Page 52 of Date With Skates

We sit on the bench for a long time, not saying a single word. No one walks by us, though there are people walking to and from buildings. No one comes this way. No one bothers us. It’s like we’re in our own little bubble.

Our hands may be frozen together at this point, or maybe they’re just blue from being so cold. It wouldn’t matter to me. It feels good being connected to him, and I don’t want to let go. Because I know what letting go means.

“How’s Spike?” he asks after some time.

I huff a small laugh. “Excited for me to get home.”

“He said that?”

“Of course he did. Didn’t I tell you I speak bearded dragon?”

“You must’ve left that off your resume,” he says.

“Too bad. I would have loved to give you lessons.”

He smiles, but it falls slowly.

Then in perfect, sweet French, he says, “J’aurais aimé avoir plus de temps avec toi.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

I’ve never asked him that before. When he speaks French, I just listen and usually get turned on.

But this feels different. It is different. I know it, even before he tells me what it means.

“It means,” he begins, meeting my gaze. “I wish I had more time with you.”

All the air leaves my lungs, his dark brown gaze digging right into my soul.

“You’ve become important to me, Connor. More than I wanted you to be.”

I squeeze his hand because I can’t speak.

“I don’t know if this is something I will ever fully recover from,” he then says.

He gives a small laugh, then looks away. I take his chin, turning him to look at me again. His lips part.

“I know this is something I will never fully recover from,” I say firmly. “You’ve become important to me too, and I hope you never forget that.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

I lean forward, pressing our foreheads together. We breathe each other in for a moment, allowing the deep emotions to pass. I give him a quick, soft kiss, and without a word, we just know.

It’s time for us to go.

With a deep breath, we get to our feet and walk hand in hand down the path towards our buildings. When we get to the point where we have to go our separate ways, we pause, just staring in front of us. Neither one of us wants to make the first move—to let go of the other’s hand.

But somehow, we both manage to do it at the same time.

“Good luck, Hockey Boy,” he says, giving me a half smile.

“Good luck, Trouble,” I say.

And I give him my back and start walking before I can’t do it at all.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Étienne