Lock and Key(96)

“I’ll bet,” Jamie replied, clapping Nate on the shoulder. “Now, let me get you a drink. What’s your poison, Blake? We’ve got beer, Scotch, wine . . .”

He gestured toward the bar, and as they all turned, Nate’s eyes met mine. Mr. Cross lifted a hand, waving at me, but I just picked up the glass, quickly folding myself back into the crowd.

When I returned to the spot where I’d left Cora and Barbara, however, they were both gone, a couple of Jamie’s UMe.com employees—easily identified by their so-nerdy-they’re -cool glasses, expensive jeans, and vintage T-shirts— in their place, jabbering about Macs. I turned slowly, scanning the crowd for Barbara. Instead, I came face-to-face with Nate.

“Hey,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

I swallowed, then took in a breath. “Merry Christmas.”

There was a pause, which then stretched to an awkward pause, even as someone laughed behind us.

“So I brought you a present,” he said, reaching behind him and pulling out a wrapped parcel from his back pocket.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Macaroons.”

“No,” he replied, making a face as he held it out to me. “Open it up.”

I looked down at the gift, which was wrapped in red paper decorated with little Christmas trees, and thought of myself standing at his door that night, my own small offering in hand. “You know,” I said, nodding to the glass of wine I was still holding, “I should probably—”

“Never delay opening a gift,” Nate said, reaching to take the glass from me, putting it on a nearby counter. “Especially one that’s already belated.”

Emptyhanded, I had no choice but to take it from him, turning it over in my hands and running a finger under the tape. Two women passed by us, chattering excitedly, their heels clacking, as it fell open to reveal a T-shirt. On the front, in that same familiar block lettering: USWIM.

“Your personal philosophy,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I looked for one that said ‘If you expect the worst you’ll never be disappointed,’ but they were all out.”

“I’ll bet.” I looked up at him. “This is really nice. Thank you.”

“No problem.” He leaned back against the wall behind him, smiling at me, and I had a flash of us in the pool together, how he’d grabbed my hand and pulled me under. The memory was so close, I could see every bit of it. But just as clearly, there was the other night, how his face had looked, retreating through the crack in that door. Two opposite images, one easing me closer, another pushing away. “So,” he said, “how was your Christmas?”

“How was yours?” I replied, and while I didn’t mean for there to be an edge in my voice, even I could hear it. So could he. His face immediately changed, the smile not disappearing, but seeming to stretch more thin. I cleared my throat, then looked down at the shirt again. “I mean, you had to expect I’d ask.”

Nate nodded, glancing across the kitchen to the living room, where I could see his dad was talking to a stout woman in a red Christmas sweater. “It was fine,” he said. “A little stressful, as you saw.”

“A little?” I asked.

“It’s not a big deal, okay?”

“Sure seemed that way.”

“Well, it wasn’t. And it’s ancient history.”

“It was three days ago,” I pointed out.

“So the holidays suck. That’s not exactly a news flash, is it?” He ducked his head, a shock of hair falling across his face as the same women passed back by in a cloud of perfumed hand soap, leaving the powder room. When they were gone, he said, “Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you that night. But I’m here now. And I brought a gift. That’s got to count for something, right?”

I looked back down at the shirt. You swim, I thought. Like he’d said, it was better than sinking. Maybe this was just part of staying afloat. “I don’t have anything for you, though.”

“Not even Belgian macaroons?”

I shook my head.

“That’s all right. They’re actually pretty overrated.”

“Really.”

He nodded, glancing over across the party again, then reached down, sliding his hand around my free one and tugging me a bit down the hallway, around the corner. There, out of sight, he leaned against the wall, gently looping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer. “Okay,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s try this again. Merry Christmas, Ruby.”

I looked up at him, taking in the line of his chin, his eyes and long lashes, the way his fingers were already brushing a bit of my hair off my face, entwining themselves in the strands there. So nearby now, after the distance before. But he was here.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, and it was this closeness I tried to concentrate on—not that it might be fleeting, a feeling I knew too well—as he leaned down and put his lips to mine, kissing me, as around the corner the party went on without us, noisy and continuous and completely unaware.

“Cora,” I said as we pulled up outside the mall, “we really don’t have to do this.”

“We do,” she replied, cutting the engine. “Like I said, desperate times call for desperate measures.”