He pulls me into a hug, quick, like it’s against his better judgment. But then he holds on, breathing me in, everything unsaid hanging between us.
And as much as I want to argue against his stance, I know better than anyone that you can’t force people to change.
I reluctantly pull back and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you around the neighborhood, Cal.”
And then I walk away, the holidays officially at an end.
Chapter 7
The sun streams into my window the next morning, and I pull the covers over my head. I don’t want to face this day. My boring day without any holiday to celebrate and no one to celebrate with.
Although I guess technically it’s the second day of Christmas, since Cal’s mom rightfully pointed out that there are twelve.
Ugh. Now the “Twelve Days of Christmas” song is stuck in my head, and the cheeriness is making me want to pull the covers around myself even harder.
“Two turtledoves” is today. I want to text Cal about why turtledoves have “turtle” in their name, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to.
I don’t knowwhoCal is to me now.
But that thought makes me sit up.
Because I realize ... Idoknow.
He’s the guy who carries my snacks in his bag. He’s the guy who loves being the unsung team player. He’s the guy who fell in love with a girl at seven when she climbed a tree. He’s the guy who lifts up a scrawny kid to make him feel tall. He’s the guy who listens intently to a bored old lady’s story about her friend’s cousin. He’s the guy who’d do anything to heal a wound. He’s the guy. He’s meant to bemyguy.
And he’s not broken. He’s not half. I can’t stand that he thinks that about himself; it’s sowrong.
I have to tell him. Screw being responsible and not wanting to push. He pushes people around for a living! Surely he’d appreciate getting a push himself when he needs it.
I throw off the covers and grab my nearest pair of jeans. I bound down the stairs and fling open the door, ready to march over to Cal’s house and tell him to stop being so scared.
But when I step outside, he’s already in front of me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I, um ...” He blushes and holds out a bouquet. But it’s unlike any bouquet I’ve ever seen.
“Is that . . . ?”
“It’s a cheese bouquet,” he says. I look closer. Salami rolled to look like roses; blocks of cheese shaped like tulips; rosemary for greenery stems. It really is a goddamn cheese bouquet. “Well,” he continues as I stare, “cheeseandcharcuterie, because they make pretty good-looking fake flowers. I saw it on Pinterest when I was looking for something for someone who loves cheese, and—”
“Youmadethis?”
“Well, yeah.”
“For me?”
“No, I thought I’d go to Harris Teeter at seven in the morning to make a bouquet for one of your sisters. Think I have a chance?”
I lightly punch him in the arm, and he grins.
“You went to Harris Teeter first thing in the morning to source cheese to make something you saw on Pinterest?” I confirm.
“Well, the good cheese shop doesn’t open until eleven.”
“Goat. Sheep. Cow?”
“Yup.”
