she’d finished the drawing, she recruited my help to write For Daddy at the top. My hand shook as I spelled out the words in green block letters. D-a-d-d-y.
We hung the drawing from the lowest branch of the tree and propped Shayla’s blue rabbit next to it. It was her way of thanking him, I guessed. For the rabbit. For the Wonder Bread. For the love.
Christmas afternoon at the Johnsons’ was a down-home family affair, complete with a perfectly prepared meal, an exquisitely decorated tree, and the kind of general cheer that radiated a warm glow. Scott, who had been invited to the celebration long before our falling-out, arrived shortly after we did. We’d met a couple of times in the intervening days, always with polite reserve. The first time had been at church on the day following our Christmas tree purchase, and Scott had deliberately approached me, concern on his face.
“Are you okay, Shelby?”
“I’m okay, Scott. Thank you.”
He’d turned to leave but changed his mind. “If you need anything—you know, like your tree falls over or something—just give me a call.”
I’d thanked him again and watched him go. Shayla, on her way back from her Sunday school class, had launched herself at him, showing him her Noah’s ark drawing with pride. He’d smiled and complimented her, then kissed the top of her head and walked into the sunlight, headed home.
And now, we both sat in the Johnsons’ living room nursing glasses of Christmas punch as Shayla played with her new German-speaking doll and Bev and Gus scurried around the kitchen putting the final touches on our meal.
Scott was trying his hardest to diffuse the tension by making conversation, but I could tell it was putting a strain on him. I’d hurt him, and I wasn’t sure he understood why. But I wanted him to know that I hadn’t dismissed him—erased him from our lives. I glanced at Shayla, who was so engrossed with her doll that she was oblivious to anything else, and gathered some courage.
“We’ve missed you around.” As conversation starters went, it was pretty lame. I rolled my eyes and saw his smile deepen. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry we’ve seen less of you.”
“Yeah? I am too.”
I felt a sigh shoving its way to the surface and held it down. “I don’t know how to do this,” I said earnestly, searching for the right words. “What I said the other night—it’s true. And I can’t change any of it. But . . . but I don’t know how to do this anymore.”
“How to do what?”
“How to go back to being friends after . . . after what you said—and what I said.”
His eyes connected more intently with mine. “You still want to be friends?”
“I . . .” I hesitated. There would be safety in cutting off all contact, and yet . . . “Yes—of course I do.”
He looked at me consideringly, weighing his response. “After what happened the other night,” he finally said, “it might be hard to go back to the way things were.”
“Scott, if I could . . . If I could, I’d—”
I saw traces of frustration in his expression when he interrupted. “Why can’t you?”
“It’s . . . complicated.”
I tried to say with my eyes what I couldn’t articulate, but he was looking away, lost in his own thoughts.
A silence stretched thin before he spoke again. “I should have waited—been more sure we were both on the same page before I—”
“Wait. Scott, you can’t take the blame for this—”
“I should have given it more thought before just blurting it out.”
“It’s my fault too. I should have been . . . I should have been clearer—sooner.”
He didn’t contradict my statement. “Well . . .” He paused. “At least we know what we’re dealing with now.”
“Yes.”
“And I guess that’s a good thing,” he said, expelling a breath.
“I hope so.”
He rubbed his hands over his face and shifted in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “And since we’re the same people we were a week ago—and those people were friends . . .”
“Maybe we can still be?” I offered hopefully.
He stretched his neck, side to side, and I heard two pops. “We can try,” he said. “I mean, we’re both grown-ups, right?”
I hesitated on that one. “Sure. We’re both grown-ups.”
“So we just . . . try to make it happen, I guess. I put the lid back on what I talked about, and—”