She turns away to rummage through it for a pen. When she faces me again, she holds up the paper. She’s drawn a heart that overlaps mine, both hearts labeled with our names.
“You’ve got mine, too.”
“Come here.”
I knead her waist, tugging her against me. Neither of us stop smiling as we kiss.
“Where did—? Never mind. Found them!” Noah shouts when he rounds the side of the house. “They snuck away to make out again.”
“Typical,” Reagan calls from the other side of the yard.
Maya laughs and rejoins the party. I hang back a moment, watching her hugging Reagan and accepting a drink while they splash their feet in the kiddie pool.
There will be time. I don’t have to rush anything.
All that matters is that we have each other.
EPILOGUE
MAYA
October, 3 Months Later
It’s thrillingto be at TD Garden for Easton’s first NHL game. He’s worked hard since the start of training to get to this point and tonight he’s making his debut as a professional hockey player. My heart swells, overflowing with how proud I am of his work ethic and determination.
The tickets he got us are great seats a few rows back from the glass with a fantastic view of the action. We file in next to an older man who seems familiar when it’s close to the pregame show. I think I’ve seen him around Heston Lake. He has a Bruins cap tugged low over his face and fiddles with a radio.
A nostalgic smile tugs at my lips. He reminds me of Grandpa. He’d always listen to the radio to get commentary from his favorite sports station while watching games live, too.
I miss him. It catches me off guard some days. Sometimes I’m able to laugh, then other times I need a minute to gather myself, shedding a few tears. Whenever it happens, Easton is always there to remind me it’s okay.
When Easton found an apartment in Boston, I moved in with him. I haven’t determined my next step yet. For now, I’m taking time off before deciding on grad schools and enjoying life in a new city. In the meantime, I’ve been volunteering at a local animal shelter and I scored a part-time job at a physical therapy clinic.
Asher freezes at my side instead of sitting down in our row.
“Holy crap, you’re Neil Cannon,” he gushes.
“Asher,” Mrs. Blake chides. “Sorry, sir.”
The older man adjusts his hat, giving us a better view of his face. “It’s fine.”
“It really is you.” Asher’s eyes are wide. “You’re my brother’s favorite. He has your picture on a poster.”
Mr. Cannon chuckles, surveying the rink with a knowing gaze. “Who’s your brother?”
The answer isn’t hard to guess. I’m wearing Easton’s Heston U jersey and Asher has his new Bruins number on his.
“Easton Blake. He’s playing tonight,” Asher says.
“Thought so. He’s who I’m here to see.”
Asher gasps, whispering to his mom. “He knows Easton.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“He’s a good kid,” Mr. Cannon says.
His gaze moves to me, turning curious. I hold out a hand.
