“No.” The trail curves from a grassy field into a wall of trees as the horses clod us into the shadows, and his mouth curves into a smirk. “But the ladies love it.”
“I doubt that,” I say dryly.
“Oh really?” He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. “Why’s that?”
“I think you have commitment issues,” I tell him, matter-of-fact. “And I have no idea what kind of woman would be attracted to that.” Translation: I felt a certain attraction to him at the bowling alley, which made absolutely no sense and therefore led me to spending the week talking myself off of that misdirected ledge of wondering if he felt any of what I felt during my public display of lunacy. “I thought about it a lot this week,” I continue. “You don’t like traditions. You aren’t married. You dabble in beer, whatever that means.” I pause to let him explain, but he says nothing, same ridiculous lift of his lips as I continue. “Those things combined with your above-average looks lead me to one conclusion: You can’t commit. Life gets boring—it’s the nature of the beast—including relationships and traditions. And people like me endure it—try to salvage what’s left and keep things together—while people like you move on to something new and novel. Nontraditional. Therefore, the women you go after must be—” Even his blinks are amused. “Confused.”
He lets my observations hang between us, looking at the horses before back at me. “You thought about me a lot this week, huh?”
I guffaw. “The fact that’s what you took away from all of what I just said proves my point.”
The wagon bumps over a rock in the road, making me fall into him before jerking myself upright.
“Well, Hollis the Writer,” he says in a low, smooth voice, leaning toward me so his shoulder purposefully touches mine. “Maybe you’re right.” I let out an audibleSee!as he continues.“But you should know, if I have commitment issues, maybe it’s because the right person hasn’t come along. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with spending holidays not doing what everyone else does—without reservation or regret.” His eyebrows raise. “And maybe my relationship status and holiday beliefs have nothing to do with one another. Maybe you don’t know a damn thing about the kind of woman I’m attracted to.” When I think he’s finished, he adds, “At all.”
I open my mouth, snap it closed, then scrub my tongue across the back of my teeth.
“Fine,” I say, ducking from a low-hanging branch as we jostle through a pothole.
He smirks. “Fine.”
Behind us, Marv shouts into his ham radio, “Earth to space. Earth. To. Space.”
“He always do this?” I ask Jay, as Marv sweeps the antenna through the air.
“Last five years,” Jay says, smiling but serious.
Five years of the two of them doing this. I can’t figure it out. It seems lonely, but they’re both oddly content. When we were bowling, they laughed the whole time. Easily. Out here, laughter has been replaced with a serene lull. Like they’re immune to pressure and stress. Oblivious to anything happening outside ofthis wagon. To the fact a parade is happening filled with noise and cheer.
I look back to Jay and he looks right back, almost challenging.
His whole position on holidays unnerves me. Like because they bowl and come out here to play cowboys, my float watching makes me ridiculous.
“You have a family?” I don’t know why I sound like we’re in a fight.
“I do,” he says, attention on the horses. “An older sister, Caroline, and a younger brother, Brent. Both married with kids. And my parents.” He flashes another white-toothed grin. “Also married with kids.”
I snort a laugh despite myself. “What are they doing tonight?”
“They went to the parade. Depending on schedules, sometimes they get together for dinner. You know how it is with kids—a little chaotic to plan all that sometimes.”
The wagon jostles through another pothole.
“And you’re fine with that?” I ask. “Them doing everything without you?”
There’s nothing but the sound of horse hooves, wagon creaks, and Marv’s random shouts for nearly a minute.
Finally, he asks, “What was it like after everything fell apart with your husband? With other people, I mean?”
I don’t bother to hide my shock at the question but can’t seem to find a word to adequately answer. Because it was awful. Because I wanted to crawl in a hole and sleep for seventy-four years. Because every gathering was like a rehashing of the worst thing that had ever happened to me.He cheated on you? How did you find out? You poor thing! How can we help? What do the kids think?Over and over and over. It was easier not to be around anyone than constantly retell the story.
I half-truth with: “Fine.”
“Hm.” His side-eye makes me think he smells my bullshit. “Well, with my family—who is wonderful, extremely well-intentioned, and very opinionated—there are always comments, which lead to drawn-out conversations about choices I’ve made and how they think I can make better ones.” He switches the reins between hands. “The holidays seem to magnify them.” He shrugs. “There’s no bad blood—they want me to be happy. Sometimes they forget that doesn’t only look one way.”
While his response shines a little light on the situation, it unleashes a dozen more questions than answers. I want to ask, but something tells me not to. Like if he tells me he won’t want to, and I’ll be no different than everyone else he’s avoiding.
“I don’t get you,” I say, putting my hands under my thighs for warmth.
