Page 73 of The Official Problem
“I seem to remember I outskated you two to one on those laps.”
Matthieu huffed, loud and dramatic. It was unfortunately true.
“What do you say? Think you can hold your own now?”
Just like that, the gauntlet was thrown. Matthieu took off before he could even answer—too fast on brand-new skates, too hard right out of the gate. He refused to lose. Kieran kept pace effortlessly, showing no signs of the burn already creeping up Matthieu’s thighs. Kieran laughed as Matthieu called out each lap number, and soon Matthieu was laughing too, which only made him more out of breath. His endurance was good, but Kieran’s was better.
With ten laps to go, Kieran pulled ahead, clearly saving all his energy for the final push. In the end, he beat Matthieu, who still had five laps left but was already doubled over, trying not to puke on the ice.
“Show-off,” he gritted out, parroting the same words he’d thrown at Kieran all those years ago.
“Always,” Kieran shot back—same tone, same cocksure wink he’d used when they were barely more than kids.
In that moment, Matthieu was reminded exactly why he’d always been powerless when it came to Kieran Goddamn Lloyd.
TWENTY-SEVEN
KIERAN
They went straight from the rink to the hospital, where Matthieu’s mom was awake and, according to the nurse on duty, in good spirits. It didn’t hit Kieran until he stepped into the room that this was the first time he was meeting Matthieu’s mother. She was propped up in her hospital bed—robe on, blankets tucked up to her chest, hands folded over a worn paperback sitting in her lap. Kieran moved to introduce himself, but Matthieu stopped him with a slight shake of his head, as if to sayWait a moment.
“Hello, dears,” she said, a kind smile spreading across her face. She looked small. Tired and dainty in her jumble of blankets, with wires snaking out from under them, leading to relentlessly beeping machines. “Can I help you?”
She said this directly to Kieran. He suddenly felt out of place, like he should’ve stayed in the lobby. How was he supposed to explain what he was to Matthieu when they hadn’t even defined it themselves?
Matthieu would probably want him to say he was a friend. That was safest. Kieran wasn’t sure he could get those words out even if he were forced. He was certain hearing Matthieu describe him that way would feel like a skate to the chest.
But then Matthieu reached out a stiff hand for his mother to shake. He introducedhimselfby his first name, nudging Kieran forward to do the same, saying, “How is your Christmas going so far, Ms. Bouchard? We heard you could use some company.”
She answered without missing a beat, “That’s so nice of you. My family couldn’t make it.” Then added, “Please call me Sylvie. Take a seat, take a seat.”
They both sat down. Kieran wasn’t sure if he could touch Matthieu right now, but he desperately needed the contact. He reached out, his fingertips grazing Matthieu’s as they drummed an anxious rhythm against his thigh. Matthieu turned his palm up and let Kieran slot their hands together. Everything instantly felt better.
“What did you say your name was, dear?”
“Matthieu,” he said again. “And this is Kieran.”
“Oh, yes, yes. That’s right.”
Kieran turned to study the side of Matthieu’s face, expecting hurt, but saw only—relief? So Kieran sat and listened while Sylvie told stories about her children, like one of them wasn’t sitting right in front of her. Matthieu participated in the conversation as if he weren’t the topic of it. Kieran could tell from Matthieu’s face he didn’t remember the stories quite the same way she did. Still, he was patient, asking thoughtful questions, never hurrying her when she got lost mid-thought.
“Oh, I don’t know why I can’t remember their names.” She looked embarrassed. “My mind isn’t as young as it once was. I have a daughter. She is so beautiful, with long black hair. And a boy. Older. Serious. Always thinking intensely about something, that one.”
It took serious self-control not to laugh, especially when Kieran caught the smirk curling at the corners of Matthieu’s mouth and the glint in his eyes as he glanced sideways at Kieran.
Sylvie drifted off to sleep mid-sentence not long after, the excitement of visitors finally catching up with her.
“We should go,” Matthieu whispered, his hand still clasped tightly around Kieran’s.
They bundled back up to brave the cold and wished the hospital staff a Merry Christmas as they left. Kieran expected that familiar silence to fall over Matthieu, the kind he got whenthinking intensely about something.Instead, a smile was plastered across his face. A real one this time, not the practiced version from the hospital room.
“Today was a good day,” Matthieu said firmly, like if he said it confidently enough, it would make it true.
“Is that hard for you?” It sounded like a stupid question once Kieran said it aloud. He hadn’t been able to read the emotion, or lack of it, on Matthieu’s face as he sat by his mother’s side. “When she doesn’t remember, I mean?”
Matthieu turned to him in the middle of the parking lot, empty but still exposed for all to see, and pressed a kiss to Kieran’s cheek.
“It’s harder when she does remember me,” he confessed. “When I’m a stranger, I get a glimpse of what things might’ve been like if they were different. She gets to be happy, and I get to have a mother.”
