In A Holidaze - Christina Lauren Page 0,40
to tell me how you feel, though, and I just wanted you to know—” He gestures between us. “It won’t change this.”
I know exactly what he means—we’ll be the same as we’ve always been—and of course I’m grateful for that.
But even though I never—not in my wildest dreams— imagined he would share my affection, when he says this I am consumed with rejection. I mean, of course the entire point of telling him how I felt was so that nothing would stay the same.
“Let’s move on,” I say, pushing forward.
Andrew laughs. “Okay, good idea.”
“You can travel anywhere, where do you go?”
He doesn’t even have to think about this conversational pivot: “Budapest. You?”
“Besides here?”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “Yes, besides here.”
“Okay, fine.” I mentally scroll through postcard images of various locations, feeling vaguely uninspired by my own game. “No idea. Maybe Hawaii?”
“You have the entire world to choose from and you go to Hawaii?”
“What’s wrong with Hawaii?”
He shrugs. “It just feels so easy. What about Tahiti? Mallorca?”
“Sure, they sound nice.”
Andrew laughs. “Okay, it’s settled. With that attitude, I’m in charge of all of our future travel.”
The words settle heavily between us, and we both go still.
“I made it weird,” he says finally, grinning over at me.
I burst out laughing, relieved that this time it wasn’t me.
“You totally did.”
Our laughter dies away and silence engulfs us. I don’t know how to read the mood. I told him how I felt, giving him an opening to reciprocate, but he didn’t. And yet . . . there’s a strange understanding blooming between us.
“Okay, I have an idea,” he says. “No speaking for five minutes. Let’s just look up at the tree together.”
“And hope we don’t get our faces eaten off.”
He bursts out laughing again and then wipes a hand down his face, saying playfully, “God. Why can’t you ever be serious?” He wipes at his eyes. “Okay. Five minutes.”
I follow his lead and focus on the tree. “Five minutes.”
As odd an idea it is, it’s also brilliant. It saves me from having to think about what to say, which is good, because my mind is a mortified blank sheet of nothing.
For the first thirty seconds or so, I feel like I’m drowning in the sound of everything else in the room and the contrasting quiet between us. But then the stilted awareness dissolves, and I can focus on the lights, the dangling gold ornament just to my right, the laminated picture of Theo and Andrew as little kids hanging on the branch nearby. I can focus on his warm, easy presence next to me. Andrew’s arm presses along the length of mine and we just lie like that, breathing in tandem.
His stomach growls, and it makes me giggle again, and he shushes me. I turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at me, and with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, he lifts his finger to his lips and whispers, “No talking. I just want to be under the tree with you.”
chapter fifteen
December twenty-second. Still here.
And today’s theme—Sled Day—is my favorite. Unfortunately, I can imagine a million ways the universe might give me a failing grade and send me back to the start: An enormous tree branch on my head. A boulder thrown in my path. Comedic music as a backdrop while the camera captures me— the lone holiday tourist—caught at the center of an avalanche.
With trepidation, I set my feet onto the cold basement floor.
The house is quiet as I shuffle across the kitchen to stand in the window—my breath fogs up the cold glass in front of me. The gently falling flakes from last night transitioned into a full-blown storm while we slept, and the world has turned wintry white. Trees bow under the weight of fresh snow. The mountains wear sparkling, powdery caps. I’d never get tired of this view.
Lisa’s cookie bars are still on the counter, so I pick up the plate and dump them straight into the trash, covering the evidence with yesterday’s coffee grounds, and start a fresh pot. What do I have to lose?
On a roll now, I get breakfast started. Why wait for Mom to get up?
The smell of coffee and cooking meat is like a siren call and people slowly tumble in. Soon the TV is on in the other room, the theme music to How the Grinch Stole Christmas! filtering through the house.
“Thank you for getting this started, honey.” Mom pulls her hair back into a bun, slips on her Mrs. Claus apron,