“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Yes. Merry Christmas to you as well.”
Once we were alone and sitting on the sofa, I turned to give him my full attention. “What happened? Was something wrong with the overnight patients at the clinic?”
He was momentarily confused. “Oh no, they’re okay. Doing well, actually.”
“Oh, good.”
“I missed the eight o’clock text,” he said.
Oh no, wasthatwhat he was upset over?
“Deacon, it’s fine.”
He shook his head. “I had one ready to send but it wasn’t right. It was a Christmas Day one... What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more’.” He winced. “It is Christmas Day, after all.”
“It’s a beautiful line,” I said gently. “Seuss, right?”
He nodded.
“I love that movie. It’s on our list to watch today.”
He frowned. “It’s not the one I wanted to send. Like yesterday’s as well. That was the Christmas Eve one so I had to send it, even though my favorite line is the sugarplum one. I was going to save this one until tomorrow, but I wanted to send it today. But then I’d have missed the Christmas Day one, and I was trying to decide all morning, but then I ended up missing it and sending none...”
I reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze, not for long, just a moment. But then he was quick to grab my hand before I could pull it back.
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,” he whispered. “And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
I stared at him.
“Is that... what you wanted to send me?”
He nodded and gave me a tortured, embarrassed smile. “To reference your Cupid. It wears a blindfold so it can only know by heart.”
“Shakespeare,A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“You know it?”
“Of course I do,” I said, my eyes burning. “It’s only the most beautiful words ever written.” A stupid tear escaped my eye, and I scrubbed it away. “Deacon, it’s beautiful.”
“I don’t know if I believe Cupid found us, but... it’s how I feel. I’m not good with expressing myself,” he whispered, gripping my fingers now, his hand trembling. “I get overwhelmed, and the words get stuck in my head. But these poems say it for me. Each one I’ve sent you is what I wished I could say.”
My chin wobbled and I had to wipe away another tear. “If you want to quote poems of love to me, that’s more than okay. In fact, it’s almost better.”
“Then why are you crying?”
I let out a super classy snotty laugh. “Because I’m a sap. And I’m a romantic, and I love books and poetry, and you combine them all. You’re so perfect for me. I love you, Deacon. There, I said it. It’s true. You’re just,” I shrugged. “Like the best of Shakespeare and Byron and Keats and Dickinson all combined, just for me.”
He smiled, blushing and shy. “I didn’t want you to be mad or disappointed. I hadn’t forgotten to text you. I just... it wasn’t right and then I got all caught up in my head.”
“I could never be mad or disappointed. I thought you might have got busy at work, that’s all.”
Ro scoffed as she walked out, clearly having heard my little white lie. “I’m making Christmas pancakes. Deacon, would you like to stay for breakfast?”
He looked at me, as if asking for permission. “I like pancakes,” he whispered.
“Yes, he’ll stay,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze.
Then he frowned. “What are Christmas pancakes?”
