“Well, I think we try to be… us… in public.”
A deep breath, flaring her nostrils. “Okay.”
“Nothing crazy…” I grin. “Maybe we just… hold hands?”
“Okay.” She nods, her shoulders straightening.
“I’m proud of you, Evan.”
“What? Stop—”
“No. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for telling them when you didn’t have to. You didn’t owe them that part of yourself, but you wanted to be honest. That’s honourable. That’s courageous. I’m proud of you for building a life for yourself beyond them. For coming back here, knowing how much it might hurt.” I tilt my head, forcing her to look at me. “And I’m proud to be yours.”
A faint blush washes across her nose and cheeks, she wipes the last of her tears away and holds my gaze with affection. “I’m proud to be yours too.”
We watch reruns ofThe Bachelorand fall asleep. That is until we’re woken up by the sounds of myverypatient mother parking the car out front and myverydrunk father screaming the lyrics toWonderful Christmastimeby Paul McCartney.
Evan hums along next to my ear as I let sleep take me away once again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Evan
December 24th
We woke up nice and slow this morning. Apparently Daryl and Maggie’s traditions usually account for Daryl having a bit too much to drink the night prior at the Main Street showcase. The hardware store won for their beautiful rendition of the nativity using only tools, lumber, and nails. Maggie’s photos had too much glare from her flash against each window to actually make out what it looked like—which led to a long tutorial from Clara about using the lowlight settings on her phone.
Other than Clara’s photography lesson, today has been relatively peaceful thus far. When we did eventually roll out of bed and saunter downstairs in our matching pyjamas, we found Maggie making french toast and Daryl untangling Christmas lights in his leather recliner. In a silent agreement sealed with a kiss, I sought to help Maggie with breakfast while Clara climbed up on the arm of her father’s chair and assisted him with one particularly nasty knot.
“I brought pretzels home for you girls,” Maggie says, cutting a piece of french toast and dipping it in maple syrup. “Not sure how they’ll be warmed up.”
“Thank you,” Clara says, warmly smiling across the table at her mother. God, she’s stunning in the mornings. Her hair is so messy. Probably because she moves so much in her sleep, as my battered limbs will agree. Not that I’m complaining. I just didn’t think sleeping next to my dream girl would mean waking up to her elbow in my rib each night.
“We can always go back into town today… get a fresh one,” I say between bites.
Clara bites down on a surprised smile, her eyes lighting up. “Oh we can, huh? Okay…” She shimmies side to side as she tosses a blueberry into her mouth.
Once we’ve all had seconds and tidied up, it’s time to decorate the tree. Daryl hangs the star on top, adjusting several times so it’sjustright, and we all applaud his efforts. Apparently they hang the star first following a dramatic incident a few years prior where Daryl fellintothe tree and broke a few ornaments on his way down.
One by one we hang ornaments, walking down memory lane as we do. Sweet, handmade crafted ones from most years of Clara’s life. One is an homage to their family dog who’s long passed. Another is a very sweet but incredibly ugly crocheted heart ornament that Daryl bought Maggie when they started dating. They tell stories about his mullet and blue tux and her bright fuschia dress they wore to prom in 1983. Clara hums merrily to the music playing as she hangs a glass-blown ornament she tells me was from her trip to France during college.
Stories after stories are shared over the sound of Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, covering beloved holiday classics until the tree is full. Tacky and full and perfect.
“I almost forgot,” Daryl says, stepping back to admire the tree with his wife. “We picked you girls up somethin’ last night.”
“Oh, early presents?” Clara asks over her shoulder. She moves one ornament up a branch, nods to herself, and then steps back to admire our work with her arm wrapped around my waist.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper quietly, just as Daryl returns to our side.
“Here ya go.” He hands me a small, plain brown box. “Nothin’ fancy.”
“Thank you.” I smile up at him, unwinding from Clara to make quick work of opening it. I lift the lid off and push tissue paper aside which reveals a small, glass ornament in the shape of a heart. It is painted every colour of the rainbow and has our initials written delicately in white ink. And, as childish as it perhaps sounds, I’m so glad I get to be on the tree too. To feel more a part of this. Of this family, of this holiday, of Clara’s history. I get misty-eyed before I even begin to thank them for such a kind gesture.
“It’s an LG-BLT flag, I’m told.” Daryl nods, beaming with pride.
“Oh my god,” Clara mutters under her breath.
“It’s beautiful,” I say earnestly. “Thank yousomuch.” I pass the box to Clara and throw my arms around Daryl, who’s a good few inches shorter than I am. “Thank you,” I say again, pulling away.
