“That’s not what I—” His brow furrowed, mouth tightening at the corners.
“It’s fine.” I turned back to the tree, my fingers trembling as I tugged the neckline of my bodysuit up. “We got caught up in the moment. It happens.”
“Kels—”
“I said it’s fine.” I reached for another ornament, desperate to keep my hands busy and my voice steady. “We’re both adults. We can acknowledge that being in close proximity after two years might create some... confusion.”
But my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking as I unwrapped what looked like a papier-mâché angel one of the kids had made. The edges were yellowed with age, bits of glitter still clinging to the crooked wings despite decades of careful storage.
“Confusion,” Teddy said, his face screwing up like the word tasted bitter. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“A mistake. Lapse in judgment. Temporary insanity. Take your pick. I knew—I knew this would happen. It’s your M.O.—we get close, you panic, you pull away. Rinse and repeat.” I laughed, but it sounded brittle, even to my own ears. “At least you’re consistent.”
“And you’re still a stubborn pain in the ass,” he ground out, his jaw muscles jumping beneath the skin.
“Yeah, well, it takes one to know one.” I reached for a felt wreath ornament with Addie’s kindergarten photo glued to the center. Once upon a time, there had been a tiny red bow affixed to the bottom, though it was long gone now.
Teddy moved to the other side of the tree, maintaining his distance as we continued decorating. The stilted quiet was punctuated by the occasional crackle and pop from the logs burning in the fireplace, as well as the sound of the wind picking up outside. But the easy camaraderie from earlier had evaporated, leaving behind the familiar dance of avoidance we’d perfected in those final months of our marriage.
I hung ornament after ornament, each one a small piece of our history. The wooden Santa that Sky had made in fourth grade, complete with a scraggly yarn beard and googly eyes. The honeycomb paper ornaments Addie had made in art class, flattened in some places but still beautiful to look at. The Galileo thermometer and collection of snow globe ornaments Levi had amassed due to his desire to be a meteorologist.
Once I was satisfied with the placement of the lower ornaments, I climbed onto the stepladder to finish decorating the top branches.
The star for the top of the tree—a silver and crystal piece that had been a wedding gift from one of Teddy’s great aunts—sat in its box on the coffee table.
“Can you hand me the?—”
Before I could finish, he was there, passing me the star, our fingers brushing in the exchange.
I turned back to the tree, stretching to place the star, and felt the ladder shift beneath me. My foot slipped, and suddenly I was falling backward, a startled yelp escaping my lips. Strong hands caught me immediately, Teddy’s reflexes as quick as they’d always been. One hand slid behind my knees while the other went to my back, steadying me as I fell against his chest, the solid wall of him stopping my descent.
“Guess this is why you banned me from getting on ladders after the Porch Lighting Fiasco of 2012,” I said weakly, attempting to lighten the moment with humor even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
We stayed frozen like that—me cradled against his chest, his arms tightening as he stared down at me with an expression I couldn’t quite name.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure that was entirely true.
“You can put me down now,” I whispered, though I made no move to extract myself from his arms.
“Sure about that?” His thumb brushed against my spine, just above the waistband of my jeans. “Because last time I tried to be the responsible one, you accused me of pulling away.”
My breath caught. “Teddy…”
He gently set me back on my feet, his palm lingering at my waist before he jerked it back. “Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “What the fuck are we doing, Kels?”
I shook my head, my ears burning as I admitted, “I don’t know.”
He searched my face before sighing. “Every time I get close to you—every damn time—I remember what it felt like to lose everything.”
The raw honesty in his voice, the pain etched into every line of his face—it stripped away all my defenses, leaving me exposed and aching.
I wrapped my arms around myself as if it could somehow hold me together.
That was what I was to him now—not the woman he’d loved for over thirty years, not the mother of his children, not even the person who knew all his secrets. I was a reminder of loss—a walking, talking symbol of everything that had gone wrong in his life.
11
