Epilogue #2
I realize, in that moment, Ash probably forgot to wash his hands after filling out whatever last-minute paperwork the league wanted from him, but my dad just nods, satisfied.
“Roland,” he says.
“Ash,” Ash replies, voice level.
They hold the silence for a second, then my father steps aside and waves us in, already halfway to the kitchen before we’ve even crossed the threshold.
Inside, it’s the same as ever.
Art on every wall, old photos, my baby footprints in plaster, the shelf above the TV jammed with my mom’s favorite poetry collections and my dad’s unread business bestsellers.
The air is thick with garlic and onion, the smell so strong it’s almost a warning.
My mother is in the kitchen, her back to the doorway, hair wrapped in a blue scarf, a single gold hoop shining at her ear. She’s stirring a clay pot, the spoon in her hand more weapon than utensil, and she doesn’t look up when we enter.
“Close the door, please,” she says, and I do, shutting out the sounds of the street, the last piece of the outside world.
She turns, finally, and her face lights up. She hugs me, warm and all-in, then steps back to look at Ash.
She doesn’t wait for introductions. She puts the spoon down, wipes her hands on her apron, and cups his cheeks in both palms.
She’s not short, not compared to my dad, but next to Ash she seems delicate, almost fragile. “There you are,” she says, accent thick in her voice, the French-Haitian vowels wrapping around the words like ribbon.
Ash freezes, then laughs, nervous and real.
She studies him, then lets go, patting his shoulder. “You must be hungry. Sit. I’ll make you a plate.”
Ash gives me a look, like, what the fuck just happened, but I just shrug and sit.
My mother brings out bowls of rice and beans, fried plantain, and something stewed and redolent of peppers and lime.
She pours glasses of lemonade for us, wine for my father, and water for herself.
Ash watches her the whole time, eyes wide, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he blinks.
“You don’t cook?” she asks him, pointed.
He shakes his head, and I can see the sweat prickling at his hairline. “I can microwave a mean hot pocket.”
She barks a laugh. “That’s not food, baby.”
He nods, solemn. “Agreed.”
Roland sits at the head of the table, napkin folded on his knee, and watches Ash eat the first spoonful. “He’s not lying,” my father says to my mother, “the boy can eat.”
Ash is red now, but he plows ahead, shoveling the beans and rice into his mouth like he’s worried someone will take it away.
I remember, suddenly, the first time I brought a friend home for dinner, and the way my mother had spent the whole afternoon making Haitian bread and teaching us how to shape the loaves with our hands.
I remember feeling like it was a test, but also not caring, because the bread was hot and good, and the company better.
“So,” my father says, after a while. “What’s your next move?”
Ash looks at me, then at my father, then at my mother, who’s refilling his plate. “I’m still working on it,” he says. “I think I want to coach, maybe. Kids. Or maybe write? Not sports journalism, though. Promise.”
My mother smiles, but my father just nods. “Smart,” he says. “Never write about something you love for money. It will kill the love and the money.”
Ash grins, and for a second, the tension drops. “Good tip. I’ll try not to turn my next passion into a career.”
My mother gives me a look, then sips her water. “You treat him well?” she asks, and this is not a joke, not a test, but a real question.
I say, “Yes, maman,” and she nods, satisfied.
The rest of dinner is stories, my dad talking about the time he crashed a college recruiting event and convinced the coach to draft me over two blue-chip picks from Orange County, my mom telling the story of the day I was born and the nurse had to unstick my tiny fists from my ears.
Ash doesn’t say much, but he listens. Really listens. He laughs at the right parts, and his eyes get wet at the part where my grandmother died and left us nothing but her recipe for soup joumou and a single, silver ring.
After dinner, my mom brings out pound cake, still warm, and Ash eats three slices without complaint. My father pours coffee, offers Ash some, and when Ash says, “I take it black,” my father actually grins.
“He’s a keeper, then.”
When it’s time to go, my mother hugs me, then hugs Ash, holding on a little longer than necessary. “You take care of each other, okay?” she says.
Ash nods, then, softer, “Thank you, Camille. For dinner. For…everything.”
She pats his cheek, then waves us out, already clearing the table.
My father walks us to the door, then stands in the entryway, arms folded. “You make my son happy,” he says, quiet but unmissable.
“I try,” Ash says.
“Good. Keep doing it,” he says, then lets the door swing shut behind us.
Outside, the sky is still blue, but the sun is fading, the air cool and sharp.
We walk down the steps, not talking. At the sidewalk, Ash stops, shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks at me.
“You ever think,” he says, “that this is all some kind of fever dream, and we’re gonna wake up and find out we lost the cup and never made it out of the locker room?”
I look at him, and the old ache is gone, replaced by something cleaner, something that feels like home.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
He grins, then kisses me, quick, like he’s afraid the neighbors are watching.
But I don’t care.
Because this, all of it, is mine.
And I’m never giving it up.
———
Asher
I am not built for nice restaurants.
My wardrobe consists of exactly three collared shirts, all of which have seen more pizza sauce than bleach, and even on my best day, my hair sticks up in back like I lost a bet with a wind tunnel.
But Darius insisted, and now we are here, in the kind of place where the waiter has opinions about the mineral content of the water and the bread comes on a slate instead of a plate.
The view is insane, Seattle at dusk, lights flicking on like someone’s auditioning the skyline for a perfume commercial.
The windows are so big they make you feel like you’re eating dinner inside a snow globe. There’s rain streaking the glass, the space beyond washed in silver and blue, and the whole city feels like it’s floating.
Darius sits across from me, in a black shirt that probably cost more than my rent. He looks uncomfortable, which is how I know he means business.
His tie is perfect, but his eyes are soft, and every time I catch him looking at me, he does this thing where he tries to play it off, like he was just checking for sauce on my face.
“Do you want to know the specials again?” the waiter asks, voice modulated for people with shares in a private jet company.
I shake my head. “We’re good. But if you bring more bread, I might make a donation to your favorite charity.”
The waiter laughs, like I’m the first person all night to say something not approved by the Michelin Guide. He gives a little bow, then leaves us alone.
I look at Darius, who is holding his menu but not looking at it.
“You nervous?” I ask.
He shrugs, then folds the menu, lines it up with the edge of the table like he’s squaring off a faceoff. “I just don’t want to screw this up.”
I want to make a joke about how it’s impossible, given my track record of embarrassing myself in every high-stakes situation since puberty, but I don’t.
Instead, I just reach across the table and grab his hand.
He doesn’t flinch. He just holds on.
It’s a small table, intimate. The candles flicker, their light catching on the water droplets trailing down the windows.
There’s a buzz from the other diners, but it fades out, replaced by the sound of Darius’s breath, the warmth of his hand, the look in his eyes when he’s not sure anyone else is watching.
The food comes, and it’s beautiful, but I barely taste it. The wine is better than any I’ve had in my life, but I don’t care.
I’m hyperaware of every inch of him, the way he sits, the way he cuts his steak, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking hard about something and isn’t ready to say it.
We talk, but not about hockey.
Not about trauma or therapy or even our families, who have, in the last week, accepted our existence with the kind of enthusiasm that should be illegal.
We talk about nothing, and everything, movies, the worst teachers we ever had, how neither of us can figure out how to keep a houseplant alive.
There’s a moment, halfway through the meal, when I look up and he’s just staring at me, fork suspended in midair, a smile breaking through the deadpan.
“What?” I say, self-conscious.
He shrugs, “You look happy.”
I stare at him, and the words are so simple it almost breaks me.
“I am,” I say, and it’s true, and I’m terrified, and I don’t want to ever let go of this feeling.
After dessert (panna cotta, which I only ordered because it sounded like a dare), we linger at the table, both of us unwilling to break the spell. The bill comes in a leather envelope.
Darius reaches for it, but I grab his wrist.
“My treat,” I say.
He grins. “You sure?”
“I won the Cup. I can handle a fancy dinner.”
He lets me, but when the waiter brings the receipt, he slides his card in alongside mine, splitting it down the middle.
I want to make a joke about how he’s pathologically generous, but instead I just watch him sign, the smooth motion of his hand, the way he dots the i in his name with the barest flick of the wrist.
Outside, the rain is heavier. The city glows under the weight of it, each streetlamp wreathed in a halo.
We walk under the awning, both of us hesitating at the edge, not quite ready to leave the warmth and the light.
I turn to him.
There’s something I’ve been wanting to say all night, but I’m scared. Not because I think he’ll leave, but because it feels like everything I ever wanted is right here, and saying it out loud might make it vanish.
He waits, patient, eyes searching my face.
“Stay,” I say, voice rough. “Not for a season. Not until it’s convenient. Stay in my life. All of it. Forever.”
He breathes, slow and even, then steps closer. His hand comes up, knuckles brushing my jaw, and he says, “I’m not going anywhere, Ash.”
For a second, the city disappears. The rain, the noise, the world—all gone.
It’s just us, in the doorway, hearts beating in perfect time.
He kisses me, slow and sure, and it’s not the first time, not by a long shot, but it’s different.
It’s the kind of kiss that writes itself into muscle memory, that lingers in the blood long after the skin forgets.
We step out into the rain, neither of us reaching for an umbrella. The water soaks us in seconds, but we just walk, side by side, hands linked, the city blurring around us.
At the corner, I stop, pull him close, and whisper, “I love you.”
He smiles, like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.
“Love you too,” he says, voice low and certain.
We walk the rest of the way home like that, wet and grinning, the taste of each other still on our lips, the future wide open in front of us.
Let it rain.
We can take it.
Together.