“When I was nearly seven, I woke up especially early on Christmas morning, eager to see what Father Christmas had left in my stocking, but when I snuck downstairs in the wee hours, my sock was empty.”
My stomach clenches uncomfortably.
“My parents were shocked. Their stockings were empty too, and none of us understood why our house had been skipped. I couldn’t make any sense of it. I’d always been well-behaved, but that year I feared I’d done something without realizing it, or I’d been naughty by accident, and I was an undeserving lad. I didn’t want to leave my room. I was so sad, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong.”
I don’t want to move into his space but I’m dying to comfort the little boy he was, to tell him that an empty stocking is not a reflection of his goodness. Gosh, I hope his parents drilled that into him.
Gavin continues to look at the stocking. “Granny called to wish me a happy Christmas, and I told her why it wasn’t happy at all. She convinced me to come to her house for Christmas lunch with my family, and when I arrived, a full stocking was waiting on the mantelpiece for me. Santa had left it at the wrong house.”
“Bless that woman.”
Gavin smiles softly. “She did that sort of thing a lot over the years. After that, we didn’t put stockings up at our house. The next year, I only wanted it up at Granny’s, because I worried Santa would make another mistake and filltwostockings.”
“The logic of a seven-year-old.”
“It can’t be faulted,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t love these stockings. They’ve never hung on a mantelsince that year, actually. But they’re only for decoration, I suppose. We can hang them now.”
I reach for his wrist, which makes him grow still. “Let’s wait. We don’t need them. The mantel looks great the way it is.”
Gavin searches my expression. “I’m not as fragile as I sound.”
My heart cracks. He might be well into his twenties now, mature and capable and strong, but the bravery in that statement is couched in a lifetime of hardships.
“We’re all fragile,” I counter. “There’s no trophy for pretending you’re unbreakable. It’s okay to recognize your limits and set boundaries where you need to.”
“Your degree is showing, Callie.”
“Good. That means I’m not totally wasting my time.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t think it’s actually a waste, truly.”
“As long as my ex is suffocating me and his girlfriend is failing my clinicals, it feels pretty useless.”
“Why don’t you move to a different university?”
“That’s not as easy as it sounds. I can’t be certain everything will transfer, so the last five and a half years of my life will have been for nothing.” I shake out my shoulders. “It’s only four and a half more years. I can get through it.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s not forever.”
“No, but it’s long. Can you get a new teacher for your clinical hours?”
As though I haven’t tried. “There isn’t one. It’s her or no one, and she hates me so much.”
“Perhaps you ought to remind her that the faster she passes you, the faster you’ll be out of there.”
“She’s going to pass me, but she’ll make me work for it.” I rub my eyes. “It’s crazy. I’ve only been away for one week, and I feel like I can breathe easier.”
“Someone once gave me good advice about understanding our limits and setting up proper boundaries. Do you know yours?”
I stare at him. It is good advice, and it applies to Gavin and the memories that sour the holidays for him. But does it apply to me and school? I can’t create boundaries for a system that UCLA has put in place, not really. I have to check off their list of demands, then they give me the diploma. That’s how the system works.
“Easier to dole out the advice than take it?” he guesses.
“Sometimes. I can see your situation more clearly, at least. What little I know of it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You don’t want to know more, trust me.”
