Speechless(77)

                “Don’t worry, I promise not to laugh when you fall down,” Sam                     promises. He pauses before he adds, “Much.”

                If this seat belt allowed me to reach over and smack him, I                     would. Unfortunately I’m left to glare at the back of his head.

                As soon as we get to the rink, Asha takes off for the ice while                     Sam and I wait in line for skates. When Sam approaches the counter and asks for                     size seven skates, I can’t help but think of what people say about how the size                     of a guy’s feet correlates to the size of their dicks—or is it hands? And then I                     realize I’m thinking about Sam’s dick and it’s getting kind of embarrassing.

                I’m still staring at his hands when Sam steps aside and says,                     “Chelsea?” I realize he’s gotten his skates and it’s my turn now.

                “What can I do for you?” the guy behind the counter asks.

                I don’t have my whiteboard with me, or any writing utensils,                     and I don’t know how to mime “ice skates” in an effective manner, so I flounder                     for a few seconds before looking to Sam for help.

                Thankfully Sam steps up to the plate. “She needs skates,” he                     explains.

                The guy raises his eyebrows at Sam. “Is she deaf or something?”                     he asks.

                “No,” he says. “She just had her tonsils taken out. She’s still                     recovering.” The lie comes so smoothly from Sam’s mouth I’m caught off guard. He                     throws a sympathetic arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close. “But she                     insisted on coming anyway. She’s a brave little toaster, this one.”

                This explanation seems to placate the guy. When he asks me what                     size I need, I hold up six fingers, pay for the skates with cash and then head                     down to the rink with Sam. We sit on the benches, pulling on gloves and                     strapping on our skates, and I unsteadily follow him into the rink.

                The second I step foot on the ice, I nearly slip, but Sam grabs                     my arm to prevent me from falling flat on my ass.

                “Easy there,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

                He gently pushes me toward the wall so I can hold on to the                     railing. I cling to it for dear life. Out of the corner of my eye I see Asha                     whiz by, unbelievably fast and effortless, like skating is the easiest thing in                     the world. How does she do it? I can barely stand on the ice without tripping                     over myself.