Chapter 24
Baptiste
Our first Hamptons beach day was a success. We’re all a little tanner, have sand in every place imaginable—or maybe it’s just me—and are pleasantly exhausted in that satisfying, end-of-summer-day way that makes your limbs feel heavy and your head light.
And of course, because everything is a competition with this group, we played some beach volleyball, and the winners got to choose what we’re doing tonight. The girls chose an old-school roller rink.
“For the fifth time,” Beth sighs, exasperated, “you guys are hockey players. You know how to skate.”
“On ice!” Adler retorts.
“You’re just scared you’ll fall on your butt,” Marissa says with a chuckle. “I, for one, am an excellent skater. And it’s been a while since I’ve roller-skated. Besides, we practically live at the rink.”
“Yeah, because we like it,” Adler insists.
We head inside, and it’s immediately clear that this is the place to be around here.
People of every age are skating in a clockwise flow around the ring, although most of them look to be about half ours.
The rink is a huge oval, with a DJ booth in the middle under a disco ball, neon lights flashing, lasers cutting through a light haze—it’s like an oversized teenage house party frozen in time.
“This place is so cute,” Alice squeals, eyes gleaming.
“Should we get drinks first?” Auston suggests, and we head toward the bar.
I pay for the first round, and we grab a table overlooking the rink. Couples skate past hand in hand, teenagers wobble dramatically, and pint-sized kids zoom across the acrylic floor like they were born on wheels. To the left, a guy in short shorts and a headband spins confidently to the music.
Beth finishes off her drink. “So, are we just going to watch them, or do we join the fun?”
Despite a few groans from Deacon, Adler, and Miles, we all eventually end up in line to get our skates.
And let me tell you something—these things are horrible.
Branding aside, I’m pretty sure these quads were actually made in the 80s.
We’re talking scuffed leather, stiff tongues, and laces that feel like they’ve survived several decades of abuse.
“These aren’t skates, they’re torture devices,” Adler says, holding his skate by the laces and staring at the antique footwear with pure disdain. “If none of us breaks a knee, we’ll be lucky.”
Beth winces as she puts hers on. “They’re not that bad. Come on—you’re tough hockey players. Skates are your thing.”
“They’re quads!” Miles exclaims.
“Are you whining because you’re used to your custom-made pro skates or whatever?” Harper asks, lacing hers.
“Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt to have skates molded to your feet,” Miles says. “Given the amount of time we spend on them, it’s a necessity, not a luxury.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Marissa says, shaking her head.
“Maybe Deacon and I can just watch you guys,” Auston suggests, adjusting his ballcap. “You know, take pictures.”
“Don’t worry,” Emma reassures him. “I’m not a skater either. We can just stick to the rails.”
Eventually, everyone gets their skates laced up, and we painfully hobble toward the rink.
The sensation is so strange. It’s a little like ice skating, sure, but the differences are striking.
There’s less grip, for one, like someone made it their mission to polish the floor to be as slippery as possible.
You virtually have no control over your own feet.
Turning feels floaty and unpredictable, like I’m being dragged behind my own movements.
The only real similarity is balance—stay centered, or you’re done for.
“This floor feels like it’s been buttered,” Adler mutters, slipping past me.
Miles pushes off carefully, testing his balance, then breaks into an offended scowl when the wheels don’t respond the way blades would. “This is… wrong,” he says.
Marissa skates past him with practiced confidence. “You’ll survive.”
Adler gains momentum too quickly, which results in a dramatic wobble and a near collision with Alice, who shrieks and grabs on to Deacon’s arm.
“Nope. Absolutely not,” Deacon grunts. “I’m out.”
Beth and Emma cling to the railing at first, laughing, and Harper is clutching my hands for dear life. I’m not even that stable myself, but I focus all my efforts on keeping both of us from falling flat on this floor, which somehow seems more unforgiving than the ice.
Harper’s fingers tighten around mine every time one of her wheels skids unexpectedly, her grip instinctive, trusting. I adjust my stance, widening it just enough to steady us both, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
“Okay,” she says through a breathy laugh, eyes fixed on her feet. “This is worse than I imagined.”
“You’re doing great,” I tell her, even though my own legs are screaming lies. “Just—don’t think too much.”
She glances up at me then, cheeks flushed, a few wavy tresses escaping her ponytail. “Says the guy who looks like he’s defusing a bomb.”
I huff out a laugh. “I am. And you’re the bomb.”
Her mouth curves up, and for a second she seems to forget about her feet. Big mistake.
Her right foot slips forward, sending her reeling back.
I react without thinking, one arm sliding around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. We both wobble and spin a one-eighty but somehow manage to stay upright. She presses close to me, slightly out of breath from her near fall.
“You okay?” I ask, turning her around to face me.
“I’m fine.” She chuckles, still breathless. “Thank goodness you have the same reflexes out here as on the ice.”
“As if I’d ever let you fall.” I grin.
“My hero,” she says, clutching a hand to her chest, her mock dramatics making me laugh.
I reach up, brush a loose strand of hair from her face, and cup her chin, my thumb grazing her skin. “Tell me. How is it possible that you’re more beautiful than ever?” I murmur. “Even under these aggressively unflattering neon lights.”
I lean in and kiss her, slow and sure, and she melts into me for a heartbeat, before she pulls back, one hand flattening against my chest to steady herself. The squeak of her skates sounds like a protest.
“Don’t make this weird now,” she says, rolling her eyes, though her smile is shaky. “Come on, let’s go.”
My stomach tightens. Why does she always say things like that? Like we’re just kidding around. Like this doesn’t mean anything, when for me, it’s already everything. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s just me.
That’s it. I can’t keep dancing around these doubts. Maybe I should just ask her and finally get some clarity. While I know it’s not exactly the best time or place, at least in these skates, she won’t be able to run away and avoid my questions. At least, that’s what I’m going with.
I tug her hand gently. “Actually, can I talk to you for a second?”
Her smile falls, and she bites her lip. “Sure.”
We skate carefully toward the edge of the rink, fingers grazing the railing for support. Adler zooms past us, clearly far more comfortable now, as he shouts something triumphant that I ignore completely.
“What’s up?” Harper asks, not quite meeting my eyes.
“What are we doing?” My breath comes shallow. “This, us. Are we dating? Is it serious? Casual?” I swallow. “I know not everything needs a label, but I have to know where this relationship is going.”
“Where is this coming from?” she asks, dodging the question.
My jaw clenches. “You always joke about ‘not hating me.’ Or how you ‘tolerate me more than other people.’” My voice drops.
“I guess I’m tired of pretending we’re just friends who kiss sometimes, when the truth is, I’m falling in love with you so hard, I’m scared I won’t be able to come back from it. ”
Her face tightens, gaze dropping to the floor between our skates. “Baptiste, I don’t—”
“Please,” I say, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. “If you don’t feel the same way, just say so. I’d rather know. Just… tell me if it’s only me.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “It’s not. I just…” She glances around, as if searching for the words. Miles and Marissa skate by, hands linked, laughter following in their wake. “I just have a hard time opening up. I’ve lost so much already.”
“But you’re not going to lose me,” I say quietly, inching closer despite the risk of falling. “I’m in love with you, Harper. I’ve never felt this way before. It scares me, but it’s the truth.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, and she holds it this time, raw and unguarded. “It scares me too,” she whispers. “Because I feel exactly the same.”
My heart stills at her words. Careful not to throw us off balance, I lean forward and press my lips to hers—soft at first, then deeper.
Her free hand slides up my chest as if to remind herself I’m real, that this is real.
The rink, the pulsating lights, the deafening chatter—they all fade away as our mouths lock in a gentle dance.
And as we kiss, unashamed, I realize I’ve never been happier than I am right now.
It wasn’t just me.