Hope for the Holidays

by Kent, Alison

  “I would.” Why did he have to look at her like that? As if he was happy to see her. As if he’d do anything for her. As if she meant as much to him as he did to her. She swallowed, searching for her voice. “But only if it’s not an imposition.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Thanks.” C’mon, Cilla. Spit it out. “That’s all I guess.”

  The words hung in the air, an usher showing her the door, but she made no move to leave him. Instead, she searched for something else, something she could turn into a confession, an admission of guilt, an apology. A something that might get Cary talking, to start a conversation she could use. She loved listening to him, learning all the things she didn’t know. Things she’d caused to happen to him. And that was the worst.

  Knowing that she was to blame.

  “Good night again,” she finally said. She had to go. Damp emotion welled in her eyes, clutched in her chest, an unfamiliar pang, and weakened her. She feared getting to her feet, a stupid sensation because she was perfectly strong.

  Just not strong enough in this moment for what she needed to do.

  She curled her hands over the mattress at her hips to push herself up, but Cary stopped her, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around her wrist.

  “Stay.”

  That single husky word had her skin prickling as if dusted with evergreen needles, or sugar in the colors of Christmas. “In your room?”

  Her voice was breathless, Cary’s equally so when he said, “In my bed. To sleep. Nothing more. Just... sleep.”

  Because she couldn’t speak, her throat strangled by ribbons of wonder, she nodded, and he moved to the side to make room. She climbed in next to him, a lumbering, bulky, graceless form, settling into sheets still holding his warmth. Eyes closed, she faced away, smelling his clean scent on the pillowcase.

  He curled around her, his chest to her back, his knees in the bend of hers. “If this makes you uncomfortable, I’ll scoot over.”

  “No.” It was all she could do not to grab for him. So silly: needing him, wanting him, unable in this moment to be on her own. But she was. And no one but Cary would do.

  They remained unmoving and silent for several minutes absorbing one another’s body heat, learning how they fit, their breathing settling into the same rhythm. Cary rested his hand on her hip tentatively. She reached down and slid hers beneath, twining their fingers together and curling them into her palm possessively.

  His heart thudded against her back; she wanted so badly to press his hand to her chest to feel the beat of hers but she didn’t. That intimacy would have to wait until she’d dealt with the turmoil consuming her. “Something changed that day you picked up my razor blade. Something between us. What I saw in your eyes... It scared me.”

  He shifted behind her, adjusting the comforter, moving his pillow. He rubbed his socks against hers. “Yeah. I’ve never been able to shake it. The way you looked at me.”

  They were a pair, weren’t they? Dread rippled through her and she shuddered. “Nobody knew, Cary. Having you find out...” She closed her eyes. “I was so ashamed.”

  He took a deep breath, stirring her hair when he exhaled. “Because of the discovery? Of you cutting yourself? Or because it was me?”

  “Both.” Honesty time, Cilla. “But mostly because it was you.” There. She’d said it. So why was she a quivering mess inside? “We barely knew each other. We rarely spoke. I’m not even sure we were friends—”

  “We weren’t.”

  She wanted the truth but still, it jolted and she stiffened. “So why did you do it?”

  Cary shrugged; she felt the movement against her shoulder. “It was a gut reaction.”

  “Because it was dangerous? Or because it was mine?”

  “Because it was yours.”

  He hadn’t even hesitated.

  “So you wouldn’t have picked it up if Robin Carter or Katey Nix had dropped their purse?”

  In answer, he tucked himself closer to her body.

  “Why me?” she asked, hoping his answer would help her understand her attachment to him.

  “Curiosity?” Another shrug. “Wondering how the other half lived?”

  No. She wasn’t buying it. It had to be more. “That seems so... shallow. Not to say we were particularly deep in those days. It’s just... I can’t define it.”

  “Kindred spirits, then,” he offered, the concept sounding strangely... right, comfortably so. “Somehow I knew the laughter in your house wasn’t a fun family evening. And you knew... I don’t know.” He took a deep breath and she waited. “Maybe I needed to feel as if I mattered. And helping you out did that for me.”

  Tears seeped from her eyes, dampening her lashes and his pillow. The idea of his feeling as if he didn’t matter was like a knife slicing into her heart. “Is that true?”

  “It’s either that or...”

  “Or?” She waited for what seemed like forever. And then she waited more.

  He swallowed and cleared his throat and still his voice cracked when finally he said, “Chemistry.”

  Something tingled deep in her center. It blossomed there. It grew, reaching up with arms outstretched and fingers spread wide and seeking.

  That thing... It was hope. Glorious, glorious hope. “Would chemistry be such a bad thing?”

  He chuckled into the hair at her nape. “You asked me the other day if I’d ever been in love.”

  “You said no.” Again she waited, anxious and trembling.

  “I lied.”

  Chapter Eight

  SIX DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Cary took Cilla to get the tree she’d asked for the first night she’d slept in his bed. She’d been sleeping there every night since, though as often as she had to get up, there wasn’t a lot of sleep happening for either of them.

  He was fine with it. They were talking, growing close. Sharing. It was easy to do in the dark. The intimacy between them lingered until the light of day when she ran errands and he worked. Not surprising, she hadn’t kissed him again. With the way he’d exited the kitchen, he didn’t blame her. But neither had he kissed her.

  He was still working on what that kiss had meant. Until he figured that out, or understood why he’d walked away... Yeah. He was having a hard time with that one.

  Cilla in his arms and he’d choked.

  At least they were healing. It was the only word that came to mind as he maneuvered to park. This unexpected connection had peeled back years of protective cover, allowing access into places neither of them had exposed to fresh air and sunshine in decades. Frankly, it scared the crap out of him.

  He wanted to think they were laying the foundation for something with the potential to be permanent. The very real possibility existed, however, that they were, instead, destroying walls built so high that bringing them down could result in irreparable damage. But putting a stop to what they’d started—

  “I always hated buying cut trees,” Cilla said, her arm hooked tightly through his. He’d parked as close as he could, but they still had two blocks to walk to the corner of Second Street and Hummingbird Lane and the Fir Sale lot.

  It was a busy place.

  Bare light bulbs hung on wires between poles around the perimeter while larger spotlights, clipped to the skeleton of the enclosure’s frame, shone down from overhead. It had been the same setup every year Cary could remember.

  “Why’s that?” he asked. He liked having Cilla close, liked the contact, the scents clinging to her—of skin and hair, of the cookies she’d been baking all day. Even now he could smell cinnamon and chocolate and toasted nuts. He’d eaten so many his head was spinning with the sugar high. Sugar. Yeah.

  It was the sugar that had him unbalanced.

  “I wanted to trudge into the woods,” she said, cutting into his thoughts before they grew more ridiculous, more... pointless. “Make it a family outing, wielding axes and all that.” She adjusted her hold on his arm, wrapping her fingers around his biceps. “What did I know, right? My family? D
oing anything together? Especially involving axes?”

  She laughed, the sound as tart as it was amused, and the pain, the longing... They gutted him, angered him. She deserved so much better than what fate had given her. Until they kicked him out, his parents had forgotten he lived in their home, but at least they’d been sober. He supposed that was some sort of saving grace. Or not.

  “Besides,” she added, “trudging isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “You’ve done a lot of that, have you? Trudging? Not the ax thing.” Best to keep their families out of the present for now. He didn’t want their pasts to mess things up—though he couldn’t imagine she wasn’t as caught up as he was thinking of what they’d both gone through to get here.

  That day he’d picked up her razor blade, he’d taken her punishment because he couldn’t stand the idea of Cilla having her senior year ruined. He hadn’t once thought of what, besides the expulsion, would happen to him. Maybe he should have...

  She shrugged. “New York. Susan, my ex’s mother, thought it the greatest tradition in the world. Walking here. Walking there. She couldn’t wait to take the baby—”

  She cut off the thought and, not for the first time, Cary realized she never spoke of her life away from Hope Springs. Of her daughter having grandparents who might want to be a part of her life, even if her father didn’t. He wanted to ask—no, he wanted to pry—but was a smart enough guy to know this wasn’t the time.

  What he needed to do was turn this moment, this particular tree-choosing process into the adventure she’d always longed for. Make it a memory worth savoring. A story to tell her child years from now when he wasn’t around to fill in any details she forgot.

  As far as his memories... He would carry those of their first night in his bed to his grave. Cilla on her side, facing away from him as he spooned his body around hers, as he rested his arm on her side, his hand on her belly, feeling the little one tumble.

  Cilla had taken his hand and placed it just so and whispered for him to wait. She’d fallen asleep while he had but he’d refused. He’d stayed awake until morning, not about to waste a second of having her beside him, of the comfort her nearness gave him, the complete rightness of her being there, belonging; his, if only for the night.

  “Blue spruce is my favorite,” she said, interrupting his musings again. “I know it’s pricey but it’s worth it for the smell alone. What do you—”

  “Hey, Cary.”

  Cary turned at the greeting and smiled at the boy he knew well. “Hey, Grady. Got any good trees?”

  “Got dozens of ‘em,” Grady said, glancing at Cilla. He awkwardly shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

  Right. Introductions. “This is a friend of mine from school, Cilla Reddy. She’s staying with me for a while. Cilla, this is Grady Barrow. He’s a friend of mine, too, and a really talented artist.”

  “Nice to meet you, Grady.” Cilla held out her hand and Grady shook it. “Barrow. Is your mother Quinn Barrow?”

  Grady nodded. “Is she gonna be your baby’s doctor? She takes care of most of the babies around here. Kids, too.”

  “She is. I met her earlier this week when I saw Dr. Baker. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, they’re going to be partners. He’ll take good care of you for sure.” Frowning, Grady glanced over his shoulder. “You say you want a blue spruce?”

  “I would love one, yes,” Cilla said. “Can you show me your favorite?”

  “There’s a great one at the back but you’ll need a really tall ceiling,” he said, turning and heading that way.

  Cary followed Cilla as she followed Grady through the rows of trees standing at attention. Tendrils of hair escaped the knit cap she’d pulled on against the cold along with his bomber jacket. Though a front had blown through last night and temperatures had plummeted, she’d insisted her cardigan was enough. He’d insisted otherwise.

  She was capable of taking care of herself. He knew that. She wouldn’t have made it this far in life without being self-sufficient. That didn’t keep him from wanting to protect her, to care for her. And the strength of that need ripped him like a knife to the gut.

  How had he thought he could walk away from her all those years ago? Why had he never come back, even if just to check up on her? Maybe because they hadn’t truly been friends? Because her life hadn’t been any of his business then? Because the chemistry between them had been one-sided? Except that wasn’t the case at all. It had simply taken their getting away from the lives they hadn’t wanted to understand.

  “Is this one okay with you, Cary? It should fit in your living room, yes?”

  Cary looked at the tree Grady had pulled out from the row. Then he glanced at Cilla’s expectant expression. “Yeah. Sure. It’s fine. You have rope to tie it to the top of my car?”

  He asked the question of Grady, who nodded, then dragged the tree to the front of the lot. Once Cilla had paid and Cary, with Grady’s help, had hefted it onto his car’s roof, Grady asked, “Are you going to be able to get this into your house? I can come help.”

  “I got it. Thanks.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Cilla added, tucking a tip into his hand.

  Grady stuffed the bill into his pocket without looking at it and turned to go, only to immediately turn back. “Mom thought maybe you could come by after the program this weekend. She’s having some people over. Luna and Angelo. Oliver and Indiana. People from the academy. Ian.”

  “Sure,” Cary said, opening Cilla’s door. “That would be great.”

  “Sweet. See ya. Oh, and you can come, too,” he said to Cilla, his grin sheepish and reminding Cary of himself at thirteen years old.

  Cilla’s smile was charming. “I’d love to. Thank you again, Grady.”

  Once Cary had rounded the car and settled behind the wheel, she asked laughingly, “What did I just agree to?”

  “The Caffey-Gatlin Academy is having a holiday program Christmas Eve. Grady’s been in charge of most of the set work. I’ve been advising him for a while. Mentoring, I guess. He’s a great kid. Shows a lot of promise.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates your input.”

  Cary shrugged and started the car. “I figured I could pay forward some of what I’ve learned. Keep him from making some of the same mistakes I did.”

  “Like not graduating?”

  “I’m not sure that was a mistake.” He shifted into gear and started toward home. “I mean, it’s not like I planned not to graduate, but it worked out. For me, anyway.”

  “Would you advise Grady to stay in school? If he hated it and was thinking of quitting?”

  Cary laughed, as much to himself as for Cilla’s benefit. “First off, he’s only thirteen and he absolutely loves school. But he’s also got an amazing mother backing him. Not to mention the reach of the Caffey-Gatlin Academy.”

  “Okay, not Grady then,” she said, puzzling him. “If you were to have children? You’d want the same for them, right? To finish school?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Where was she going with this? “My not finishing wasn’t about me hating school but then you know that, so...”

  He slowed to a stop at the next corner, flipping his indicator for the turn onto Seventh Street. A quick glance in his rearview showed no one behind him, and his was the only car at the four-way stop. He held the brake and waited. “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head, smoothing the front of his jacket over the round of her belly. “Nothing. Just curious. Thinking about things.”

  Nope. He wasn’t buying it. He shifted into park and turned to face her. “What are we talking about here, Cilla? My probably-never-going-to-happen kids? Or the one you’re about to bring home to my house?”

  Tension wrapped the car as if to crush it, around and around and around, trapping them. The air grew heated and hard to breathe; Cary thought of cutting it with the knife he’d used on the roast. With the razor blade Cilla had used to cut away her pain.

  “Cilla—”
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  “Cary, you’re parked in the middle of the street.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “It’s Hope Springs.”

  “Can we just go home? Talk about this later? Please?”

  Later. He was pretty sure that meant never.

  “Sure,” he said, the word bouncing off this new wall she was erecting. “Let’s go.”

  “I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU want to go through these,” Cary said, making one more trip from the living room to the access ladder upstairs for the last of his family’s holiday decorations stored in the attic. “If I’m not back in five, send in the clowns.”

  Smiling, Cilla sat on the floor surrounded by the cluster of boxes, the pitchy evergreen scent of the tree Cary had set up to be framed by the front window filling her with joy. The boxes were stale and musty, the cardboard crumbling. She didn’t care.

  She couldn’t wait to find out what was inside and what the contents might tell her about his childhood. Had his mother kept any of the ornaments he’d made in school? Had those early efforts—because surely they were there—hinted at his artistic talent?

  She wanted to know everything about him. It was silly but despite the earlier misstep on their way home, she felt as if she was fourteen again and he’d just walked into her English class. She remembered that day so clearly. It had been his first year to attend school in Hope Springs. He was the new kid which was tough enough, but even more so when most of the kids had known one another since diapers.

  He’d caught her eye as he’d taken a desk a row over from hers. Behind her, Sarah Goodnight and Fatin Harnani had whispered something about him looking like Ryan Gosling... if Ryan Gosling had been a complete dork. Cilla hadn’t seen it. Neither had she cared. It was Cary as Cary who’d piqued her curiosity. Cary she wanted to meet.

  And yet... She’d let peer pressure get in the way.

  She hadn’t approached him, talked to him, gotten to know him. In fact, she’d ignored him—avoided him—afraid of losing her popularity by stepping outside her social circle. Funny that, when it was filled with people she didn’t even like. But in the face of her dysfunctional home life, that privilege kept her sane—even though she’d known it was a shallow, false security, while Cary...