“Picnics are typically a summery activity, at least this far up north,” I say when the kiss ends. “I’ve never heard of a New Year’s picnic.”
“Neither have I.” He grabs another blanket from the pile and folds it until it’s like a cushion. “Your seat.” As I make myself comfortable, he does the same for himself, and soon we’re sitting cross-legged across from each other, smiling like loons, accompanied by the relentless roar of the ocean and the dancing snowflakes. Isak grabs one of the flasks and pours chocolate into the cap before handing it to me. Then he pours coffee for himself from the other.
He holds up the cup. “I’d like to propose a toast.”
“Okay. What for?”
“To the best year of my life.”
I raise my cup, too. “I’ll drink to that. Here’s to being true to yourself.”
“And to findi
