natalie Portman narrows his eyes at Cecilia like he’s assessing his prey, then wiggles down from my arms and trots off towards the kitchen, tail high.
Cecilia watches him go.
“So let me get this straight,” she says slowly.
“Mm. Gay,” I correct with a smile.
She takes an intentional step in my direction, her gaze finding my lips, then my eyes. “You grew up here, in a town that looks like a movie set. Named your cat after Natalie Portman. And you’re surprised that peoplestillcall you Princess?”
I wince. “Okay, that’s low.”
She steps closer, still smiling. “And the cat being male?”
“I don’t think he gives an actual shit about his name,” Ireply, and the cat chooses that exact moment to chirp from the kitchen. “He’s a cat.”
The air shifts suddenly into something more intimate. She looks at me differently now.
Like I make her curious, instead of infuriatingly mad.
“I should have known,” she adds quietly. “The intensity. The control issues. The tragic devotion to craft.”
“I don’t have control issues,” I blurt. “And the choreography was good. I’m a figure skater, after all.”
