McKenna’s teeth tugged on her lower lip, but again, she didn’t reject his offer.
Tank had just decided to push his luck and go for broke, leaning toward her for a kiss, when another bright flash of lightning lit up the room before there was a crash outside and a fizzling sound that caused the lamps to flicker and go out.
They waited a good fifteen seconds, but the lights remained off.
“Damn,” McKenna said, jumping from the couch. “Power’s out.”
Tank rose as well, grabbing his phone from the coffee table at the same time she reached for hers, both of them clicking on the flashlight app.
McKenna opened the single drawer in one of the end tables, rummaging around until she found a lighter. He watched as she made her way around the living room, lighting at least half a dozen candles he hadn’t even noticed until that moment.
“Fan of candles?” he asked.
“Love them,” she admitted, lighting the last. “Especially scented ones. I try to match smells with the holidays or seasons.”
“What does March smell like?”
“March is a tough one. It’s straddling the line between end of winter and beginning of spring. Since it also marks the end of the hockey season, which I’m discovering is a stressful time, I went for lavender because it’s a soothing smell and is supposed to promote relaxation.”
“Might have to hit the store tomorrow for some lavender candles because you’re right, this month is a killer.”
Once she finished lighting her candles, they returned to the couch, and he tucked them back under the blanket. This time, he didn’t bother with personal space, wrapping his arm around her and holding her close.
McKenna stiffened briefly, then—thank God for lavender—she relaxed against him, even going so far as to rest her head on his shoulder.
The rain was still pouring outside, the storm raging. Tank wouldn’t mind a flood if it meant he could stay here with her, just like this.
“Why didn’t you go home for the holidays?” McKenna asked. “You’re from Buffalo, right?”
He nodded.
“That’s not a terrible drive, is it?” she asked.
“Little more than six hours. I didn’t bother because Christmas isn’t the same without my mom,” he said, shocking himself by admitting that aloud. He hadn’t talked about his mom since…
Tank sighed. Since her funeral.
It hurt too much.
However, now, as he sat in McKenna’s cozy living room, he was reminded of his mother, who was also a fan of candles and fleece blankets, and who decorated their entire home with framed family photographs. He realized none of those things were that unusual, but it had been a long time since he’d hung out in a living room that wasn’t his own, which was sparsely decorated and, yes, a pigsty. Or in a friend’s, which was always filled with other people, all playing games or watching sports on TV.
McKenna turned, her face close to his, her gaze filled with empathy. “She made the holidays nice?”
He smiled sadly. “The best. She loved to bake, so the house always smelled like bread or sugar cookies or turkey. She decorated every inch of the place, the couch covered in at least a dozen holiday pillows, mistletoe hanging in every doorway, and lights strung pretty much everywhere. She started playing Christmas music in November and kept it rolling right through the New Year.”
“Oh my God,” McKenna exclaimed. “That sounds incredible.”
“She also broke the bank on gifts because she had a memory like a steel trap. I could mention liking or wanting or needing something in February, and I swear the next Christmas, it was wrapped and under the tree. It took us ages to open all the gifts on Christmas morning.”
Tank chuckled, recalling the mountain of presents that always awaited him and his dad when they came downstairs Christmas morning. Then, he recalled with a bit of guilt how small Mom’s pile had always been in comparison. Not that she ever complained. She always swore she preferred seeing them open gifts over receiving anything for herself.
“God,” he breathed. “I haven’t thought about all this since…” Tank waited for the pain that accompanied any memory of his mother to strike. Strangely, it didn’t. Instead, it felt nice to talk about her. “She was the best mom in the world.”
McKenna reached out and grasped his hand, squeezing it. She didn’t say anything. Her smile and kind eyes were enough.
“How about your holidays?” he asked. “Crazy like ours or low-key?”
“Low-key,” McKenna replied. “But still fun. It was just me and my mom, so we didn’t fool with cooking a big dinner. We went out every year to a Chinese restaurant. My mom loves the movie A Christmas Story, so she adopted that tradition when I was in elementary school. We always went to the same restaurant, and the family that ran it, the Changs, got to know us. By the time I was in high school, it felt like we were going to a relative’s house for the holiday meal. We even started taking them gifts, and Mrs. Chang always sent us home with a tin of her almond cookies. Mom and I used to fight over them, they were so good.”
