The door pushes open behind her. Jules pokes her head out. “Stop kissing and get in here!”
I don’t let go of Rory. “We’ll be right there.”
“We’re not kissing,” Rory says over her shoulder, but her eyes stay locked on my face.
And maybe that’s the problem.
The rest of Christmas Eve spirals from there. Chaotic, noisy, slightly exasperating. But underneath all of that is a low sizzle of anticipation for bedtime, when everyone else is finally quiet, finally asleep, and I can pin Rory down.
Maybe literally.
Roll her beneath me on the old couch and make her talk about her fears.
By the time people start to head upstairs, it’s all I can think about. A couple of glasses of egg nog have dulled my responses, too, so I don’t clue in fast enough when Rory’s dad hangs back when she goes into the downstairs bathroom to change into her best Christmas pyjamas.
“You know, Garrett,” Dante says. “I was thinking about what we talked about earlier.”
I frown in confusion. “The tree decorating?”
“No.” He chuckles good-naturedly. “The question of a wedding?—”
“Yeah, no, we don’t need to talk about that now,” I say quickly, shaking my head.
“No, I know you kids will do it your own way, but I’ve been thinking about repurposing the barn into an event space. It would be nice to have a wedding here, I’m just saying. Maybe next summer.”
Behind him, there’s a crash, and Rory comes stumbling out of the bathroom in the most dramatic, she-definitely-heard-that reaction.
I hold up my hands. “It’s nothing.”
Dante laughs. “Getting married isn’tnothing, son. I know you said that it’s not about money, but if we can makeit easier on you, then that’s a good thing.” He glances back and forth between me and Rory. “Right?”
I don’t answer him.
Rory doesn’t answer him.
She looksfurious.
“Rory and I haven’t talked about it,” I finally say, because that’s the truth.
He sighs and turns to go upstairs, but stops beside his daughter. “Oh, Aurora. Don’t leave this one hanging for too long. You might lose him.”
All the blood drains from her face.
Fuuuuck.
As soon as he’s gone, I try to make it right, but she doesn’t let me get very many words out. “That’s not?—”
“Let’s just go to bed,” she mutters, her gaze determinedly focused on the shorter of the two couches, now made up into a bed for her.
Fury rises. “What about talking?”
“I don’t want totalk,” she snaps.
This isn’t healthy, the way that we fight, how angry I get when she pulls away, how she snarls when she’s feeling defensive.
But I’ve spent the last few months thinking a lot about the why of it all, and I don’t believe for a second that Rory is mad at me when she snaps. I think she’s scared.
I just don’t know what she’s scared about.
