Page 122 of Cross Ice

We walked along the beach for a while without talking much. Objectively, everything about this should have been good. But I felt like I was watching it happen instead of being in it. Like I was observing myself on a date with Nico rather than actually being there.

We ended up on the wharf. Found a place with outdoor seating and a view of the ocean.

“Better than your apartment?” Nico asked, smiling.

“The apartment doesn’t have seagulls, so…” The corner of my mouth tipped—not quite a smile, but something next to one. “It’s better.”

“See? Good idea.”

Before I could respond, a man walking past our table slowed.

“Hey—aren’t you Nicolás Briggs?”

My whole body tensed.

Nico looked up, shifting into that public version of himself—friendly, open, professional. “Yeah. Hey.”

The guy smiled. “Just wanted to say congrats, man. Coming out—that took guts. Really cool to see.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Good luck with the rest of the season.”

“Thanks.”

He walked away. Twenty seconds, start to finish. He hadn’t asked for a photo. Hadn’t invaded our space. Was genuinely kind.

And I was already spiraling.

“You okay?” Nico asked quietly.

“I don’t know.” My hands were shaking slightly. My heart was going too fast. All I could think about was how easy it had been. How we were sitting outside at a table where anyone could see us, could photograph us, could document where we were and post it before we’d finished our coffee.

Nico reached across the table and took my hand. “He was nice.”

“I know.”

“And he’s gone. It’s okay.”

I nodded. Tried to breathe. But the anxiety had already settled in, and I knew from experience it wasn’t going anywhere just because I wanted it to.

Nico waited. That was what he did. He held my hand and waited, without making it a thing, until I came back to something resembling okay. It took longer than it should have.

We had lunch at a seafood place with a view of the bay. Nico ordered fish tacos; I got clam chowder I barely touched.

Halfway through the meal, I noticed a woman at a nearby table with her phone angled toward us.

“Nico,” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

“That woman. She’s taking pictures.”

He glanced over casually. “People take pictures at the wharf all the time.”

“Of us.”

“You don’t know that.” He said it quietly, like he was talking me back from an edge rather than contradicting me.