4. Art

Art

I am at an ice skating rink. Objectively, I know how this happened. Dean Miller mentioned it at one of our lunches this week, and I went along with his suggestion because ice is water, and cephalopods like water. I also figured that ice skating was a physical activity and wouldn't require me to talk much.

But ice skating involves sliding around on metal blades. That can't be safe.

Dean Miller walks into the lobby of the ice skating rink. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and he's wearing a stylish black wool coat. He looks very dashing and handsome, even though we're about to do a winter sport. It's so unfair.

I look down at the bright yellow puffy coat and orange snow pants I purchased just for this occasion so that I would be very visible to the other skaters. The white pom-pom hat my Grandmother knitted me for my birthday last year isn't very stylish either.

"Hey," Dean Miller says, all calm and cool. "I love the outfit. You look like a human candy corn."

Oh my God . I'm wearing orange, yellow, and white, in that order. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"I was just trying to… stay warm. I didn't mean to mimic the color progression of a Halloween candy."

Dean Miller bites his lip, like he's trying to hold back a smile. "I love it. Are you ready to rent some skates for us? I figured that would give you some practice talking with someone. I wear a size ten. You just go up to the counter and ask to rent skates." He reaches in his back pocket for his phone and slides a card out of a compartment in the back. "I'd prefer hockey skates if they have them."

He holds out his card to me expectantly. I desperately wish I didn't have to do this. I hate talking to cashiers. I always end up saying something stupid, or forgetting to say something when I'm supposed to.

I wish Frank would have let me isolate myself in a room.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," Dean Miller says.

One of my tentacles jerks forward and grabs his card with its suction cups. His eyes widen.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to?—"

"It's okay, Art. I was just a little surprised."

My stomach twists in knots. This is not going well. I showed up looking like a piece of candy corn, and now I'm snatching his money with my tentacles. I turn around, not sure I can do this. The problem is that Dean Miller is nice to me. He isn't acting annoyed or weirded out by my tentacles' behavior, and he doesn't seem upset that Frank expects him to spend time with me. He's such a great guy, and I'm so socially stunted that I can't have a single conversation with him without making it awkward.

This is why it isn't safe for me to develop crushes on people. It just makes me more nervous to be around them, and I'm already nervous enough as it is.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Dean Miller asks.

I nod.

"If this is too much, I can get the skates," he offers.

I can't let him do that. The whole point of this is for me to interact with people.

My tentacle jerks forward again, forcing me to take a step toward the skate rental counter. Clearly, it wants to go ice skating with Dean Miller.

"I'll be right back," I say, pretending that I meant to step forward. My tentacle is bound and determined, reaching straight in front of me. At this point, I have to go along with whatever it wants, or I'll cause a scene. I trudge toward the skate rental counter. When I get to the register, my tentacle places Dean Miller's card in my hand.

The poor cashier watches my tentacle with fascination.

"Um, hi," I say.

She stares back at me in silence. She seems more nervous than I feel. Probably because she has to rent skates to someone who looks like the creature from the black lagoon.

"I need two pairs of skates? A size ten and a size nine. Hockey skates if you have them. For the size ten."

She glances down at the register in front of her and pushes a few buttons. "Anything else?"

"Uh, do I pay for the skating passes here?"

"Yes."

"Then two skating passes."

She tells me the total. I hand her Dean Miller's card, even though I should probably pay for my things separately.

"Hold on. I'll go get your skates," she says and walks back to the aisles of skates labeled by size.

Dean Miller appears next to me. "That was great."

"Um, I accidentally used your card to pay for both of us. I can Venmo you?—"

"It's my treat. You can pay next time," he says. And he winks. He actually winks. I've seen people do that in movies and I've read about them doing it in books, but I didn't think that real people winked at each other.

Dean Miller's winked at me twice in the last week.

The cashier sets two heavy pairs of ice skates on the counter. One set is larger with smooth blades, while the second is smaller and has spikes on the toes of the blades.

Dean Miller grabs the first pair. "I haven't skated in forever. I played hockey growing up, but I haven't put on a pair of skates since high school."

He played hockey? That means he must be good at this.

"I have never ice skated," I admit.

He smiles. "It's okay. You can hold my hand if you want."

Was that flirting? It couldn't be. But with the winking and the paying for my ice skates…

He isn't flirting with me, is he?

I follow him to a bench near the entrance to the rink and sit down. I want to ask him if holding hands is a normal thing for friends to do, but I'm pretty sure that would be an awkward question.

Dean Miller pulls off his first shoe. "You can also stay close to the edge and keep your hand on the wall."

"Is that what you would prefer?" I ask before my brain catches up and I realize I just basically asked him if he wants to hold my hand.

He sinks his right foot into one of the ice skates, then looks directly at me. "That depends."

"On what?"

"If you'd like to hold my hand."

I sit there, frozen and completely silent. This is the part where I say something flirty, like, "What if I do?" Or I deny wanting to hold his hand because we're coworkers, and I'm bound to mess this up. But I just sit there, saying nothing.

He turns his attention back to his shoes. I wrench mine off in a hurry while silently berating myself for not responding to his question. Putting the skates on is horrible. They're too small, and they lace all the way up my ankles. I lean against a pillar and stand up. Dean Miller is already walking around, putting our shoes into some nearby cubbies. He walks to the entrance of the rink and turns back, waiting for me.

I walk toward him. Walking on the skates isn't horrible. They hurt, and it's awkward to find my balance a few inches higher off the ground, but I'm not in danger of toppling over or anything. Then I step onto the ice.

Oh, dear. The ice is slippery. Who thought it was a good idea to walk onto slippery ice with nothing to balance on but a pair of thin blades? Dean Miller steps out ahead of me, turning his back so he's literally skating backwards.

"Just pretend you're walking," he says. "And then push into your stride, like this." He spins around and takes one step forward, pushing his foot back with a graceful stroke.

Why does he have to be good at everything?

Other skaters glide past me, narrowly missing me. Unfortunately, my skates have decided that I'm moving forward whether I want to or not. I raise my arms like wings in a desperate effort to keep my balance as I wobble toward Dean Miller. My tentacles also span out, which probably makes me look utterly ridiculous. He does another fancy spin until he's skating backwards again. Silently, he holds out his hands to me in invitation. He's almost motionless, waiting for me to skate to him. I really want to grab his hands. Not because I like him, but because I am not stable. I could crash at any moment. I try to stay calm.

Unfortunately, my tentacles don't get the memo. The second I get close enough to Dean Miller, four of them grab his body and wrap themselves around his torso like a boa constrictor. He gasps for air as our bodies get closer. I thrash around, trying to pull away, but I'm wearing ice skates, and I have no control over the situation any longer. Suddenly, my mouth is mere inches from Dean Miller's, with only our bulky coats keeping our bodies apart.

His eyes glaze over, and he mutters something that sounds like, "Fuck, that's hot."

"What?" I whisper. "I mean, sorry."

He leans in closer, until his cheek is pressed against mine. "Don't you dare apologize. I like it when your tentacles touch me."

He likes it when my tentacles touch him? Did I hear that right? It's hard to think when his cheek is pressed against mine, and I can feel the warmth of his body under my tentacles.

"Most people think they're weird," I say.

"What's wrong with weird?" Dean Miller asks. "All my favorite people are weird. Normal is overrated."

He wraps his arms around me. My heart races from the pressure of his touch. I'm completely overwhelmed by him. Then we're moving. Not very fast, but we're definitely gliding forward. I cling to him tighter, my breath catching.

"Shhhh. I've got you," he whispers. "You don't need to do anything. Just hold on tight."

I close my eyes. Icy air whips at my face as Dean Miller skates backward, moving us from side to side. I've never been so terrified. He's touching me, and we're ice skating, and I'm wrapped around him like an enormous Kraken dragging a ship into the sea, but I don't want it to stop.

"Are people staring at us?" I ask.

"Who cares?"

The heat of his breath on my ear makes me shiver.

"Am I bothering you?" I ask, because apparently my mouth has grown a mind of its own too.

"God, no," he says.

I've never been this close to a man I liked. I haven't ever let things go this far with my crushes, because I know I'm terrible with people, and I hate making a fool of myself.

But I don't feel like a fool right now. Dean Miller said he liked being touched by my tentacles. And the way he's holding me while we sway back and forth leaves no question about what he wants.

I don't need to do anything. Just hold on tight.