“You’ll tell your mother thank you for me?”
“Of course.”
“You’re a good girl, Theo,” she says softly, her face already halfway hidden by the big door. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I turn before she can see the tears in my eyes.
Doesn’t he know I want to help him? Doesn’t he know I’m flipping my shit, wondering what he and Chris were doing all that time?
I descend the porch steps. Walk down the path. Up the sidewalk and back to my house. Kick off my boots when I step inside. Pass Dad on the way up to my bedroom.
He’s holding his closed laptop under one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in the other hand. Steam billows from the top in playful curlicues that fade in the air.
“How’d it go?” he asks, pausing where I’m standing by the bottom of the stairs.
“He’s still not talking.” I slide my hand along the banister. I can’t wait to go back to bed. It’s the only way I’ll stop thinking about this.
“I’m sorry, babygirl.” He sighs as he looks at me. Throws a hesitant smile my way. “This won’t last forever. He’ll come around and I bet you’ll be the first person he calls.”
I used to think that was possible. But he’s not the same, and neither am I. There was a time I wouldn’t have been able to shake Donovan if I tried, and now that everything depends on talking to him, he can’t be bothered with me for even a minute.
I run my index finger along the side of my rib, exhale silently as I find that familiar oval of tender, bruised skin hiding beneath my shirt.
Hosea calls in the afternoon.
I nearly drop the phone when I see that it’s him. We’ve only texted until now; an actual phone call seems like a step forward. I smooth down my hair before I answer, as if he can see me through the phone.
“Doing anything for Christmas Eve Eve?” His voice is a little thick, as if he just woke from a nap.
I hear people talking in the background. His television. A few more seconds reveals it’s a show with a horribly obnoxious laugh track.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
Too quickly. Maybe I should have invented plans so it doesn’t look like I was waiting around for him to call.
“Me either.” Hosea clears his throat. “Grams will be away until tomorrow night, so . . . you want to come over later?”
“Over to your house?”
I sound as if I’ve been invited to have tea with the queen of England, but I couldn’t be more surprised if that’s what I’d been asked. Going to his house is almost like a date. The closest we can get to one right now. There are only four more weeks left until he might not want me, after all.
“Yeah, I thought we could hang out without any . . . distractions.”
He coughs away from the phone and I wonder if his face is hot like mine.
Still, I try to play it cool. Pause for a moment, try to keep the elation out of my voice as I say, “Sure. What time?”
I have to get a little creative to leave the house later. Nothing crazy, but I usually spend most nights around the holidays at home with my parents, and so do my friends, so they’re curious about where I could be going the night before Christmas Eve.
“I need to drop off Sara-Kate’s present,” I say, and then go on before I lose my nerve to continue with the lie. “She leaves tomorrow to go to her relatives’ and I want her to have it before Christmas.”
It’s not completely untrue. They are going to her grandparents’ house—but her grandparents live a few miles away in the city and Sara-Kate and her family are just spending the day with them.
Dad and I have just finished cleaning up after supper while Mom has her cup of post-dinner coffee and pores over a stack of holiday cookbooks. As if she doesn’t already have her favorite recipes picked out, ones she’s made dozens of times now. Dad and I told her about the pecan pie together. She wasn’t mad. She hardly said anything at all, except to sweep her hand over the top of my hair, kiss my forehead, and say, “He just needs time, sweetheart.” I think she felt bad for me.
“You won’t be in their way while they’re packing?” she says now, flipping the page to some sort of elaborate baked dish that looks heavy on the melted cheese and bread crumbs. A dish that would make my mouth water so much, I’d have to pinch myself on both sides.
“They’re all packed. She invited me and it’s just for a little bit.” I lean against the counter and try to appear not at all invested in the conversation at hand. “I’ll be back by curfew.”
“That was never up for debate,” my mother says without looking up from her cookbook.
I glance at Dad, who’s trying to hide his smile. “Go,” he says, waving the dish towel at me. The long sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled up to his elbows. “Wish Sara-Kate and her family a merry Christmas.”
I spend a long time getting ready because what do you wear when you’ll finally be alone with the person who occupies half of your thoughts? I go through my entire wardrobe, wish I could call Sara-Kate. She’d know exactly what I should wear tonight, could march into my closet and pull out four excellent options in less than five minutes.
But I can’t ask for fashion advice or she’d know I was going to hook up with Hosea. And I can’t listen to the judgment in her voice, so I work with what I have: nerves and indecision. When I walk out the door, I’ve finally decided on a cream-colored cardigan over a red silk tank top that glows against my skin, and a pair of jeans that gives off the appearance of an ass.
The drive to Hosea’s is quick, just a little over five minutes on the empty Sunday-night streets. He lives on the left side of a mint-green duplex. I park a couple of houses up from his and sit in the car with the engine still running. I dig a fingernail into my wrist to make sure I’m here. On Hosea’s street, only a few feet away from the front door of his house, where we’ll finally be alone.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, smile with my mouth wide open to double check that I brushed away any food in my teeth. I didn’t want to put on too much makeup in case my parents noticed before I slipped out of the house, but it’s just enough, I think. I apply more lip gloss before stepping out of the car.
I look around as I’m walking up the path to his house, as if someone followed me here. As if Ellie will be standing just inside the door, ready to confirm her suspicions.
I ring the bell and stick my hands into my coat pockets as I wait for him to answer the door. It could be colder but I’m grateful when I hear footsteps coming toward me. I hold my breath as he fiddles with the lock, get a quick rush in those moments of anticipation when you can feel the other person, just inches away.
“Hey,” he says warmly when we’re standing in front of each other.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans and he smells good. Fresh, like he just got out of the shower, but his hair is dry. And beautiful.
“Hi.” I smile at him as I step inside the little foyer, which contains a table with a tray for mail and a small, horizontal rack above it to hang keys.
Hosea closes the door and reaches for my hand, pulls me all the way into his house. I barely have time to take in the living room before he’s pushing my hair back from my face, brushing his lips against mine in a kiss hello. I close my eyes and lean into him as I kiss him back and we stand like that for a while. Slowly kissing in his grandmother’s living room, like we have all the time in the world.
“I’m really happy you came,” he says in that same warm voice that melts right through me. I look up at him, sketch the contours of his face with my eyes. I remember the night we talked at Klein’s party, how I really looked at him the first time. Noticed the way his eyes softened and the tension seemed to relax from his strong jawline when he was talking to me.