“Listen, LeBron, we aren’t all star athletes like you and your point guard friends.”

“First of all, LeBron James is a star forward, not a point guard, and not that it matters, but I never played basketball. I’m a terrible shot.”

“Whatever. You’re not even breaking a sweat back there, are you?”

“You are?” he asks incredulously. “It’s forty-five degrees out, figure skater.”

I don’t think a response is necessary. Though my lack of fitness is embarrassing and something I vow to rectify starting tomorrow.

We finish a set of stairs before winding around a few boulders and pine trees and finding ourselves at yet another set of stairs. It’s never ending. I decide to concentrate on my foot placement and manage the last four climbs with my head down and my breathing not quite steady, but at least I’ve stopped panting so loudly. The ice rink said they could definitely use me next session, which means I have less than a month to get back in shape or I’m about to make a fool out of myself in front of God and all my new students.

When we get to the top, Micah steadies me against the urge to fall backward and takes my hand holding the flashlight. He clicks off the light and passes it back to me while tugging me along to the viewing deck.

The breeze up here is chilly and lifts the sweaty hair stuck to the back of my neck, cooling me. Micah brings me to the railing, and we look out over the inky, moonlit silhouette of Marquette and Lake Superior. Lights glitter from downtown, but they’re nothing compared to the zillions of stars winking overhead. I’ve never seen a night like this. It’s unbelievable.

“Holy bananas, this is pretty,” I say.

“It’s my favorite,” he says, his breath puffing out in front of him. I rub my arms, and he removes the backpack he’s been wearing. Unzipping it, he takes out a stocking cap and pulls it over my ears, kissing the tip of my nose as he does. Next, he takes a scarf out and wraps it around my neck so many times I can barely move. But it smells like him, and I decide I don’t really need to move anyway. Just write SHE DIED HAPPY, HER LUNGS FULL OF GOODNESS, THE END on my headstone.

He turns me gently, gesturing to a couple of nice wooden benches built into the deck, and we sit, cuddled together, listening to the wind blow. After a moment, he reaches into his pack and pulls out a thermos, unscrewing the cap. “Hot chocolate?” he offers.

“How are you even real?” I ask as I reach for the cup.

“You’re always drinking hot chocolate, Meg. It wasn’t a reach.”

“Shhh,” I say. “Let me believe you are perfect.”

“Far from,” he says.