Page 57 of My Secret Santa Clayton

“Looks good,” he said.

“It does,” I replied. I liked seeing him like this. This version of Clay, open and unguarded, was a rare sight.

And standing there beside him, I let myself bask in the simplicity of the moment.

I sank into the couch, letting the quiet wash over me. The Christmas lights cast a soft glow around the room, and I caught Clay's eye before reaching for the dusty photo album on the coffee table. It felt heavy in my hands as I opened it to the first page.

“Wow, look at this,” I said, pointing to a picture of a younger Clay grinning beside his parents.

Clay leaned closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the page. “Damn…the county fair. I had to be like…six years old?”

“Your mom always had that big smile,” I remarked, tracing the outline of her beaming face. I didn’t mention how happy his dad looked; Clay’s mother’s death had really broken him.

Clay nodded, silent for a moment. I turned the page to find a photo of Clay with his twin brother, both of them with fishing rods in hand. They were so alike it was jarring; I’d almost forgotten.

“Michael could out-fish me any day,” Clay said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

“Those were good times,” I added, squeezing his arm gently.

The next few pages brought back more memories. Clay and I before a middle school dance, awkward and hopeful. Another of us, a bit older, leaning against his dad's truck, his arm slung around my shoulder.

“Remember when you tried to teach me to drive stick in that old thing?” I asked, chuckling.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack,” he replied with a short laugh.

“Sorry about that,” I said, meeting his eyes.

“Water under the bridge,” he answered, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

I turned another page. “Where did this even come from?” I asked, my voice low. “I didn’t take you for the photo album type.”

“Got it when I came back from the Middle East,” Clay replied. “Dad put it in with some other stuff. Never looked at it.”

“Must be hard,” I said, watching him closely. His eyes stayed on the album, not meeting mine.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

I scooted closer to him on the couch, the space between us shrinking. He didn't look at me, just kept turning the pages, each one a new chapter of a life he'd left behind.

“Wow,” he breathed out suddenly, stopping at what must have been the last photo. I peered down at it. It was Clay, standing tall in his Marine uniform, looking handsome as all hell.

It was a great photo, but something about it had rattled him.

“Clay?” I closed the album and glanced at him. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, his voice steady. “Yeah, but Dad and I were already on bad terms then. He never said a word when I joined up. Didn't think he cared.”

“Relationships are tricky,” I said. I squeezed his shoulder. “Your dad's reaction might not have been so simple. And hey, with everything that's happened between us, maybe there's a chance for you two as well.”

Clay didn't respond. He stared at the portrait, the dim light from the Christmas tree playing over his face. I watched the shadows flicker, making the lines on his forehead stand out more.

I took a breath and waited, watching Clay as he sat with the weight of years on his shoulders. He let out a deep exhale and finally turned to me, his blue eyes meeting mine. The hurt I saw there pulled at something in my chest.

“Maybe you're right,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe it's time to try.”

My lips curved into a gentle smile, and I reached for his hand. His fingers were cold, but they wrapped around mine and sparked a kind of warmth that was more than skin-deep. The simple touch felt like a promise in the quiet of the cabin.

The Christmas lights cast a soft glow around us, and in it, I saw a glint of something new in Clay's eyes. Hope, fragile yet real, flickered between us.

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