She digs her snowshoe into the fresh powder and kicks out like a punter. The spray blows back into her face, and she laughs. “Okay. If you lose, same goes.”

“Done.” I take off my glove and extend my hand. Skin to skin, we shake on it, and then I nail that spot not once, but twice.

Logan stares at me, wide-eyed, mouth gaping. “How did I not know you could do that? You should be playing baseball for the Riviere Rockets.”

I shrug. “I played in elementary and middle school, but after Grandpa died, we couldn’t afford to hire summer help. Practices and games were during our busiest times. So I quit.”

“But didn’t you love it?”

The tiny fissure scarring my heart aches. I can’t afford to let it matter. I keep my voice steady and expression neutral because my answer isn’t only about baseball, it’s also about her. “I’ve wanted a lot of things I can’t have. It’s how it is, Logan. I try not to think about what I can’t do or what I can’t have because it doesn’t change a thing.” Sympathy fills her face, and that only makes things worse. I’ve shut down every fantasy I’ve had of having more than just friendship between us for so long, that this feels dangerously close to a confession. I can’t have that. I form another snowball and aim for another branch, then say, “Giving up baseball wasn’t a huge sacrifice. I love the inn more.”

She nods. It’s slow and contemplative. “Sometimes I envy you. How settled and sure you are of your future. I don’t have that. Studying history at Georgetown is just something to do until I figure things out.”

Logan’s right. Since I was a little boy, I’ve imagined growing old like my grandparents and running the inn with my own family. More recently, that dream has included her.

I shut that thought down and say, “It’ll work out, and whatever you choose will be amazing.”

“You’re sure about that?”

I smile. “A hundred percent.”

She starts walking and once again I trail behind. She turns away from the fort, and I breathe a sigh of relief as we trudge along a plowed road. We pass three old brick-and-stone buildings that Logan tells me were built in 1905 and were originally used for army provisions and for baking bread. Given her love of all things history, it’s no surprise she knows these details. When we approach a fourth, smaller building, Logan shuffles up a snow-covered ramp, then removes her snowshoes. She motions for me to do the same.

The building is dark. I try the door, but it’s locked. “What is this place?” I whisper, not out of reverence, but because I’m 99 percent certain we shouldn’t be here. What is Logan up to?