Page 40 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

My heart felt hollow.

“But there it is,” he said. “I love you.”

“We can’t do that,” I finally said. “We both know that…our lives are different. They’re in different places. And times. Love just makes this harder.”

Peter sighed.

“You know what?” Peter frowned up at me. “Screw you.”

I slumped with a sigh.

“I didn’t fall in love,” he spat. “I was pushed. By what, I have no fucking clue. But it was something bigger than us. So, it’s not my fault and it wasn’t a choice.”

“But—”

“If you want to blame me for spreading my arms and not fearing the crash, welcoming a joyful plunge into uncertainty, then fine,” Peter interjected. “You can blame me for that part. I love you.”

I stared at him.

“I love you,” he said again, though I wasn’t sure if he was making sure I heard or trying to convince me. “And there’s nothing you—none of your rules—can do about that. I don’t give a shit what you think. Not about this. I won’t let you leave here without letting you know that I love you.”

Gently, I reached down and took Peter’s hands in mine. He sighed as I brought them to my lips and kissed the back of each.

“I know,” I said.

“What now?” he asked softly.

With a flick of my head, I managed to give him another smile. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Peter slumped with a sigh but gave me a resigned smile. Together, we ascended the stairs and made our way to his bedroom. We didn’t turn on the lights, but instead, opened the shutters and used the moonlight to undress each other. Hands grasped flesh tinted blue by the moon as we took our time saying “goodbye” to each other’s bodies. As slowly and deliberately as I could manage, I used my hands, fingers, mouth, and every sense to commit Peter’s body to memory, and Peter repeated the ritual on me.

When we were finally naked and exhausted, holding each other as we drifted off to sleep, Peter’s head on my chest, his lips fluttered against the skin of my neck.

“I love you, Enzo,” he said. “Marry me.”

A soft, sad chuckle escaped my lips.

“No,” I said.

Seconds later, the two of us had drifted off.

Peter was in the driver’s seat of his car sipping his coffee as I sat in the passenger seat, finishing the last few dregs from my to-go cup. The parking garage was relatively empty as the two of us stared out the windshield at nothing, doing our best not to look at each other. I knew that when my eyes met Peter’s, it would most likely be the last time we saw each other’s eyes. I hadn’t been ready for that, and Peter had given no indication that he was prepared for that final look either. So, we drank the coffees we had picked up at the drive-thru on our way to the airport, trying to figure out the best way to say “goodbye” to each other.

Maybe there would be letters and phone calls and texts in the future, but we both knew the truth. Inevitably and incrementally, the time between the letters, calls, and texts would grow, and finally, there would be no more. We would slowly become strangers. Then we would never speak again or read each other’s words. Our one perfect night in Montreal and our fairytale two weeks in America together would be a footnote in the history of our lives when they came to an end. Glorious, joyful footnotes, for certain, but nothing more. Hopefully, upon looking back at the specter of our days spent together, we wouldn’t feel regret. Only fondness.

“If you forgot anything, I’m sure work will bring me to Montreal again one day,” Peter said quietly. “I can always bring it to you.”

I smiled ruefully.

“I did not forget anything.”

“Okay.”

We had an understanding. Even if I had forgotten anything at Peter’s house, it was best that it became a part of the history we were leaving each other with when I got on the plane back to Canada.

“I’ll miss you,” Peter said.

“I’ll miss you, too.”