“And how long is a bit?”
“A couple of weeks? You’vealwaysbeen good with people. And your window displays were better than mine even when you were fifteen and moody.”
“I wasartistic,” he corrected.
“You wereunbearable,” she said fondly. She paused. “I could pay you. Not much, but some. Room and board. And you can work your design gigs at night.”
He snorted. “And when will I sleep?”
“January, like everyone else. And we’re talking temporary.”
They stood there, the mixer humming in the background.
He’d planned this trip like a pit stop: in Friday, out Sunday, just enough family to prove he still had some. But Boston was a cold apartment with the couch indent still shaped like his ex. Four years together and then,boom—his boyfriend came down with a case of ambition that proved as subtle as a wrecking ball.I love you, El, but I need more.
More what? Speed? Noise? Someone with an organizer instead of a heart?
“I don’t want to get sucked into the festival,” he said, hedging. “You know how I get. This town turns into a Hallmark movie, and I turn into a Scrooge with a Pinterest board.”
Aileen’s face fell. “I know holidays weren’t great for you. For us.” The divorce had made Christmas a relay race: Dad’s on odd years, Mom’s on even, the cheer always a little brittle, ornaments breaking and somebody crying in the laundry room. He still couldn’t hear “Silent Night” without wanting to apologize for nothing in particular.
She leaned in, her gaze warm. “But you don’t have to perform here. You can just…be. And maybe let me perform enough for both of us.”
The thing about Aileen was that she never saidI need youunless she truly meant it. He looked at her tired face, at the racks of cookies waiting to be iced, the stack of take-home pie boxes with lopsided snowmen he’d painted last year while tipsy on eggnog and sentimentality.
“How temporary is temporary?” His tone was pure caution.
“Through New Year’s,” she said. “Then you can run back to your glamorous life of arguing with clients about hex codes.”
He blinked. “And what doyouknow about hex codes?” He laughed, a small, surprised sound that unclenched his chest.
I could say no.He’d practiced saying no to a lot of things lately, including the urge to text his ex at 2 a.m.
He could also hear the echo of the wordhelpand the way it had always been a rope between them.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Just for the season.”
She didn’t whoop or cry, but squeezed his wrist, quick and grateful, as if any greater display of emotion might scare him all the way back to his car and onto the highway.
“Great,” she said briskly. “You can start by carrying fifty-pound bags of flour like a festive mule.”
“Ah, the holiday spirit,” he said. “Backbreaking labor and carbohydrates.”
He worked until twilight, when the sky over Mapleford did its winter trick and went navy in a heartbeat. He hauled flour and sugar and tried not to ruin the royal icing. Aileen taught him which cookie cutters were non-negotiable.“Moose, yes. Lobster, no. We are not a novelty state.”He made the window display a little less chaotic, moving the ceramic houses so their tiny streets formed a loop, and tucking fairy lights into the fake snow so it glowed instead of screamed.
When the last customer left and the CLOSED sign hung in the door, they locked up. The street was mostly dark, save for the diner’s harsh neon light and the pharmacy window whereDennis Harvey had put a Santa hat on a blood pressure cuff again. Their breath came out in ghostlike plumes.
Aileen glanced at his hands. “Good, you remembered the rolls. Mom will be calling me any second now, wanting to know if you’ve arrived.”
“Can I ask where I’m sleeping tonight?”
“You’re crashing at my place. Your old room smells of paint: Mom is turning it into a craft room. And no, you can’t stop off at my place first. You’ll disappear into emails and I won’t see you till Easter.”
“Wow,” he said. “Drag me, why don’t you?”
Then he steeled himself for the inevitable interrogation.
Thanksgiving dinner had been its usual combination of too many side dishes, a turkey that should’ve been brined, and mashed potatoes that tasted exactly as they always had when he was a child. His stepdad Trevor asked a ton of questions—How’s work? Still doing logos?—and Eli answered with the minimum amount of information. His half-brother and two half-sisters swarmed around him, filling the air with the constant buzz of chatter and squeals, and more than once he escaped into the pantry to breathe for a minute.
