A waiter appears with menus. Starts explaining the specials in accented English.
Brody listens, then responds in French.
Actual French.
This elicits a chorus of starstruck oohs and ahhs from around the table.
The waiter lights up, responding enthusiastically. They have a whole conversation—I catch maybe three words total—and the waiter practically floats away, promising to bring the chef’s recommendation.
I know I’m staring, but seriously, who just knows French?
“What?” he asks.
“You speak French?”
“You speak Spanish,” he counters.
“Not like that!”
Brody chuckles. “I took it in high school. Spent a summer in Quebec for hockey camp.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s rusty but functional.”
“That was not rusty. That was fluent.”
“You’re easy to impress.”
“Apparently.”
We’re grinning at each other like idiots, oblivious to anyone else at the table.
The meal unfolds around us. Courses arrive—some kind of French onion soup that tastes like heaven, duck confit that melts off the bone, roasted veggies with pureed parsnips. Wine is poured, my dad stands to pray over the meal, and conversation quiets down as everyone digs in.
And through it all, Brody and I never stop talking.
I give him the lowdown on some of the family he’ll meet at the wedding. And he tells me the story of a time in high school when he forgot his hockey jersey on an away game day.
“My coach told me just to grab an extra one from the box in his office as we left.” He’s laughing before he even gets to the punch line. “I pulled from the wrong box. Wound up wearing a middle-school jersey to the game.”
I gasp, covering my mouth with a hand.
“I could hardly move my arms it was so tight!”
I can just see it—Brody squeezing himself into a jersey half his size, just so he can play. It’s funny. But also…a little sad. That was after his mom passed away. He was probably on his own as far as laundering his uniform and packing his equipment.
His hand finds mine under the table at some point. Intertwines our fingers.
I don’t pull away.
The contract feels very far away right now.
After dinner, and then dessert and coffee, we make our way back toward the main lodge. The group splinters off. The bridesmaids head toward their cottage, down by the lake, the groomsmen toward their lodge. Derek’s parents to their room.
Leaving Brody and me walking alone through the quiet resort.
The path is lit with lanterns, their warm glow reflecting off patches of snow. The air is cold but not brutal—a crisp February night. It smells like pine and wood smoke. Stars are starting to appear overhead—more than you can ever see in the city.
That’s one thing I miss about Maple Lake.
Ahead, the main building comes into view. The main lodge is massive—dark wood and stone, built in that classic 1930s North Woods style, with steep rooflines and enormous windows. Three stories, maybe four, with a wraparound porch dotted with Adirondack chairs and firepits. Behind it, the lake stretches out, still partially frozen, the surface reflecting sunlight like shattered glass.
