Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Just like that, I was yapping again.
“My best friend moved to Texas on December thirteenth when I was nine years old. I was devastated. My first boyfriend dumped me on December second. I was seventeen and thought he was all that and a bag of chips. I confronted him on what I thought was his erroneous “newly single” status on Myspace. Apparently, it was my Dear John letter.”
“Asshole,” Hudson huffed.
“Total jerk soda,” I agreed. “I knew it, but I was crushed anyway. Two days later, I broke my wrist. It was a woe-is-me year. There were worse Decembers, of course. My mom was diagnosed on December fifteenth, and she passed on Christmas Eve five years later. But I lost Dad in December, too…and that one broke me.”
My voice cracked and I hated it, but Hudson pulled me close, ignoring my squawked warning that my hands were dirty. I held them up but found myself slowly melting into his embrace.
“I’m sorry. I know I’m repeating myself, but I am sorry.”
“Thanks.” I gently pushed out of his arms and sighed. “Dad died the day after Christmas four years ago. He was older and not in great health. In some ways, it wasn’t unexpected, but I miss him…so much. And I selfishly struggle with being alone.”
“How is that selfish?”
I waved dismissively. “It just is. Dad must have known he didn’t have much time. Almost every day that month, he told me how grateful he was that I was his son and how much my happiness meant to him. He’d point out a pretty bird or a beautiful sunset and just…go gaga. It was sweet and charming and…very Dad. His last words to me were ‘Be happy.’ I’ve tried, but…I have a very hard time embracing joy. The incessant pressure to smile through it all weighs on me. It’s easier for me to keep my head down and work through it, grumpy face and all.”
Hudson brushed his thumb over my cheek and cupped my chin. “I like this face just the way it is.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, but I’ve unwittingly become the opposite of my dad’s sunny Santa.”
“You seem pretty happy now.”
I cocked my head, furrowing my brow as if taking stock of my emotional state of mind. “I am. You have an interesting effect on me.”
He grinned. “Yeah?”
“Yes, it’s quite curious.”
Hudson set his hands on my hips. “You know what I think?”
“Hmm.”
“I think it’s good and healthy to mourn. And it’s okay to be sad. It’s also okay to let yourself be happy. I’m no therapist, but I’ve visited a couple, and I think it’s true that we punish ourselves when bad things happen. As if we deserve to suffer, and that’s not right. You should always give yourself a chance.” He gave a wry half grin. “Trust me, I’ve gone through some sticky emotions over the past year. Anger, grief, hurt, peace…some emotions are easier to swallow than others.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“I feel…hopeful,” he replied.
I smiled. How could I not? I rested my arms on his shoulders and stared into Hudson’s eyes, surrendering to a wave of contentment I hadn’t felt in…years.
“Me too.”
The first strains of Michael Bublé’s version of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” drifted from the speaker. For once, that familiar panicky sensation didn’t grip me and pull me under. It actually did look and feel Christmassy, and I didn’t mind. Not one little bit.
Hudson inclined his chin and kissed me. “Wanna dance?”
I did. I really did. I couldn’t summon any part of me that hated corny Christmas music or dancing, and I didn’t want to, anyway.
I nodded my response and laid my head on his shoulder.
We swayed in the cozy kitchen like an old married couple. Tears clouded my vision as ancient memories flooded my mind—sleigh rides and hot chocolate, homemade stockings and tinsel, and laughter. So much laughter.
And peace.
I felt it now in Hudson’s arms—shuffling in a circle, my secrets and shortcomings revealed in a bourbon-laced eggnog haze. It was good and right. And I wanted to believe it was real.
We stayed up late, baking sheets of gingerbread and cutting them into carefully measured squares and rectangles.
“We can begin assembly tomorrow or the following day,” I said.
“Sounds good.”
“Excellent.”
Hudson turned off the kitchen light and followed me to the foyer. “You all right?”
Fair question. Honest answer: undetermined.
I lingered at the front door, eyes on my cell, pretending to scroll my calendar. I wasn’t ready to leave, but it was late and we’d never had a sleepover. That probably required a conversation.
Don’t do it, Moody. Don’t say anything goofy or silly or—
“We’ve reached an impasse in our sexual journey that some might construe as crossing a line. I certainly wouldn’t want to impinge on boundaries, literal or figurative, but it occurs to me that we’ve never spent the night at either of our abodes.” I paused to push my glasses to the bridge of my nose, aware that I’d morphed into a verbal runaway locomotive. There was no stopping me now. Unfortunately. “Together in one bed, that is. And I’m definitely not asking for an invitation, nor am I issuing one. Although, I will say that I’m not averse to—”