November is arriving with the particular rudeness of a Canadian autumn that has run out of patience.
Mia stands at the rink entrance in a grey turtleneck, black flared jeans, and a long coat that is theoretically sufficient for the temperature and practically not, her fingers curled into her scarf.
Ellie, beside her in a red athletic set with her hair in a high ponytail, is pressing her phone up for a selfie and talking about Lucas without technically saying his name—she doesn't need to. The frequency with which he appears in her sentences has become a recognizable pattern.
"Stop it," Mia says, smiling despite herself. "Take the photo."
"Smile properly—Mia, your cheeks are more flushed than blush, you look stunning, why are you always doing this to people—"
"It's called being cold. Ta
