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“Agh-!” Mackintosh yelped as his feet suddenly slid out from beneath him, and he crashed down coldly on his back upon the ice rink.
A gaggle of teenagers skated past him breezily, snickering out heckling remarks. “Try mastering solid ground first, old man!”
Mackintosh straightened out his glasses and groaned. Running a mental scan of his body, it didn’t seem that he had severely injured himself, beyond the inevitable bruises and soreness that would come up from a fall (or two… or three…) of this nature.
Still, he hesitated before getting back up this time. Maybe the youth were right—maybe this wasn’t the leisure activity for him.
After all, Mackintosh had dreamed and fallen short of finding his “one right thing” for so long that the disappointment in the notion ought to have stung less by now.
In his line of work, he did his best to just shrug it off. His domain of expertise was housewares in the Ottoman empire, not the grand mystery of the lost Azran civilization. The pressure to conduct his archaeological field work on the latter came from the higher-ups at his job, and could Mackintosh truly be faulted for time and again arriving too late to a major discovery for an era and people that he only understood peripherally?
But Mackintosh was exhausted by the fact that he could never just relax on his time off, either. Attempts at knitting always ended in hopelessly knotted piles of yarn; home-cooked meals were routinely ruined by unwatched ovens and spoiled ingredients; the violin he’d once acquired now only gathered dust in the wake of sharply discovering his utter lack of relative pitch.
And now he was freezing his sorry back off after humiliating himself for everyone in the public rink to see. Nothing ever went right for Mackintosh; that was his curse to bear.
In fact, the only way this evening could have turned out worse was if—
“Oh! Mr. Mackintosh!” came a sonorous, all-too-familiar voice as a tall figure skidded to a halt next to him.
Ah. Of course.
“Professor Sycamore,” Mackintosh peered up at the newcomer with a timid laugh, his face involuntarily growing hotter. “Fancy running into you here.”
“Please, no need for such formality on a day like this. Just ‘Desmond’ will suffice.” The professor offered a perfectly courteous smile before his expression dipped back into concern. “Are you quite alright, though? You, er, seem to have been down there for a while now.”
So he saw the whole thing, too… Wonderful.
Mackintosh sighed and shook his head, dejected. “Yes, I’m fine, but thank you, Prof—um, Desmond. I was only thinking that I might head home for the time being. I just can’t seem to get the right rhythm on the skates today.”
Without missing a beat, Desmond asked, “Would you like me to help you, Mr. Mackintosh?”
“NO! …Um, I mean—”
Flustered by the offer, Mackintosh attempted to shoo the professor off with his hand.
“No, I wouldn’t impose on you like that. You go on with your evening. I’ll sort things out here.”
Desmond chuckled, a sincere warmth flickering in his bright brown eyes. “Really, Mr. Mackintosh, it’s alright. My wife and daughter always struggled with their balance on the ice, too—I have plenty of experience from talking them through the basics. And seeing as I’m currently unaccompanied myself, I promise it’s no imposition to me.”
Wait. Wife… and daughter? Professor Sycamore is…? How did I not…?
Suddenly feeling a crestfallen heartbeat filling his throat, but fighting desperately not to show it on his face, all Mackintosh could manage in response was to chirp out a tiny “oh.”
Desmond, oblivious, braced one of his primly gloved hands on the side wall and reached the other out to help Mackintosh stand up. “Why don’t you and I take one more pass around the rink? If you still decide you want to call it quits, I suppose I can’t stop you then… but it’s worth a try, wouldn’t you say, old friend?”
Mackintosh blinked, weighing the pros and cons. The help would be nice, and admittedly some company, too…
But there was still more than just his clumsiness threatening to embarrass him in any scenario with one Desmond Sycamore.
Somehow, though wrong as it felt inside, Mackintosh swallowed the hesitation down hard and took Desmond’s hand. “Okay,” he said, rising back onto his skates. “I’ll give it one more try.”
Very slowly, Desmond and Mackintosh made their way around and around the ice, the former offering pointers along the way about balance and foot placement for the different skills the sport required. Mackintosh clung shakily to the wall in the beginning, and then kept his elbow linked anxiously with Desmond’s. Eventually, he found he was confident enough to skate forward unassisted a small distance, the earlier stumbles and embarrassment all but forgotten.
“See, Mr. Mackintosh? Skating is much easier now that you know the right way,” Desmond proclaimed encouragingly as they paused back at their starting position once more. “Dare I say you could command the ice like a professional in no time.”
Mackintosh hoped the warmth flooding his cheeks once again in spite of himself wasn’t too obvious. “Thank you for—um, for the advice. On skating. And persuading me to try.”
Desmond shrugged under another graceful smile. “Well, I do teach for a living. Archaeology classes, typically… but I’m humbled to be able to share knowledge with others in any case. Shall we keep going?”
Mackintosh meekly nodded, and Desmond gestured them onwards.
As the pair began another circuit of the rink in casual silence, the revelation about Desmond’s family tiptoed back into Mackintosh’s head. True, Mackintosh did not know the professor especially well on a personal level. But the man was fairly influential by the standards of their field, and yet Mackintosh had never heard one peep about a “Mrs.” or a child, whether in the archaeology publications or from Desmond himself.
If I had heard it before, maybe I wouldn’t…
Mackintosh cleared his throat impulsively. “So, um, how often do you go ice skating with your family?”
Desmond’s brow furrowed slightly as he processed the question. “Ice skating with my…?” Then his eyes widened in alarm. “Oh. Oh, good heavens, I— Please do forgive me, Mr. Mackintosh. I was hardly even thinking when I said…”
Though he made no motion to stop his strides forward, Desmond’s hand drifted up to his cheek, the unsettled thought trailing off into the brisk air.
Mackintosh frowned, pondering what to say next. Perhaps inquiring further had been the wrong thing to do. “Professor?” he prompted, voice tentative.
Desmond exhaled gently, taking another moment to compose himself before sharing his thoughts. “I’ve found that most colleagues fare better if I simply never mention the notion of family. It saves, for me, a lot of troubling explanations, and for them, a lot of troubling emotions. So I apologize for erring in front of you, my friend.”
“Oh, well, that’s alright!” Mackintosh bumbled out, trying to give the other man the courtesy of an exit door before the situation grew too awkward. “My family life is far from picture perfect; I get it if you don’t want to—”
“Mr. Mackintosh,” Desmond interrupted, voice firm. “I brought it up. I believe in this case it’s only fair I tell you the truth. With that truth being, unfortunately, that my wife and daughter are… gone. And have been, for many years now.”
In slow motion, Mackintosh gasped, a cold sweat forming on the back of his neck as he was struck with the realization of just how deeply he had fumbled this whole engagement.
“Oh my goodness… I’m so sorry, Desmond! I never would have asked further if— I just wondered why you— Ohhhhh…”
He slumped his shoulders, aware this was precisely what the other man meant by “troubling emotions” before, and yet unable to stop the pity and selfish guilt from washing over him.
Far too gracious for his own good, Desmond still mustered a bittersweet smile at Mackintosh’s response. “No, I don’t blame you, my good man. You couldn’t have known before. This setting and time of year only makes me more susceptible to my own feelings about it all, I suppose.”
Mackintosh briefly met the other man’s gaze as they rounded the edge of the rink. Just as the professor had proclaimed, in defiance of his usual placid and dignified manner, Mackintosh saw a fragment of unqualified emotions flash behind the man’s eyes—rage and despair, but also fond reminiscence. The sight left Mackintosh feeling very small.
Then, unexpectedly, Desmond halted before the exit toward the surrounding park. “Would you mind if we took a short break, Mr. Mackintosh? I’m afraid I don’t quite have the stamina for this that I did in my youth.”
“Oh, um, sure. I could use a moment to rest, too.” Mackintosh pointed a short distance out from the ice. “That bench looks like it’s open.”
Without so much as another sound, Desmond bolted off toward the bench, a somewhat confused Mackintosh in tow. Despite suggesting he had only wished to sit for a short while, Desmond immediately leaned over to unstrap the blades from his shoes.
Mackintosh lingered overhead, hesitant to make any motion beside the professor. Should he try to redirect the conversation to something less invasive? Honor the suggestion for a minute of rest on its face and allow Desmond to process those thoughts in his own time?
Or should Mackintosh let the other man speak first, be the shoulder to lean on, and steel himself like it wasn’t completely unnerving for him to witness Professor Sycamore’s sensible demeanor fraying from matters of the heart?
“She would have been ten the next day—my daughter Velia,” Desmond remarked abruptly, gazing vacantly into the distance as if he could see the thoughts from Mackintosh’s head before him. “The three of us had plans to go to the ice rink; it was her wish for us to spend the day together like so. Not wanting my work to impose on her celebration, I stayed late into the night at the university, grading every student’s exams and organizing my latest research… Though, doubtless you’d understand some about how taxing the duties of the job can be, hmm?”
Here, the professor glanced up at Mackintosh, a transparent attempt at making light of the pain clouding his soul.
Mackintosh, his mind grasping fruitlessly for an adequate response, only nodded in silence and took a cautious seat next to the other man, beginning to remove his own skates.
With a sigh, Desmond continued to reflect on the past aloud. “She called at one point, Velia did. It was well past her bedtime, but she was just so anxious for me to come home right that instant. I felt I couldn’t do as she pleaded just yet, but I promised I’d see her again soon, and she should try to get some rest before our big day together.”
He shook his head to himself, nigh imperceptible even at a mere shoulder’s width away.
“I regret that I didn’t listen to her. If I had, perhaps I’d have made it back home in time before… before everything was lost to the fire.”
Oh.
...Oh, no.
Mackintosh was certain his heart had stopped within his chest from the subtext of the statement. He could only move his eyes to follow as the professor pinched the bridge of his nose, expression now obscured through the mask of his palm and the glare reflecting off his lenses.
It was true that Mackintosh had struggled all his life to find his niche, the failures accumulating over the years in the form of scars to both his body and his pride. But even he knew by now there was no “one right thing” to mend a wound so vast in another—there was no easy answer on what he should say or do next.
He could only try his best for a man he admired so greatly.
“I can’t even begin to imagine,” he replied quietly, a hand coming to rest on Desmond’s shoulder. “Not only to suffer such a great loss, but to have all the awful memories tied to something that brought you so much joy.”
“It’s… bittersweet, these days,” the professor concurred. “Returning to the ice allows me to feel as though they’re all here with me still—Velia, and Eileen, and my own parents who taught me to skate as a boy… but with that inevitably comes the harsh reminder of what was taken from me that night. If I’d only been a better father—”
“No, don’t say that.”
The gentle insistence in the interruption prompted Desmond to turn his gaze toward the Mackintosh once more, the breadth of emotional color in his irises now on full display.
Internally, Mackintosh balked at his own bluntness, and at the intensity of the professor’s stare. He hurriedly flicked his own eyes back toward the rink, watching the other patrons circle the frozen surface indefinitely, before opting to speak again.
“Desmond, I know I never met your family, but to me, you’ve always been the picture of thoughtfulness and cordiality—I’m honestly amazed someone as renowned in our field as you has even given me the time of day. Not to mention, you said yourself that your daughter wanted nothing more for her birthday than to have you at her side. Surely you must have been doing something right?”
In the corner of Mackintosh’s eye, Desmond’s hand posed under his chin, pensive. “I… suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“Then you should give yourself a little more grace,” Mackintosh encouraged. “I know too well myself that sometimes bad things just… happen, no matter how we plan or hope otherwise. It always hurts us for a while, but I don’t think dwelling on it too much really fixes anything; we can only find some way to look forward, and try again with the cards that we’re dealt.”
Timidly glancing back up toward the professor, Mackintosh found the other’s eyes still trained on him, a hush settling over the park bench like the chill of the winter air. Though the seconds ticked by, Mackintosh found this time that he could not look away, the two men simply staring at one another while mulling over the vulnerability between them.
Finally, Desmond angled his head to the side. “You really are a good man, Mr. Mackintosh. I wouldn’t have believed it an hour ago, but… it helped to share this with you tonight,” he mused. Then the corners of his lips pulled into a muted smile. “Thank you for the advice. And for persuading me to try.”
“Oh, um, of course. That’s good.” Hearing his own laurels of gratitude from earlier tossed back onto him, Mackintosh felt a blush rising back into his face—one he was certain he could not hide this time.
“Would you like to join me on the rink one more time?” Desmond asked, the redirection a welcome mercy to Mackintosh’s dignity. “I wouldn’t mind fitting in a few more circuits before I retire for the evening.”
“I might be ready to head home myself, actually,” Mackintosh shook his head and winced; with the conversation coming to a close, the bruises from his earlier falls were beginning to sing their protests again. “So it’d seem this is where we part ways tonight.”
“Oh. Very well, then. Perhaps we can plan to do this another time, though.” Desmond offered his companion a single gracious parting nod. “Take care, Mr. Mackintosh.”
“And the same to you, Professor Sycamore,” Mackintosh replied, rising to his feet and turning to walk away.
Reflecting on what he had learned tonight—the trauma, the heartache, the loss—it ought to have changed his mind. But instead, all Mackintosh could see now in his mind was a man deeply devoted and incapable of transgression, successful in everything he tried while holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.
If there was any “right thing” in this world, it was Desmond Sycamore. That was Mackintosh’s curse to bear. It always would be.
Before Mackintosh could really think about what he was doing, he pivoted on his heel, leaned down and pressed his lips softly to the professor’s cheek.
Then, after a few moments, Mackintosh’s brain caught up to him, and he jerked his head away, eyes widening with the horror in the choice he had just made. Desmond, in turn, stared up at him speechlessly, mouth agape.
In true Mackintosh fashion, he had instantly crashed through yet another positive in his life—and this time, he had no idea how he could possibly recover from the humiliation.
If only I was better at listening to my own advice.
Leaving no opportunity for interrogation about his actions, Mackintosh snatched his ice skates from the ground and babbled out, “OkaywellIgottagonowbye!” before sprinting into the dimly lit park.
“Wait! Mr. Mackintosh!” Desmond eventually called after him—but Mackintosh did not wait, did not stop running, did not dare turn around again.
Only when he was able to shelter behind a large tree some distance away did Mackintosh pause to catch his breath. A hand on his chest willing his anxious heartbeat to settle down, he carefully peered out from behind the tree trunk.
Backlit by the skating rink, Desmond had stood from the bench to survey the grounds for the runaway archaeologist, but the trail had already been lost. Desmond remained still for a moment more; then, accompanied by the faintest quirk of a smile, a gloved hand floated up to cradle the kiss lingering on his cheek, before he grabbed his own skates and turned to walk back toward the ice.
Mackintosh blinked and rubbed his eyes. The professor… wasn’t upset? He hadn’t ruined something good in his life this time around?
Sliding down the tree bark until he was seated on the ground, Mackintosh hugged his arms to himself and sighed. He hadn’t ruined his connection with Professor Sycamore this time around.
Maybe there was hope for him yet.
Maybe… Mackintosh had found his “one right thing” tonight after all.