Page 3 of Fractured Ice

"When you say it like that…"

"That's what happened, Ethan. I could put it in an article if you need it all typed out more officially."

He drags a hand through his hair. It’s wet and doing something that makes him look even more handsome, which I observe clinically and without personal investment. I am a journalist. I notice things. This is a professional reflex and not a character flaw.

"You're soaked," he says.

"Thank you for the update. My jacket was wasn’t sure."

"I really am sorry."

"I believe you," I say, and I mean it, which is the most frustrating part, because Ethan is genuinely not malicious, he's just a natural disaster with good bone structure. "Believing you doesn't help my shirt/jacket situation, but I appreciate the sentiment."

He keeps walking with me, which I have not invited but I also don't have the energy to fight, because arguing with Ethan about whether he's welcome somewhere he's already standing is a circular conversation I've had before, and I have other problems right now. The man operates on the foundational assumption that his presence is always welcome. The infuriating thing is that he's usually right. That's the thing about him that I find genuinely exhausting. He's not wrong, most of the time. Most people are glad when Ethan Walker shows up. He has the kind of effortless likability that would be annoying if it weren't so sincere. I've spent years being immune to it and I intend to continue.

"How are you?" he asks.

"Wet."

"Besides that."

"Ethan…"

"We haven't really talked since we got to Ridgehaven," he says, with something in his voice that I don't examine because I don't have the bandwidth for it right now. "That's weird, right? We grew up next door to each other."

"We grew up in the same neighborhood. That's different."

"Our families had dinner together all the time."

"Our families are friendly. That doesn't automatically make us friends. Mostly you were just really irritating." I pause. "Also you just tackled me."

"That was an accident."

"Noted."

He looks at me sideways, and I catch it because I catch everything, which is one of my better professional qualities and one of my more inconvenient personal ones. "You're in a great mood."

"You soaked me and knocked me over," I say, shivering just a little.

"Fair." He thinks for a second. "Are you still into pink and bubble gum?"

I stop walking.

He stops too, because apparently we're doing this now, and the expression on his face is hovering between the grin he gets when he knows something is going to land wrong, and something that looks almost like genuine curiosity. Which is a combination that doesn't make sense and that I refuse to spend energy decoding.

"Pink and bubble gum?" I ask.

"You used to chew it constantly. The pink kind, specifically. Not the regular kind. You had opinions about it."

"I was ten years old."

"I'm just asking how you're doing."

I look at him for a moment. He looks back. He has the patience of someone who has learned that outlasting people is more effective than arguing with them, which is either admirable or infuriating depending on the day. Today, it's infuriating.

"I’m doing fine," I say. "Or I was, until about fifteen minutes ago. I'm a sports journalism major. I work for the campus media department. I'm covering the swim team this week and I have an interview to prep and approximately zero free time. I do not chew bubble gum. I have not chewed bubble gum since the fourth grade." I hold his gaze. "Is there anything else you'd like to catch up on, or can I go to class soaking wet and looking like a dumbass?"

Ethan looks at me like he finds me interesting.