In A Holidaze(69)

“I asked her, ‘You just knew?’ and instead of explaining how it felt like fate or anything remotely romantic, she said, ‘I guess? He was nice and was the first person who encouraged me to paint.’ I know they’re divorced and it’s probably different to look back on it now, but she was talking to me— the product of this marriage—and there was no mention of falling in love or how she couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else. They just happened.”

I wait for him to react to this, but he doesn’t. In the silence, the words to the song he’s absently playing hit me like a warm burst of air.

Don’t know much about history . . .

And if this one could be with you . . .

His movements are so absentminded, I can’t tell if he registers what he’s playing.

“I mean, obviously,” I continue, “that was incredibly unsatisfying.” A pause. “As much as none of us want to imagine our parents actually hooking up, we want to think there was at least some fire or passion or something fated.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and fidgets with the tuning pegs some more.

“I know this—us—has gone up in flames,” I say, “but even so, I can’t help but feel like there was a good story there. I’ve wanted this for so long, and you had no idea, and then when you found out, it was like . . . it clicked something on in you.” I pause, searching for the right words. “What happened between us was really romantic.”

He falters, but after a beat, he adjusts his fingers on the frets and continues.

“And it wasn’t just romantic in theory; it was romantic in reality. Every second with you was perfect.” I shift on my feet. “Picking out our tree, snowflakes in your hair, sledding, the closet—our night here. I got those moments because of a wish I made. A wish! Who actually believes wishes come true? The world is a totally different place than I ever thought it was—I mean, there’s actual magic happening— but that’s not even the hardest thing for me to believe. The most unbelievable part of all of this is that I got to be with you. My dream person.”

Andrew tilts his head back to lean against the wall, eyes closed, and sets his guitar on the cot beside him. He looks tired, and takes a long, deep breath. I can tell he’s not tuning me out. He’s also not just passively hearing me, he’s absorbing every word. It gives me the confidence to push on.

“And even though I wished for it, I worked for it, too. I could have never said a word to you about what was happening to me, or how I’d messed up with Theo.” I hold my chin up. “But I’m proud of myself for telling you. Do I wish I’d explained it better? Sure. But I told you the truth because I wanted to start whatever we have by being honest.

“I was honest about my feelings,” I say. “I was honest about my mistakes. I was honest in my best and worst moments this week.” I take a steadying breath because I’m starting to get choked up. “And if there’s one thing that we did perfectly, it was talking and being transparent and honest with each other right from the start. Right away, we talked. I can’t think of anyone else in the world I’ve ever felt that comfortable with.”

This gets to him, I can tell. His jaw clenches; his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“There’s something so intimate about sharing things out loud you could never say to another person,” I say. “Letting someone really see you—minus the filters. So, I’m sorry that this whole situation is such a bummer, and I’m sorry if the intensity of my feelings for you made you move faster than maybe you would have otherwise. But I’ve loved you since I knew what love was, and I can’t undo that. I would never wish to take that away. Loving you is all the proof I needed that love can last decades. Maybe even a lifetime, who knows.” Clearing my throat, I add without thinking, “But let’s hope I get over you, because otherwise that would suck for both of us and your future wife.”

I laugh out an awkward ha-ha, but the room goes deathly silent . . . until I very audibly swallow. I want to be eaten by the floor.

But I can’t stop now. With a rush of bravery, I walk the rest of the way across the room to hand him the gift wrapped in heavy, glossed green paper with a matte red bow. After I finished making it, Mom wrapped it for me, handing it to me with tears in her eyes and a single kiss to the palm of my hand.

“I wanted to give you this,” I say. “It’s called Happiness.”

Finally, he tilts his head back down and opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at me. He warily studies the wrapped package in my hands. “What is it?”

“Just open it.”

At the confused flicker of his eyes to mine, I add, “It’s a Maelyn Jones original. In an Elise Jones–painted frame. We did it today.”

Tentatively—reverently—he takes it. With fingertips that have touched nearly every inch of my skin, he easily pulls free the silken bow. The rip of the thick paper tears through the room. The gift hasn’t been put in a box, it’s wrapped as-is: a framed drawing, charcoal on paper.

I wonder briefly where Mom found the simple wooden frame to decorate lovingly with brilliantly painted quaking aspen—whether Lisa pulled something old and unsentimental out to make room, or whether Benny helped Mom dig through the attic—but I don’t really have time to dwell on the question, because Andrew sucks in a breath and then becomes an inflatable doll with all of the air sucked out. He’s sweetly deflated.