I bring my eyes to his, soft and blue and bright, warm and loving as he says, “Trade you a secret?”
I manage to sniff a laugh as I reach for a fry. “You first.”
“One time, I stole a classmate’s markers in the second grade.”
My expression is serious, assessing his playful look. “That’s not a secret.”
“Yes it is. I’ve never told anyone that,” he says, chuckling. “The guilt has been eating me alive for twenty years.”
I guffaw, reaching for more fries. “Wow. Cleared your conscience now?”
He grins. “Sure. Now you.”
“Fine.” I dust the salt and crumbs off my fingers. “When I was eleven, I figured out Santa was a myth. My dads thought I still believed so I set out cookies and milk anyway. I knew that they ate and drank it after I went to bed, so I purposely stayed up all night until they were too exhausted to stay awake. Then I drank the milk and ate the cookies myself to trick them.”
Rowan laughs. “Did it work?”
“They were pretty tripped out for a minute on Christmas morning when it was gone. I played the part though. I gasped and pretended I was stunned so…”
Rowan continues laughing. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
“My cousins thought so too,” I say proudly. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Christmas.”
He grimaces ever so slightly—aflashof a grimace. “I don’t really celebrate it unless it’s with all of you.”
“Is it…Is it because…” I bite my lip to keep myself quiet.
“After she died…” His pause pains me, bringing on an onslaught of emotions I’m not ready for that mix with ones I’ve been feeling all day. “After she died, we were all kind of zombies for a while. We stopped going to the farm for real Christmas trees and bought a plastic one from Target instead. Dad was a ghost, so it was me and Andrew who decorated alone. After a while…I don’t know. After a while, it began to feel pointless to the two of us. Nowm I just put a tiny, pre-decorated tree up by my TV.”
“Rowan,” I breathe and reach for his hand, setting mine over his.
“I swear, it isn’t as sad as it sounds.” He chuckles, the sound like a crack in his heart. “The tree is more for her than it is for me. Sometimes I put out a little white candle and picture of us next to it.”
My heart is sore for him. I wish I could pluck out all of his sadness and heartbreak. “I’m sure she loves that when she comes to visit you,” I rasp.
Rowan smiles feebly. “I hope she does.”
“I’m sorry it hurts.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “Grief is a good thing to feel.”
“Is it though?”
“Yes, it is. It just means everything was real—that I loved my mother with my life and she loved me enough for me to feel this. I was always a mama’s boy.”
“I know.” I giggle quietly.
“Grief is love,” Rowan says. “That’s all it is.”
The corner of my lips twitches as it lifts. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I usually am.” He gives me a devilish smirk.
“Usually not,” I disagree with a smile that turns his smirk into one too. His smile lingers, white straight teeth on display to show whatever happiness he might be feeling. And despite my sore heart, it warms at the thought it’s on his face because of me.
