Page 72 of Huge Pucking Play

He takes the box from my hands, examining it closely before heading to the counter. Before I can protest, he's purchasing it.

"Garrett, you don't have to?—"

"I want to," he says simply, passing me the wrapped package. "Something to remember today."

We continue exploring, drifting from store to store. Garrett patiently waits while I try on a scarf, then helps me choose between two nearly identical pairs of earrings. In a store full of quirky kitchen gadgets, I discover he's surprisingly knowledgeable about cooking equipment.

"I got into cooking after I retired," he explains, examining a specialized pasta maker. "All that free time. I needed a creative outlet."

By noon, our stomachs are grumbling, and we find a small bistro with outdoor seating. The host seats us at a corner table beneath a gorgeous red maple.

"This is perfect," I say, settling into my chair. "I'm starving."

"I am so happy to hear that," Garrett replies with a wink.

Over lunch—a hearty sandwich for him, soup and half a sandwich for me—our conversation deepens.

"Do you think about going back to New York?" I ask.

He considers this, taking a sip of his water. "Sometimes. I've got friends there. But it never felt like home, not really. Even when I was playing there."

"And Chicago does?"

His eyes meet mine, steady and warm. "It's starting to."

Something in his gaze makes me blush and look down at my soup. "What about you?" he asks. "Ever think about leaving Chicago?"

"Not seriously. My mom's here. My job's here." I hesitate. "Now other things are here too."

His smile is soft, understanding what I'm not explicitly saying.

After lunch, Garrett insists we visit a chocolate shop we walked by earlier. It's a charming place with glass cases displaying handmade truffles in dozens of flavors.

"Let’s buy two of each," he says, watching my eyes widen at the selection.

"Don’t think I won’t," I warn.

I select an assortment—dark chocolate with sea salt, dark chocolate with caramel, dark chocolate with raspberry—while Garrett chooses a few others. The shopkeeper packages them in a pretty box tied with ribbon.

"For later," Garrett says, tucking the box into a shopping bag. "I have other plans first."

Those plans include walking to the covered bridge that serves as the town's landmark. It's a beautiful wooden structure spanning a small creek. Inside, the light filters through in golden slats, creating a dappled pattern on the wooden planks.

"People used to think covered bridges were good luck," Garrett says, his voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space. "Some called them kissing bridges."

"Is that so?" I raise an eyebrow, stepping closer to him.

"Historical fact," he says solemnly, but his eyes are playful.

"Well, we can't argue with history." I reach up, pulling him down to me.

His kiss is gentle, his hand coming to rest on my waist. When we part, something feels shifted, cemented.

After the bridge, we find the ice cream shop down the street. Despite the chocolates waiting for later, I can't resist the call of hand-scooped nondairy chocolate in a waffle cone. We sit on a bench in the small-town square, people watching.

Garrett trades me a bite of his salted caramel, which is also nondairy, for a taste of my chocolate. The simple act—sharing ice cream on a bench on a Wednesday afternoon—feels precious. He laughs at something I say, his whole face transforming, and it hits me with sudden clarity:

I love him.

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