“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. Thatwas 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.
“I should check in,” Brody says as we reach the massive oak doors. “Get my key.”
“Right. Yeah.” My stomach drops a little at the thought of turning in for the night.
We walk into the lobby together. The evening light makes the lobby even more impressive. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams. A stone fireplace so large you could park a car in it, flames crackling and throwing dancing shadows across the hardwood floors. Leather furniture arranged in conversationclusters. Vintage skis and snowshoes mounted on the walls, alongside black-and-white photos of the resort from decades past.
It smells like wood smoke and cinnamon and expensive candles.
The front desk attendant stands behind a massive wraparound desk, looking a little frazzled after what was likely a very busy day. She gives a little start when we step up to the desk.
“Hi,” Brody says, flashing that easy smile that probably makes people forget their own names. “Checking in. Brody Kane.”
The woman types on her computer.
Frowns.
Types some more.
The frown deepens.
Oh no.
“Is there a problem?” Brody asks.
