“Yes, it’s okay,” I said, looking down at her head. Dark waves were everywhere, spilling over my shoulder and spilling over hers, puddled in silky pools between her back and the couch. I tentatively stroked the crown of her head with my free hand,and she gave a small shiver and stretch and then burrowed a little harder against me. “Is it okay with you?”
“No, it’s nice,” she said and then yawned. “I read somewhere that people need eight hugs a day for their brains to work right. And that’s on a normal day. Who knows what I need on a day when I nearly steal an engagement ring from Stanley Tucci’s mean cousin?”
I stroked her head again, enjoying the feel of her hair under my fingers too much, too fucking much. I wanted to tell her that I would guard her from every mean Tucci cousin, that I would give her eighty-eight hugs a day, if that’s what she needed. I wanted to tell her that just having her pressed against me, warm and soft and cozy, made me feel like a plant opening up under the sun, spreading itself larger and larger just to catch every last wave and/or particle of light.
The wind blew outside, and as always, the bells in the house jingled faintly.
“They sound like you,” Sunny murmured.
I didn’t stop caressing her hair. Everything smelled like coconut now. “The old doorbells?”
“They’re so sad and wonderful all at once,” she said, and she was definitely half-asleep now. Her voice was a slow, contented mumble. “Just like you.”
My chest hurt. My everything hurt.
To me, the bells sounded like her, like something often cheerful and bright, but also capable of so many other sounds too, of every kind of music. She was right that people took her buoyancy for granted, and I was just as guilty of it as anyone, and she was so muchmorethan just her capacity for energy and joy. She was a melody of so many things, and goddammit, I wished I were a different man, someone better, someone less fucked up.
She started snoring softly against my shoulder, and I debated getting up. My phone had been dead since the jewelry store and needed charging, and I should probably tinker with my song about snowy graveyard kisses, and also there was something else I felt like I’d forgotten. To feed Mr.Tumnus maybe? Or to make sure the door was locked?
But no, we’d locked it after we brought the tree in, and Mr.Tumnus had eaten a king’s dinner of salmon and a Kleenex he’d found somewhere. And as for my song, it was still missing something, and I hadn’t been able to figure out what it was yet, and I didn’t want to spend another three hours tinkering with different arrangements just to delete everything like I had been doing the last few days.
The bells tinkled as I adjusted Sunny so that she was using my chest as a pillow as I reclined as much as I could. On the crooked tree across from me, I could see the little wooden ornament that Sunny had bought me at the Christmas market: a hand-painted version of the mansion. It looked so small and quaint like that, so homey with its little curls of smoke coming up from its chimneys. I could almost imagine a little painted Sunny at one of the windows, leaning out to capture painted snowflakes on her tongue.
Mr.Tumnus came and, with sufficient drama, wedged himself into the triangle of empty space between Sunny’s knees and the back of the couch. We exchanged our habitual glares, and then I told myself that I’d enjoy this family snuggle just a minute more. Just a minute more, and then I’d leave.
Igradually became aware of the pain.
I opened my eyes to see Mr.Tumnus making unnecessarily aggressive biscuits on my thigh, the morning sunlight showing off the barely there hint of chocolate brown in his black fur. His purrs sounded like my truck engine.
“Get off,” I muttered, because I couldn’t shoo him away. Both arms were currently wrapped around Sunny, and somehow we’d wound up sideways on the couch together, our legs tangled and her head pillowed on my biceps. “Getoff—”
He leapt to the back of the couch, hissed as an afterthought, and then disappeared.
And as much as I would have liked to go back to sleep cuddling a sweet, warm Sunny, I couldn’t. I was randomly, irritatingly, wide awake.
Maybe I’d had some kind of appointment today? Was that what I couldn’t remember last night?
I gently untangled myself from Sunny, covered her with a blanket, and grabbed my phone to check my calendar. It was dead. Awesome.
I went to my room and plugged it in while I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, and changed into fresh clothes. I went back to my phone and turned it on, ready to check my calendar, when notification after notification started popping up, all of them from last night.
Nolan:Thinking of you tonight. I know it’s always hard. We’re back from the honeymoon if you want to call and catch up.
Kallum:I’ll FaceTime you with a baby if you want cheering up! Grace can say her ABCs now! Well, some of them. The important ones.
Mom:I love you, Isaac.
Nanny:Sending you big hugs, ScootScoot.
And there were more. So many more.
Brooklyn’s parents. Brooklyn’s manager. People I hadn’t spoken to in years.
Texts. DMs. Missed calls.
I stared at my phone as the realization came like a frost, creeping up from behind and freezing me solid.
Yesterday had been the anniversary of Brooklyn’s death.
