Page 66 of Crease Collision

KAI: I’ll tell you, and if we need to choose something else, no problem.

OSKAR: Fair. What are you thinking?

KAI: NYC has candlelight concerts in different places. There’s one tonight at a church in Hell’s Kitchen, not too far from our neighborhood. It’s classical music if that’s a problem for you. A string quartet from Juilliard (good music school). I could probably get tickets.

Better not to say I already bought them just in case.

OSKAR: That sounds great! I love all kinds of music so no worries. What time?

KAI: Fantastic. It starts at 9. We can walk it from here in about 40 minutes, but we’ll need time to get seated and talk. Meet me outside my building at 8?

Outside because… yeah.

OSKAR: It’s a plan. What should I wear?

KAI: If it helps, I’ll have on jeans and a blazer.

OSKAR: No shirt? Woo hoo!

Now he’s set my cheeks on fire.

KAI: I’ll wear a shirt, smartass.

OSKAR: I’ll wear one too, then. See you at 8. Hej då!

KAI: Can’t wait. Hej då.

Oskar looks amazing. There’s nothing flashy about him, no designer labels or anything screaming for attention. He’s wearing dark charcoal pants that leave nothing to the imagination, white sneakers, and a soft gray jacket over a blue turtleneck that makes him look expensive and touchable at the same time.

I’m tongue-tied from the start, checking him out so often I stumble on the sidewalk and nearly fall into Ninth Avenue traffic. His reflexes save me, and he holds my hand after that. I certainly don’t object.

“You okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking my knuckles.

“Fine. Your blue sweater is pretty with your skin.”

“Thank you.”

His pleased look makes my breath hitch.

As we make our way up the avenue, the city pulses around us with car horns, sirens, and people talking as they squeeze by. Normally, I’d be filtering all the noise, compartmentalizing it like I do on the ice. But with Oskar’s big hand holding mine, it’s harder to do.

“This city never seems to take a break,” he says, leaning closer to be heard over the traffic.

“Welcome to New York. This is pretty quiet for a Wednesday.”

“The city’s quite a place.”

“Are you sorry you rented here?” I ask. “How are you dealing with the commute to Jersey?”

He squeezes my hand. “Not sorry at all. And the commute is fine. I grew up with public transportation.”

The blocks blur together as we walk. I can’t stop counting steps in my head, but I always do. It keeps me calm.

“You got quiet,” he says.

“Just enjoying the walk.”

“Your hand is sweating.”