Chapter 31
SAM
It's five minutes past ten in the morning, and I'm sitting alone in the gazebo at the Rose Garden, snow dusting the wooden railings like powdered sugar on a cake no one's touched yet. Lake Superior stretches out beyond the cliffs, gray and endless, waves crashing against the frozen shoreline in dramatic, cinematic fashion — as if the universe is fully aware this is supposed to be my big romantic moment and decided to lean into the aesthetic.
I told Eli to meet me here at eight. Which means he's... two hours late.
It's fine. I didn't mind waiting. Not when the entire park looks like something out of a winter postcard — snow blanketing the rose beds, bare branches frosted in white, the air so crisp it feels like it could snap in half if you breathe too hard.
He's going to come. I know he will. He said he would.
But what if he changed his mind?
I shake my head quickly, as if I can physically fling the thought out of my skull.
No. No negative thoughts, Sam.
We are not doing that. We are being calm and mature and emotionally stable today.
I rub my gloved hands together and scan the park for the fiftieth time. Maybe he's here and just... lost. Maybe there's another gazebo somewhere and he's standing there thinking I'm the idiot who picked the wrong one.
Or maybe he's not coming.
That voice again. The annoying one that thrives on worst-case scenarios and humiliation.
I wince when a sharp pain slices through my shoulders. I reach up instinctively, pressing my fingers into the sore muscles, pretending it's just tension. Just stiffness. Just the weather. It's freezing.
People from Florida don't do well in Arctic temperatures. It's basically science.
Not that Duluth is actually the Arctic, but after spending my entire life in the sunshine state, it might as well be. And it's definitely not the cancer causing the pain. Nope. Just good old-fashioned weather adjustment. Nothing to see here.
I sink back onto the bench and slide my hands into the pockets of my coat, pressing my palms against the heat pads I tucked in earlier. I feel specially weak today.
I could have canceled.
Should have, probably, when I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck driven by another, larger truck. But this is my one shot, my single precious day with Eli before I have to keep my promise to leave him alone forever.
So I did what any rational human would do: swallowed enough pain medication to tranquilize a rhino, slapped on some fever reducers for good measure, and dragged my sorry self to this freezing gazebo to wait for a man who is now officially two hours and seven minutes late.
"Congratulations, Sam," I mumble. "Your romantic skills are clearly top-notch."
When another ten minutes pass, I check my phone again even though I know it hasn't buzzed. His last message still sits at the top of our thread.
Let's go on a date this Sunday.
The rational part of my brain—the part not currently drugged into submission by medication or deluded by wishful thinking—is starting to insist that he's not coming. He's gone home with the rest of the team. He's sleeping off last night's victory celebration. He's forgotten all about the pity date he reluctantly agreed to.
I stand up, my joints protesting the movement after sitting in the cold for so long. Maybe it's better this way. One clean break instead of a full day of awkward moments and forced conversation. I take two steps toward the gazebo exit when a figure in a charcoal gray winter coat appears on the snowy path.
It's him. It's actually him.
Eli's tall frame, his broad shoulders, his perpetually serious face, hands in pockets—all of it real and present and walking toward the gazebo with that steady, unhurried stride like he's not two hours late to what might be the most important day of my life.
My heart launches into my throat so fast I nearly choke on it.
He came. He actually came.
I fight the urge to bounce on my toes like a deranged golden retriever. Instead, I settle for a wave.
"Hi!" I call, and there's no hiding the stupid brightness in my voice.
Something ticks in his jaw—that little muscle that jumps when he's annoyed—and my smile falters. His expression is closed, distant. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else on the planet than here with me.
Does he already regret coming here?
"Hey," he says.
"I'm so glad you made—"
"Let's be clear," he cuts in, voice low but sharp. "This date—" he makes air quotes around the word, turning it into something ridiculous, "—is just pretend. This is just today. Tomorrow, you don't text me. You don't call. You don't show up anywhere I am and pretend it's a coincidence."
My fingers curl slightly inside my gloves.
"You said you'd leave me alone after this. I expect you to keep that promise. So, don't twist today into something it's not."
There it is.
The freezing Duluth air wasn't cold enough, so he decided to personally pour a bucket of ice water down my spine. Eli's frigid attitude has just lowered the temperature by another twenty degrees.
I force a laugh that comes out a little too high. "Wow. Good morning to you too."
"I mean it, Sam."
"I know," I say quickly, lifting my shoulders as if to physically shake off the chill creeping into my bones. "I know. It's just today. One day."
"So, where to?" I chirp, swinging my arms.
"How do I know?" He glances around unimpressed. "You're the one who planned this."
"Right. Right."
I pull out my phone and open my very organized, very hopeful checklist titled:
Sam's "One Perfect Day" Date Plan
Maybe naming it that was a mistake. Looking at it now, with Eli's unimpressed eyes watching me, makes me feel childish and embarrassingly naive.
"Have you had breakfast yet?" I ask hopefully, eyeing the first item on my list—a cozy café that, according to online reviews, has a special menu for couples. I've been daydreaming about their heart-shaped pancakes for days.
"Yeah," he replies, not elaborating.
"Oh... okay."
Shoot. So much for item number one.
My stomach growls again, a hungry monster demanding attention. I should have eaten before leaving the hotel, or at least brought a granola bar to nibble on while waiting. But in my nervous excitement this morning, food was the last thing on my mind.
We start walking, Eli a few steps ahead of me, his back a wall of silent rejection. I try to think of something witty to say, something that might crack that stoic exterior, but my mind is as blank as the snow around us.
"What is it?" he asks, his brow furrowed.
"What's what?" I paste on a smile so wide and unnatural it makes my cheeks hurt.
He cocks an eyebrow, studying me with those intense eyes that always make me feel like he can see right through me. "You're being weird. So what is it?"
"Nothing, nothing, I swear!" I laugh, waving my hands in a crisscross motion that probably makes me look like I'm directing airplane traffic.
"Don't tell me you didn't eat?"
As if on cue, my stomach lets out a rumble that could rival a motorcycle engine.
"Christ, you didn't eat?"
"Well, I was planning for us to have breakfast together at this really great café nearby," I explain, my words tumbling out in a sheepish rush. "But since you've already eaten, there's no point in going there now. We can just hit a drive-thru or something? I have a rental car we can use. It's no big deal, really!"
"Let's just go," he grumbles. "We can go to that place on your list."
Before I can thank him, he's walking ahead of me again, his long strides forcing me to hurry to keep up. My shoulder throbs with each quick step, but I ignore it.
Ten minutes later, we're seated at a small table by the window in Duluth's most romantic café, according to TripAdvisor. The place lives up to its reputation—soft lighting, intimate seating arrangements, and a menu that seems designed for people to share. When our server approaches, I enthusiastically order from their couples' special menu.
"We'll have the 'Love Bird Breakfast for Two,' please," I say, pointing to the item described as "heart-shaped pancakes topped with fresh berries and whipped cream, served with a side of chocolate-dipped strawberries and two glasses of sparkling cider."
Eli groans audibly. "Seriously? That's so cheesy and childish."
My face burns with embarrassment. "Sorry," I mumble, both to him and to our visibly uncomfortable server. "I thought couples usually do this kind of stuff."
"Yeah, in cheesy rom-coms," he retorts. "I'll just have coffee. Black."
After the server leaves, I make another attempt at conversation. "Congratulations on winning the game last night. That hat trick was amazing—I was so proud when you scored that third goal!"
He stirs his coffee—which arrived suspiciously quickly—and shrugs. "Just doing my job."
"Well, you do it better than anyone else on the team," I persist. "The way you maneuvered around that defender in the second period was incredible. I think even the opposing team's fans were impressed."
"Hockey is hockey," he replies flatly. "Sometimes you score, sometimes you don't."
I launch into another desperate attempt at conversation, fishing for any topic that might thaw the glacier sitting across from me. But each question is met with a one or two-word answer, sometimes just a grunt of acknowledgment. By the time my elaborate breakfast arrives—looking somehow sad and excessive in its romantic presentation—I've run out of conversational topics.
We eat in silence—or rather, I eat while Eli nurses his coffee, occasionally checking his watch as if counting down the minutes until his release from this torture. The heart-shaped pancakes taste like cardboard in my mouth. Even the chocolate-dipped strawberries, which I've been craving for days, seem to have lost their appeal.
After breakfast, we head to Canal Park, the next stop on my meticulously planned itinerary. Canal Park is supposed to feel romantic.
That's what every blog, every travel review, every stupid Pinterest board said.
Snow dusts the boardwalk. Lake Superior stretches gray and endless beyond the pier, waves crashing against ice like they're trying to break through something stubborn and immovable. Couples walk past us bundled together, shoulders brushing, gloved hands intertwined.
A guy leans down to kiss his girlfriend's forehead. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else steals fries off someone else's plate.
This is what it's supposed to look like.
Instead, I'm walking half a step behind Eli while he keeps his hands in his coat pockets like they're safer there.
"So, I read there's this little shop that sells matching knit beanies. It's kind of cute. We could—"
"I don't need a beanie," he replies without looking at me.
"I know you don't need one," I laugh lightly. "It's just... couples do that stuff."
"We're not a couple."
"Right. Obviously. But today we kind of are."
He doesn't respond. We step into a small gift shop anyway because I refuse to surrender that quickly. The bell above the door jingles, warm air hitting my face, and I feel that little flicker of hope again.
"Look," I say, holding up two navy knit hats with white snowflake patterns. "We'd look ridiculous. That's the point."
"I'm not wearing that."
"You haven't even tried it on."
"I don't need to."
I force a grin. "You're no fun."
He gives me a look that isn't amused, so we leave the shop without buying anything.
On my phone, I quietly check off another item that never actually happened.
When I suggest we check out another place, he looks so utterly bored that I immediately backtrack.
"Or, you know, we could skip it and head to the lighthouse instead?" I offer.
"Whatever you want," he says, which really means 'I don't really care about anything you're suggesting.'
We end up doing neither, instead wandering aimlessly along the frozen shoreline, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute.
Two hours into our "date", and we've barely accomplished anything on my list. Every suggestion is met with such obvious reluctance that I keep changing plans, hoping to find something—anything—that might spark his interest.
By lunchtime, I'm exhausted from the effort of maintaining one-sided conversations. We end up at a sandwich shop that wasn't on my list at all, eating in the same stilted silence that defined our breakfast.
I watch Eli pick at his food, occasionally checking his phone, and wonder if this is how all dates feel—this desperate, clawing need to connect with someone who clearly doesn't want to be connected with.
After another hour of failed attempts at engaging activities, I suggest we head to the outdoor skating rink—the final item on my list, the one I'd been saving for sunset because I thought it would be romantic. But at this point, I just want something—anything—to fill the excruciating void between us.
The rink isn't crowded, just a few families and couples gliding across the ice. After renting our skates and lacing up, Eli immediately pushes off onto the ice, leaving me to wobble uncertainly behind him.
As I watch his back moving further away from me, something inside me finally breaks.
My "One Perfect Day" Date Plan, the one I'd spent hours crafting, researching, and dreaming about, is an absolute disaster.
It's hard to enjoy a date when your partner genuinely doesn't want to be there. And really, why would he? I'm not special. I'm not beautiful or interesting or worth spending time with. I'm just the girl who manipulated him into a pity date.
The cold seeps through my gloves, threading into my skin, into my bones, until my fingers feel stiff and useless where they grip the metal railing. The chill burns in that strange way only winter can—sharp and punishing and impossible to ignore. My shoulder throbs with a dull, persistent ache, a slow pulse of pain that no amount of medication seems to touch anymore.
But it's nothing compared to the hollow spreading through my chest.
That ache isn't just physical. It's cavernous. Like someone hollowed me out and left nothing but winter inside. Every breath feels thin, like the air doesn't quite reach where it's supposed to.
What was I thinking?
That I could really choreograph a perfect date for a perfect goodbye with an elaborate itinerary and a color-coded checklist? That if I stacked enough activities back-to-back, it would somehow force a spark that wasn't there? That if I smiled bright enough, talked fast enough, planned hard enough, I could make him look at me like he actually wanted to be here?
I knew this was pretend.
I knew this was temporary.
I just wanted one day.
One clean, beautiful memory I could fold up and keep.
One day where I could walk beside him without wondering if I was annoying him. One day where I could hold his hand and pretend it wasn't something I'd have to let go of tomorrow. One day to know what it would feel like if, for a few hours, he loved me.
I wasn't trying to manufacture intimacy. I was trying to give my heart a proper goodbye. To give these ten years of one-sided love a real farewell instead of something bitter.
To end the day with the sunset — that perfect moment when light bleeds into darkness — because I thought it would be a fitting metaphor for us. A beautiful ending to something that was never meant to last. My own private ceremony for a love that existed mostly in my imagination.
But even knowing that — knowing this was always meant to be an ending — there's still that stubborn, stupid part of me that hoped...
Just once.
Just for a second.
He'd look at me the way I've been looking at him for ten years.
And that's the part that hurts.
Because I wasn't trying to make him love me back. Not anymore.
I just needed one perfect day to say goodbye.
And somehow, even that feels like too much to ask.
I take a deep breath, wincing as the cold air hits my lungs. Time for my big girl pants again. Time to admit defeat.
With determined, wobbly strokes, I push away from the railing and propel myself toward Eli's distant figure. Each movement sends shockwaves of pain through my body, but I grit my teeth and keep going. One last conversation. One final goodbye. Then I can crawl back to my hotel room and lick my wounds in private.
When I finally manage to position myself in his path, he looks almost startled, as if he's forgotten I'm here. He stops abruptly, ice shavings spraying from his skates.
"What?" he asks, that familiar crease appearing between his eyebrows.
"It's okay," I say softly, my voice barely audible above the scrape of distant skates and children's laughter. "You can leave now if you want."
"What are you talking about?"
I sigh, my breath forming a small cloud between us. "This. The date. I'm letting you off the hook." I gesture vaguely around us. "I know you're just forcing yourself to stay, and it's... it's hard to pretend we're something we're not."
His expression shifts, something unreadable crossing his features. I rush to continue before I lose my nerve.
"It's okay, really. I'm already happy that you came to see me at all. That was more than I had any right to expect." I attempt a smile, though it feels fragile on my face. "You don't have to stay for the rest of it."
"Sam—"
"And don't worry about tomorrow," I interrupt, needing to get the words out before my throat closes up completely. "I'll keep my promise. I won't text. I won't call. I won't even look your way. It'll be like we're two strangers who never even met."
The words taste bitter as I say them, but they're true.
After today, after this date, I'll be nothing more than a footnote in his memory. The annoying girl who tricked him into a date. The one he was kind enough to humor for a few painful hours.
He stares at me.
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—a flash of alarm. But I brush it off. I must have imagined it. The freezing air is probably making my brain foggy.
"Sam—"
"It's okay," I say again, backing up slightly on the ice.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself.
"Thank you for today," I whisper.
"Are you done?" Eli asks, his voice strangely tight.
"I guess I am." I shrug, trying for nonchalance and probably failing miserably. "Thank you for trying, at least. I know this wasn't what you wanted to do after your game day."
I turn awkwardly on my skates, intending to make my way back to the rental counter, to turn in these torture devices and slink away with whatever dignity I have left. My legs feel unsteady beneath me, whether from physical weakness or emotional exhaustion, I can't tell anymore.
"Wait." Eli's hand closes around my wrist. "Just... wait a second."
I stop, not looking back, afraid of what I might see—or not see—in his face.
"I'm sorry," he says, the words so unexpected that I'm sure I've misheard.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," he repeats, louder this time. "I've been a complete jerk today."
I turn slowly to face him, disbelief warring with a treacherous flicker of hope in my chest. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." He runs his free hand through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed. "I agreed to this date, and then I acted like a sullen teenager being forced to attend a family reunion. That wasn't fair to you."
I stare at him, speechless. In all my fantasies about this day—and there have been many—I never imagined an apology. Tolerance, maybe. Grudging participation. But not this.
"I promise, from this moment on, I'll try to be a better... 'lover.'" The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly as he says the word, transforming his face in a way that makes my heart stutter.
"Really?" The word comes out embarrassingly breathless.
"Really." He nods, his hand still circling my wrist. "But can I make a suggestion?"
"What's that?"
"Let's forget about the plan."
"The plan?"
"Your list." He gestures to my pocket where my phone sits with its meticulously crafted itinerary. "Plans tend to put limits on what we can experience. They make us focus on checking boxes instead of being present."
"Oh." I hadn't thought of it that way.
"Let's do something spontaneous instead," he continues. "Make the most of what's left of our date."
"Okay." I nod enthusiastically, warmth blooming in my chest despite the chill in the air. "What did you have in mind?"
His lips curve into a conspiratorial smile that transforms his entire face. Suddenly, I'm looking at a different Eli than the one who's been dragging his feet through our day—this one has a spark in his eyes, a hint of mischief that I've only glimpsed on the hockey rink.
"It's a surprise," he says, the words carrying a playful weight. "But since we're already at the skating rink, we might as well spend some time here first. Then I'll take you to our next destination."
"I'd like that." My voice is soft, almost shy. "But I should warn you, I'm not exactly Olympic material on the ice."
"I noticed." His smile widens into something that might almost be a grin. "Come on, I'll help you."
I swallow hard, my cheeks burning despite the cold. "Do you think maybe we could...you know..." I gesture vaguely between our gloved hands, the words sticking in my throat.
"Hold hands?" Eli finishes for me, his voice impossibly soft.
Before I can nod, his fingers find mine, warm and sure as they intertwine. His thumb traces a small circle against my palm that sends electricity up my arm. "I was hoping you'd ask," he murmurs, giving my hand a gentle squeeze that somehow feels like a promise.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
He pushes off gently, pulling me along with him. My first few strokes are uncertain, wobbly, but his grip never wavers. Gradually, I find a rhythm that works, synchronizing my movements with his.
"There you go," he murmurs encouragingly as we complete our first circuit of the rink. "You're a natural."
"Liar," I laugh, but I'm secretly pleased. "I'm only upright because you're keeping me that way."
"Maybe," he concedes. "But you're getting the hang of it. Try to relax a little."
I attempt to loosen my death grip on his hand, conscious of how tense I must feel to him. "Sorry. I'm not used to this."
"The skating or the hand-holding?"
"Both," I admit.
He slows our pace slightly, adjusting to my comfort level. "How is it that you've never been ice skating before? Florida's got rinks."
"I've been a little busy," I say vaguely, not wanting to veer into territory that might ruin this fragile new dynamic between us. "Besides, falling on my face in public never ranked high on my bucket list."
"You're not going to fall." His voice carries a certainty that I wish I could bottle and drink on my darkest days. "I won't let you."
"This is nice," I say softly, half to myself.
"Yeah," Eli agrees, surprising me. "It is."
For the first time today, maybe for the first time ever, I feel like we're truly sharing the same moment, breathing the same air, experiencing the same reality.
"Want to try something a little more adventurous?" he asks after we've made several laps around the rink.
"Define 'adventurous,'" I say cautiously. "If it involves me doing anything remotely resembling a jump, I'm going to have to politely decline."
"Nothing that dramatic." He laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. "Just a little speed. Trust me?"
"Yes, I trust you."
His eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Then he nods, tightening his grip on my hand. "Hold on."
He increases our speed gradually, giving me time to adjust. The cold air rushes against my face, bringing color to my cheeks and tears to my eyes. But they're good tears—the kind that come from being fully alive in a moment, from feeling the boundary between yourself and the world grow thin and permeable.
We're flying now, our skates cutting clean lines across the ice. My legs burn with the effort, my lungs ache with the cold, but I don't care.
"You okay?"
"Never better."
His answering smile is like watching the sun break through clouds—unexpected, dazzling, worth the wait. And as we continue our circuit around the rink, hands clasped tight between us, I allow myself to believe—just for now, just for today—that maybe this isn't pretend after all.
As we make our way back toward the rental booth, I decide to try skating on my own for the last stretch. Eli releases my hand but stays close, watching me with an expression that makes my heart skip—like he's genuinely impressed by my wobbly progress.
I'm so busy basking in his attention that I miss the rough patch of ice ahead. My skate catches, and suddenly I'm pitching forward, arms windmilling. Before I can hit the ice, strong arms sweep around me, and I'm cradled against Eli's chest, my feet dangling in the air.
"Told you I wouldn't let you fall," he says with a wink that sends warmth cascading through me.
"My hero," I deadpan, trying to ignore the riot of butterflies in my stomach. "Very smooth move. Do you practice that rescue technique, or does it just come naturally with the hockey player territory?"
"Oh, it's all instinct," he says, not missing a beat. "We train for years in the ancient art of Damsel Interception. First you learn to skate, then how to hit the net, and then how to sweep a girl off her feet, in that order."
I laugh, a sound that bursts out of my nose and mouth at the same time—half snort, half giggle. My hand flies up to cover my lips, embarrassed.
His eyes lock onto mine, softening at the edges while somehow growing more intense at their centers, as if I've become the only point of light in the gray, snow-dusted rink around us. The slight crinkles beside them deepen as one corner of his mouth lifts in that crooked half-smile that transforms his whole face, revealing a dimple I'm almost certain wasn't there before.
He leans forward almost imperceptibly, just enough that a snowflake catches in his eyelashes and stays there, unmelting.
The cold air around us suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. My collar feels too tight, the wool of my coat suddenly suffocating, my skin prickling from the base of my neck all the way up to my hairline.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
He doesn't answer right away. His eyes linger on my face.
"I'm not sure," he says softly. "I just... find you breathtakingly beautiful when you laugh like that."
My breath catches. I blink once, twice, not believing what I just heard.
Did he just...
Eli's eyes widen too, as if he's just as surprised by his words. He drops his gaze almost immediately and carefully lowers me back onto my skates, his hands lingering a second longer than necessary before he steps back.
He shifts to the side and clears his throat, dragging his knuckles across his mouth in a failed attempt at composure, but the flush climbing up his neck betrays him completely. It spreads across his cheeks and stains the tips of his ears a violent shade of red.
"You know," he mutters, staring very intently at the ice, "that's... that's the kind of thing boyfriends say to their girlfriends."
He rubs the back of his neck.
"Not that I'm your boyfriend. Obviously. I just— I mean—"
"Just you staying in character as my boyfriend for the day?" I finish for him, barely fighting off an amused grin.
"Yeah! Exactly," He snaps his fingers and points at me. "Full commitment to the role because I refuse to be a mediocre temporary boyfriend."
He grabs my hand. "Come on, let's go."
As we skate back to the rental booth, I can't hide my grin anymore. How could I, when this is the first time I've seen Eli so wonderfully flustered?