But then his hand is heavy on my arm, my arm that I am using all my brain power to send a signal of instruction to relax, to tell it that it’s supposed to be slumbering, that it can under no circumstances flinch or flex.
Boone sighs, and I feel like I’m in a moment that I shouldn’t be in. That this is more about him than it should be about me. Or maybe I want it to be more about him than it is about me, buteither way, I wish I was truly sleeping and not just faking it.
His gaze is practically piercing through my skin. I imagine him studying my every pore, every wrinkle, every scar from the ignorant teenage phase I went through where I stabbed my pimples open with a safety pin.
Minutes go by that feel like hours, until his sigh grows wearier, and I hear the subtle sound of his lips parting. “Lord, I’m going to start with the easy. Place your healing hand on Kate, physically and emotionally. I can tell she worries more than she lets on, that she’s searching for answers just like I am. Wondering what is real and what is not. I don’t know her, and yet I feel like I do. But Lord, You sure gave her a few more words than most when You made her.”
Without seeing Boone, I can hear the way his lips curve out in a soft smile, and I try my hardest to still every goosebump that has raised even the smallest hairs on my skin, to calm my heartbeat that has begun to pound hard against my chest. This man is praying for me, and I’m not sure I’ve been prayed over since I lost my dad.
“Now for the hard,” he whispers into the space around us that has somehow grown heavy and light at the same time, this moment imprinting itself on my very soul. “Lord, You know I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. There isn’t a reason You can give me that is good enough for losing Becca, but maybe some things do happen for a reason. Maybe Kate happened for a reason. Maybe, if only to remind me that I have a lot of life left to live. For her to remind me that the time she had with her dad was a gift, and she was grateful to be loved by him for that long.”
Then his hushed voice cracks, and Boone is soon crying. I canfeel it in the way his hand softly shakes against my arm. It’s subtle, but it’s there. And I fight every urge I have to pop open my eyes and pull this emotionally exposed man into an embrace. But I also know how much that could complicate things. How that intimate experience could rip the quilt I’ve constructed of my life in neat little squares into shreds.
“And maybe, Lord, maybe Kate happened for more. Lord, you know I’m fine staying stuck right here until my last breath leaves my bones, but if I’m not meant to be here, help me find the footsteps forward. And let Kate find confidence in her footsteps forward, too. She’s special, and she deserves to know that and walk that out.”
The floorboards beneath Boone’s knees groan as his body shifts. His thumb rubs gently in circles, making the soft fabric of the thermal pajamas he lent me scratch against my goosebumps.
And then Boone sighs, “Amen,” and the heated friction of his hand is gone, along with the rest of him.
But what doesn’t leave me is that Boone just told God I was special.
Out loud.
And I don’t know what to do with that. I haven’t felt special in a long time. Not to anyone. Not even to myself. And if Boone thinks I’m special, then he’s not trying to figure out if I’m interesting. He already thinks I am, and that’s a problem because if I’m honest with myself, I’m not trying to figure out ifBoone is interesting either. He is.
Chapter Thirteen
My nose wakes up before the rest of my body does, sending a rush of desire pulsing through my veins that rouses the rest of my senses. I hear the crackling of a fire and then something I haven’t heard yet. A gentle, deep humming, and… surely, it’s not from Boone?
My eyelids flutter open just barely before I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I pick up my phone and feel my eyes enlarging from the numbers. It’s ten o’clock. I can’t remember the last time I slept past six. There isn’t exactly an excess quantity of time when you live in New York City. There are lines to wait in, cabs to catch, and it takes me a good three hours every morning just to get to work.
I slide across the wood floor in Boone’s wool socks, toward the living room, following the smell of coffee and the sound of what sounds like melodious murmuring of a Christmas carol, so it definitely cannot be Boone.
But when I peek around the doorway, I can literally feel my jaw drop.
There’s Boone, steaming coffee mug in hand,Dog curled up next to him on the couch, and a Christmas tree that smells fresh from the woods. It’s strung with lights that look familiar, but I can’t place them.
“What is happening?” I question, my arms hanging floppy at my sides as if I’m lifeless, and maybe I am. Maybe this is a dream? It must be a dream.
“Good morning, Kate.” Boone smiles. “Coffee?”
I nod my head. “Yes, of course. Duh. But what is all this?”
“Did you justduhme?” Boone asks as he stands from the couch. Dog stretches out, his black fur glistening from the glow of the Christmas lights, yawning.
“I did. I most definitelyduh’d you, because it was an unnecessary question. But what isn’t an unnecessary question is why is there a Christmas tree in your living room?” I walk over to it slowly, as if it’s a mythical creature and not just a simple pine tree.
“Well, I figured it’s not just me for Christmas this year.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Gingerbread creamer?”
I nod my head again. “These lights?”
I reach out to touch them. I’ve seen them somewhere, but where would Boone have gotten them? We’re snowed in.
“The hens weren’t too happy I stole them from their coop, but I figured they could do without them for a day or two,” Boone answers. “I’ll be right back with coffee.”
Boone cut down a tree and strung it with his chicken-coop lights. For me.
Not for him. Not for Dog. Not forChristmas.
