“I don’t know.” I sound like an evasive teenager caught in a lie.
“I told you,” I go on. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Then why let me do it in the first place?”
“Well, why did you want to do it so badly?” The words come out too sharp, harsher than I intended.
“You might think I’m naïve, silly, or stupid,” she snaps.
“I don’t think you’re stup?—”
“But I honestly believe that everyone deserves to enjoy Christmas. Go ahead. Look at me like I’m an idiot. I mean it. Sincerely, honestly. I actually reallymeanit, Damian.”
Her conviction punctures straight through my defenses.
I step forward. Touch her hand. Not by accident this time. Not like when I took the book from her. I touch my best friend’s sister’s hand and hold it. Stroke my thumb along her knuckles.
“Taking them down was a mistake,” I say.
She gasps, like she never expected me to admit that.
“I didn’t know how much it meant to you. Or if you were even going to come back.”
“Did you…” She hesitates, cheeks glowing red, then pushes on. “Want me to? Come back, I mean.”
If I answered honestly, I’d just tell her yes. I’d tell her she’s been on my mind far more often than she has any right to be, that it’s been strangely difficult to stop thinking about her.
Instead, I go for truth disguised as sarcasm. “It’s all I’ve dreamed of.”
She rolls her eyes. “If there was a competition for the biggest douche, I’m certain you’d win.”
“I’m starting to learn you see the silver lining in everything.”
“It’s my superpower.” She beams, then her expression becomes softer. “It’s not my place to tell you to keep the decorations up, orto keep coming by. I get that. After today, I’ll quit it. I know you probably find it super annoying.”
“Why do you keep coming by?” I ask. “And you’re wrong. I don’t find it annoying.”
She smiles with a glint of hope in her eyes. Like she thinks this can go further. “I don’t think anyone should live as a Grinch.”
“So you see it as your duty to make sure I celebrate Christmas for the first time in over two decades?”
“Whoa,” she mutters. “Two decades.”
I take a step back, realizing I’ve still got my hand on hers. She looks down at her hand as if missing the warmth, as if wondering how we went so long touching each other without acknowledging it.
“The food’s getting cold,” I tell her.
“Two decades,” she repeats as we walk to the dining room. “How old are you?”
We sit at the table with the leftovers, sending mouthwatering scents into the air.
“Thirty-seven,” I tell her.
She wrings her hands. Doesn’t touch her knife and fork. Something about the way she does it makes me think she’s considering my age. The gap. Another reason that this, whatever it is, wouldn’t be possible.
We can stack that next toshe’s my best friend’s fucking sister.
“Old, eh?” I say, with the shadow of a joke in my tone.
