Page 32 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Ice cream?” I chuckled warmly, the lump in my throat refusing to vacate. “This early?”

“Well,” he said, “once it’s a respectable time to get ice cream, we’ll go get some and have an adventure. See how beautiful the lake really is.”

“Ice cream,” I said.

“I know my man has a sweet tooth,” he said with a silly, uninhibited wiggle of his head.

“Your…your man?”

Peter cringed and took a deep breath, as though suddenly realizing his foible. I hadn’t seen it as a transgression on his part—being called Peter’s “man” bothered me as much as an ant under an elephant’s foot. I had simply been confirming what I had heard come from his lips.

“Well, I,” he began, reaching up to scratch his head again, which I found endearing, “no. Yeah. My man. That’s…that’s what I said. And I know you like sweets. I’m not taking it back.”

“In case I forget,” I said, “I have loved every minute of my vacation. Thank you.”

A stream of green milky liquid ran down the cone and over the meaty part of my palm, but I did my best to slurp it up with my tongue before it dripped off, lost to the ground below. Wasting good ice cream was something I could not abide. Peter chuckled as he watched me lick up the stray stream of ice cream from my hand and the cone. It was surprising to me that my ice cream melted so quickly when it was just warm enough to not need a jacket outside. Regardless, my ice cream had to be saved, and I did my best.

The gentle, languid waves of Lake Superior rolled in, one coming in, one coming out, folding and rolling over each other. What breeze we’d had in the early morning hours had tapered off and we were left with a whisper here and there from the cool, late summer weather. Peter and I had changed into swimsuits and t-shirts to get ice cream and walk along the shores of the lake.

More rocks and pebbles than sand, the shore wasn’t meant for long strolls as I’d hoped. However, Peter and I managed to enjoy the beach area and our ice cream just the same. Standing there on the shore of Lake Superior, holding hands while our free hands held ice cream cones, couldn’t have been more perfect. The weather was a little too cool for ice cream, but then again, was there ever a bad time for ice cream?

“You are an ice cream master,” Peter announced.

“No ice cream shall survive in my presence!”

I made my announcement with a triumphant raising of my head from my hand, my lips, and tongue slathered with ice cream. Peter laughed and reached up to wipe my lips with his thumb. When he licked his thumb clean, I was startled at first. Peter had licked food off of his thumb that he had gotten from my lips. Then I remembered everything Peter’s lips had done in the week that I’d been visiting him and realized it was not that strange.

“Delicious,” he said, somehow making that one word lascivious.

“You’ll find that I am pretty delicious in general,” I said, surprising even myself.

Peter leaned in with a grin. “I’m well aware.”

My cheeks grew warm, but I gave him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. I only managed to smear more ice cream on his nose. Laughing, I wiped at the streak, clearing it from his face. Peter, laughing at my clumsiness, lowered himself, pulling me down alongside him. Together, we sat on the rough rock-strewn beach and licked and bit at our cones, staring out at the sun shining diamonds on the lake. Every now and then, Peter would lean over and kiss my neck or cheek; whisper something unmentionable in my ear. Or maybe he’d say something sweet. I was appreciative of all of it. I even returned a few of the kisses.

We didn’t care if we got ice cream on each other.

Once our cones were eaten and our hands were sticky with melted ice cream—which we tried to lick clean, but failed—we rose and walked to the water, laughing at our predicament. In the chilly water, we washed our hands, only splashing each other a bit. Enough to be playful, but not enough to soak each other. Then we were standing at the shore with the water lapping at our toes as we looked out over the lake, our fingers twined together again.

The golden ribbons cast on the water by the brilliant sun both warmed me and cast me into melancholy. Being at Lake Superior and only staring at the water seemed such a shame.

“Hey, you,” Peter whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a shame that it’s too cold to swim,” I said. “We’re here and it’s too cold.”

He chuckled. “It usually is. Minnesota, eh?”

That brought a smile to my face.

“But it’s only too cold if you’re scared,” he said, daring me. “I mean, if you think you won’t be able to deal with the cold…”

“Are you getting into the water?” I turned to him, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I’m not stupid,” he said, laughing.

Without another thought, I grabbed my shirttail and pulled it up, stripping my shirt off over my head. Peter’s eyes bulged as I held it out to him.

“Please?”