Yes, yes, yes…
Just as I’m about to undress him fully for the first time, a flashlight flicks into the space.
No, no, no!
Thank God this ginormous tree is covering us. There’s a moment where neither of us knows what to do, but then Hector collects himself with the speed of a quick-change artist, pauses the film, and steps out into the light.
“Who’s in here? What’s going on?” a gruff campus security officer calls into the semidarkness. My half-naked body shivers at the sudden gust of cold air invading the hall.
Hector waves a hand. “Hi, sorry, sir. I’m planning the holiday gala and we were just doing a little late-night setup. We can clear out if it’s too late.” His voice is impressively even and calculated. I never could’ve done that.
“Oh, uh, we thought everyone went home already. Well, no rush, but we want to lock up, so once you leave, you can’t reenter. Make sure to shut this all down and unplug everything,” he says. I hold back a laugh because he sounds young and new at his job, probably hapless in any situation but this one especially.
“You got it. Have a good evening,” Hector says.
“You too.”
When the door is safely shut, Hector returns to my side. We look at each other and crack up. The mood may have passed, but the intimacy is still there, dancing around us like sugar plums in the silence as we continue to work.
An hour or so later, after we pack up the picnic and the presents, lock the doors and shut off the lights, we step out into another light snowfall that’s dusted the walkways. The flurry looks like the one I made in the hallway, trickling down in twirling, skittering flakes. The soft wind knocks them every which way.
Hector goes to unplug the light display like Wendy taught him, but before he can reach the extension cord, I tug him back by his sleeve, overcome and needing him to know it. His gesture tonight was beyond adorable. I’ve never known this kind of care.
“Kiss me first,” I say to him. “I want to remember us like this.” Snowflakes collect on his shoulders and the edges of his scarf. He’s a winter dream as he steps closer, closing the gap between us.
“Who knew a little snow could turn a Scrooge into a romantic?” he teases.
I roll my eyes, shake my head, and kiss him like I mean it.
Because I do. I mean it with my whole damn heart.
Chapter 28
Morning clarity comes with the first rays of sunlight: Hector and I are getting serious.
I brush my teeth in the bathroom and brace for panic, but no Krampus charges through my skull. Instead, my heartbeat and breathing remain steady and even. I spit spearmint foam into the sink, stare at myself in the mirror, and realize that falling for the guy in the top bunk might be the healthiest decision I’ve made in a long time.
Back in the bedroom, Hector can be seen through the sliding door. He’s chopping wood again, his mouth in a tiny, puckered O. He’s whistling a happy tune, I can tell.
I slip into different clothes and run up to the main floor with a newfound joie de vivre. I’m replaying last night on repeat, dissecting all the little ways Hector lit me up with his comfort, care, and roaming caresses.
That’s until I see a familiar face sitting at the kitchen table, makeup done, French-tipped nails resting around the brim of the gingerbread coffee mug I’ve been using since I arrived.
“Mom?” I ask, skidding to a stop. “What are you doing here?”
“A hello would be nice,” she says, getting up, crossing the room in four strides, and then hugging me with all the warmth of a blast freezer. “You weren’t answering my calls and I was worried about you.”
Grandma catches my eye from across the kitchen. The way she scrunches up her mouth means she wants to sayI’m sorry, but she can’t right now. Mom leans back, looking me over.
“Are you just here for the day? Did someone drive you? What’s going on?” I have twenty-seven more questions for her, but these are the only ones I can formulate because right outside, Hector is hard at work. Despite my better instincts, I’m uncertain what Mom will think of him. I’m even more uncertain how to introduce him.
We’ve surpassed sharers-of-bunk-beds and odd-couple-working-together. We’ve even surpassed casual friends. We made a pact, but I don’t expect Mom to understand any of that.
“I thought it would be nice if we could go somewhere to talk,” she says. Her expression hasn’t changed from the straightforward stare she plastered on when she greeted me.
She’s not some monster of a mother. I know she cares. I know she loves me. But she has this habit of acting like Anna Winston-Prince the author instead of Anna Winston-Prince the woman who raised me whenever we’ve been apart for a significant period.
I hate it. It makes me feel like some fan who’s waiting for her to sign my books. There are few moments in my life where I have felt like just her son, plain and uncomplicated. The last was when I got into NYU. Look how that worked out.
