a shitty way to spend Christmas morning.
But to me, it was the best Christmas I’d ever had.
I had food that wasn’t a frozen turkey dinner.
No one was drunk.
There was no random cocktail waitress cooking me expired eggs because she felt bad I was eating dry cereal in a house with no decorations or presents.
Instead, I was warm. I was fed. I was caffeinated.
And, most of all, it was peaceful.
A smidge creepy in all its expansive emptiness, but still better than drunk screaming—or worse.
Full and happy, I backtracked upstairs. I was trying to decide whether I wanted to take a nap or watch one of the fifty-billion Christmas movies on TV when I noticed something.
One of the normally closed doors was ajar.
That wasn’t open earlier.
Was it?
I wasn’t sure. My focus had been aimed at Maximo’s office, which was opposite the ajar one. It was entirely possible I’d missed it.
I slowed to sneak a peek.
It’s probably just storage.
Or yet another boring guest room.
Or it holds government secrets, hostages, and Jimmy Hoffa.
But when I glanced in, I saw none of those.
I saw something even more unbelievable.
Positive it was a hallucination, I pushed the door all the way open and stared.
In the center of the room, there was a L-shaped desk with a sewing machine on top. Two of those headless torso mannequins were positioned next to it. The wall was lined with racks filled with all sorts of bits, doohickeys, and bolts of fabric.
So much fabric.
It was a lot.
Too much.
Beyond anything I’d asked for.
It was beautiful and amazing and perfect.
Too perfect.
There’s no way this is for me.
No way in hell.
My type got toys from a family who picked a name off a charity tree.
My type got cheap presents from church handouts.
My type had a dad who pawned all the donated gifts because he was feeling lucky and claimed he’d be able to win enough to buy better gifts.
My type had a dad who never replaced any of the hawked gifts, let alone with better ones.
My type was poor trash who didn’t get a spectacular life, even temporarily.
I don’t know who it’s for, but it’s not me.
Even as the denials raced through my pessimistic mind, something else bloomed in my heart.
Hope.
That stupid emotion I’d thought I was too smart to feel grew as I took in the details. The oversized green and red bow stuck to the top of the sewing machine. The cotton sleep shorts I’d been hand sewing positioned on the desk. The notecard with the familiar masculine scrawl.
And the canvas prints on the wall.
A handful of different sized pictures were hung around the room. They were simplistic, just a single white dove with a gray backdrop, but that minimalism was what made them breathtaking.
Even without the note or the bow, the doves made it clear this room was meant to be mine.
Like it was armed with boobytraps and I was trespassing, I took a tentative step inside. Then another. And another. Once I reached the desk, my heart pounded so hard, I was surprised it didn’t beat right out of my sternum. I grazed my fingertips along the machine that was loaded with so many buttons and settings, I couldn’t imagine all it was capable of doing.
I picked up the card.
Merry Christmas, little dove.
It’s actually for me.
No.
No, no, no.
As much as I loved the room—and I loved every single aspect of it—I couldn’t use it.
I’d stayed to ease his guilt.
I’d taken his help getting my diploma because I wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the priceless opportunity.
I’d accepted the clothes because clothes were a necessity. Plus, the cost for all of it was likely less than a payment on one of his cars.
Even the hobby supplies I’d asked for were meant to be cheap and inconsequential.
Temporary.
Just like me.
A sewing room was not something I could bring with me when I turned eighteen.
And if I allowed myself to use it—if I fell in love with it—how was I supposed to return to janky hand sewing?
Turning to leave the room, I froze.
My movements.
My breathing.
My thoughts.
Hanging on the wall opposite the sewing machine was the largest canvas print.
A dove in an intricate cage.
In black and white, the gleaming bars of the ornate cage and the bright white dove contrasted with the dark background. It looked beautiful, each bit of shadow and light playing perfectly against each other.
The beauty of it twisted in my gut for reasons I couldn’t fully comprehend, let alone explain.
I was pretty sure that was how good art was supposed to