Halfway to You(69)

We joined together, slow and intense. I felt secure and liberated in his arms. Held fast against him, I rocketed through the stars.

“I hate when we’re apart,” he whispered, the last word elongated by the groan of his release.

We didn’t move for a few minutes afterward, enjoying our togetherness. But then necessity outweighed comfort, and we cleaned ourselves up in the bathroom before tumbling back into bed. Todd lay with his arms behind his head, and I curled naked against his strong body. It felt, finally, like we were us again. Close.

“You seem better this morning.” I kissed the nearest patch of skin: his inner bicep.

He shifted, ticklish. “What do you mean?”

“Last night . . .” I paused. “You seemed off.”

“Seeing everyone is a big deal for me,” he said. “I think it’s a big deal for them too.” He turned to face me. “But I know last night was overwhelming for you. I’ll try to be more supportive.”

I gazed beyond him, at the snow floating past the window. “It’s hard being the newcomer.”

“You’ve never had a holiday like this.”

His statement poked at a soft place between my ribs, a squishy emotion I couldn’t name.

“They liked you,” he went on. “I know it was difficult to tell, but they did. I think they were just as nervous about you as you were about them.”

“What? No,” I said. “Not possible.”

“You’re very accomplished, Ann,” Todd said. “No matter how awkward you feel about that, it’s intimidating to other people.”

I kissed his bicep again, then dared a glance at his face. He was smiling. “Thanks,” I said meekly.

He brushed my hair away from my face and kissed my mouth, his lips melding with mine. “Don’t mention it.”

Two hours later, I found myself seated at a long, plastic-lined arts and crafts table with the women and kids from Keith’s family. The men were off on an outdoor snowshoeing trek, of which I wasn’t jealous. After the instant earache and icy burn on my cheeks that morning, decorating ornaments—with the inevitable gluey fingers, glitter everywhere, comparing each other’s skills—seemed far preferable to the tundra. It would at least be a good icebreaker.

So there I was.

Pipe cleaners, sequins, paint, and more were scattered before us. Barrett and I had decided to create monster ornaments, decorating our orbs with green sequins, paper triangle spikes, blue paint, pipe cleaner teeth, and googly eyes. Iris and Barbara were painting nature scenes on theirs—Iris with a tawny smudge meant to be a deer, and Barbara with an incredibly detailed goldfinch. I couldn’t see what the others were up to, but as expected, it was messy, sticky—fun.

I might’ve felt silly—a thirty-four-year-old meticulously adding glitter glue around googly eyes—but I was too swept up in the moment. I had loved crafts as a kid but rarely ever had more than a marker and paper to play with—let alone company. Looking around the table, I cherished the quiet concentration of the kids, the equally focused adults. There’s something vulnerable about being creative in the presence of other people. They can see how hard you’re trying and all your mistakes. But we were in this together, passing supplies and giggling and chatting without eye contact as we traced lines and secured pipe cleaners. Bonding.

“Well, look at those,” Natalie said of our monsters. “How scary.”

“No,” Barrett corrected his mother. “They aren’t scary monsters, they’re friendly.”

“Of course!” Natalie said, earnest. “I was looking at him upside down—let me see. Oh, yes, you’re right, very friendly. What’s his name?”

“Josh,” Barrett said.

“Josh is the name of his class guinea pig,” Natalie stage-whispered to the adults. “Let’s see yours, Ann.”

I angled my monster in her direction; her laugh was lilting and genuine. “What about you?” I asked.

She held up her ornament, a study in red: crimson sequins, cherry-colored glitter, swirling maroon paint, and scarlet ribbon. “I went the abstract route.”

“Oh, look at that,” Barbara said. “It’s like the sky in Starry Night, but red.”

Tracey held up her own ornament, a similar design but in gray and white. “We had the same idea.”

“I love it,” I said.

Tracey offered a brief, pressed-lipped smile.

“They’ll look so pretty together on the tree,” Una said.

“The tree?” I asked.

“All the guests put their ornaments on that tree over there.” Natalie pointed to a tree strung up with simple lights, already half decorated in ornaments as eclectic as ours.

My chest warmed as if it’d been filled with chamomile tea, a honeyed sensation that spread into my extremities.

“The only thing missing from this perfect family day is Penny,” Natalie said softly.

Tracey frowned. “You always get like this around the holidays. Do you have to keep bringing her up?”

“Do you have to keep pretending she never existed?” Natalie bit back.

Una raised her hands. “Please, you two.”

“At least we have Ann,” Barbara offered. “I think she’s a fine addition to the family, don’t you? We’re having fun, aren’t we?”