There is sadness in her eyes as they hold mine that breaks my heart. An overwhelming urge to protect her, to shield her from any hurt that could ever come her way overcomes me. I even move closer to her, huddling close to her side as I grasp her hand, weaving our fingers together.
“Holidays have plenty of reasons to celebrate. New seasons, no relationships, new families coming together. I celebrate every single thing I can. Birthdays, weddings, Hanukkah, you name it, I want to celebrate it.”
“We’re very different, Niko. I celebrate Tuesday nights, a fresh bloom on a stubborn stem, a sunset on a warm, fall night. Not empty holidays.”
Stunned by her poetic yet cryptic words, I sigh. I hate that she has hurt tied to the holidays somehow. I wish I could wash that hurt away. Wrap up the remedy in a pretty box with a bow. If life were that easy, we could gift wrap apologies and tie a bow on bad habits.
“Well, we can celebrate whatever you want to celebrate, Nova.”
Tilting her head at me, she smiles, nodding at the picnic. “How about we celebrate a nice lunch on a lovely day?”
“We can do that, honey. Let’s do that,” I agree, brushing her hair back from her face, shifting back to give her some space. I hate the loss of her softness at my side, the sweetness of her petal sweet scent.
“I won’t talk about my brother. You do not have to talk about your sister or those cute lost boys. How about we talk about.... why is a sandwich better with chips? Nothing else, notpotato salad, soup, nothing else is the same.”
Grinning, I munch on a chip as I think about it. “This is a good topic. I agree. Grilled cheese and tomato soup being the exception. Chips just go best with sandwiches, no matter what sort of sandwich it is. BLT. Original, crispy, light chips. PB&J, you want something simple, solid. We’re on the same page. What is your very favorite chip?”
Smiling at me and the silliness of this conversation, she pauses to think for a moment. “It might not fit the perimeters, but a good, crunchy Cheeto. Not the puffs. They have their place, PB&J, for example. A crispy, cheesy, crunchy Cheeto is just the best.”
“With a ham and cheese, cheddar cheese, sandwich, yeah?”
Nova laughs, nodding her head. There should be nothing to us bonding over food, but there is. We laugh about the best fries in town, whether Swiss or provolone is best with a mushroom burger—we prefer Swiss—and we even talk about the best holiday sweets. This is where I go wrong.
“My sister makes the best cookies,” I tell her as we’re enjoying two of those cookies. “On Christmas, she makes a little tray with the kids, for Santa, you know. Cookies, milk, even carrots for the reindeer. They still believe in the magic of it all. I am glad they do. I hope they embrace that magic for a long time. I can remember when I found out about Santa. Last year was a tough Christmas for me,” I joke but her smile fades as her eyes go distant.
Silence stretches between us as the afternoon turns brisk. I move closer to her again, as if I can shield her from the coming storms or whatever I said wrong. For a moment, she snuggles against me, accepting my embrace. It is all too brief because she pulls back, squaring her shoulders as her chin lifts.
“Time for me to go back. This was lovely, Niko,” shemurmurs, but her head is down, her eyes refusing to meet mine.
“What did I say? How did I mess up?” I wonder aloud, frowning at her.
Standing, she glances back at me before she shakes her head. I stand too, forgetting the mess we’ve left, going after her. I reach her before she can escape the clearing, and I tug her back. I bring her against my chest, cradling her soft frame close as she trembles.
“You did nothing wrong. Most people can discuss the holidays. I am just...I guess I am not most people.”
Having just spent quality time with her, I can agree with that. Nova is unlike anyone I have ever met. Witty and wise, she is quick to laugh, but serious when she talks, focused when she listens. I’ve never had such a connection with someone so fast, with such ease. We’ve got so much in common, we talk as if we’ve known each other much longer than today.
Yet there is that sadness to her that I cannot get past. A sadness I trigger whenever I mention the holidays. I want to ask what created that sadness and how I might be able to defeat it. Before I can ask anything, she is across the clearing, and I have to stumble after her.
“Nova, wait. Wait, what about dinner or brunch?”
I am calling after her as I trip over myself. I catch her just as she reaches the edge of the woods, my hand grasping her wrist. I tug gently and she stops, but she does not turn back. Does not give me her eyes or let me see her face when I ask again.
“I am sorry for whatever I said, honey. I want to see you again.”
“You know where to find me.”
I start to let her go when I recognize she is upset and nothing I am going to say will make it better. All I want to do is make it better. To get her to smile again. To get her to wish forsnow white Christmases or to wish for anything at all.
“I am going to give you back some magic, Nova. I promise. I don't know why or how, but I am going to. It's something in your eyes, I think. Prettiest eyes I have ever seen before,” I whisper, reaching out to brush her lilac hair back from her neck as the wind kicks up. “They’re so damn pretty, but so sad. I want them to be happy. To sparkle with happiness.”
“That is no one else's job,” she husks, glancing back at me. “It is up to me to make myself happy. To choose what makes me happy.”
“Tell me whatdoesmake you happy? Holidays, celebrations, families, that is what makes me happiest. My niece and nephew. My little sister. If I am under the hood of a car, taking apart an engine, I am at my happiest.”
“You like to fix things. To make things better,” she says it softly, but it feels like an accusation.
“Yeah, yeah, I guess I do. I like to take things apart, see how they work, and make them better.”
