Page 42 of Scrooge

“And this one is Tom. He is the cop who walks our street every second Friday. He usually pops his head in to say hello when we are closing the shop, ensuring that the front door is always closed and locked when we leave.” Her smile is warm, her eyes glassy as she reminisces about these people from her life.

“This one is Mary. She works at the sandwich shop at the end of our street. I get a chicken and mayo bagel every Tuesday so I can talk to her about her book club that she has on Monday nights. She has the best book recommendations.”

I swallow roughly as I listen to how Haylee knows so many people in the city. And not just their names or what they do, but she has memories with them. She looks forward to seeing them regularly. It somehow makes me feel even more lonely than I have before.

“Oh, this one…” she says, walking to the other side of the room and pointing to another portrait of a lady. “This is Betty. Betty has dementia and is currently living in an elderly care home down in Brooklyn. But Betty used to stop in the shop to get toys for her kids for their birthdays and every Christmas for decades until they were all adults. But by then, her memory started to go and she would come in to get them presents as if they were ten, even though they were thirty or forty. She always had the biggest smile. I am actually going to see her this week.”

“See her?” I ask.

“Yeah, visit her. Sometimes, she remembers me, sometimes she doesn’t, but her kids aren’t always able to see her regularly. They are busy, some live states away, so I make sure I visit for an hour or so each week just to say hello,” she says like it’s easy, like she looks forward to it, and I take a deep breath. The women I know would never know people like this. The amount of depth to Haylee is astounding.

“And you do this all because…” I ask. I wonder if Betty's family pays her to go and spend time with their mother. I have looked into the Tucker family. I know they don’t have a lot of money, and I wouldn’t blame Haylee if she had to take different jobs on the side. A strong work ethic is an admirable trait.

“Because it is a nice thing to do,” is all she says, looking at me confused, like I should already know that.

“There are so many people…” I shake my head as I take in the number of portraits in this room.

“They’re the people of New York.” She shrugs, and she is right. She is capturing everyday people, grabbing not only their likeness, but also their stories.

“Your talent is…” I start to say, letting my words trail off as I try to find one that encapsulates how I’m feeling. I shake my head, the feeling almost overwhelming. But the room is also very cramped. I have no idea how she works here; these canvases that are lying around the room need to be on walls, not hidden in this small back room of her parents’ cottage in Jersey.

“I know. It isn’t for everyone. My ex never liked them either.” Her shoulders drop, her face disappointed, and I frown. But more than that, I’m suddenly pissed.

“He clearly doesn’t know what he is talking about, because these are brilliant,” I tell her, wanting her to know exactly how talented she is, and storing the information about her ex in my mind for later. I have done my research on her, but I don’t know much about her last boyfriend, although he sounds like an insecure prick from just that comment alone.

“You think so?” she asks, her voice tentative, but the look in her eyes, it’s pure hope.

“They are really fucking amazing,” I say, appreciating them all, and while I am no art critic, I would buy something like this.You are amazing… The words sit on my tongue, and I bite it to prevent them from slipping. Spending time with Haylee these past weeks has been refreshing and surprising as hell. For the first time in forever, I actually look forward to our dates and spending time with someone. But I know it is all for show. Our agreement. So I can’t go getting any ideas, regardless of how sweet or funny or talented she is, or how good she looks in those jeans, or how her V-neck t-shirt slips from her shoulders a little, tempting me with her black bra underneath.

“You have a little…” I start to say, stepping toward her, seeing a dark streak of paint on her cheek.

“A what?”

I stop in front of her, our toes almost touching, and lift my hand to her face.

“A little paint… right… here…” I brush her cheek with my thumb, the paint coming off easily, before I coast my knuckles down her cheek to her jaw. I swallow, the tension in the room escalating as she stares up at me with hazy eyes and parted lips.

“Alex…” The way she breathes out my name, it should be a warning, but it sounds so needy and perfect, and my body pings. Without thinking, I move my hand around her neck and back up her jaw, wanting to cup her face and bring her lips to mine.

“Let’s go, people!” I hear Jillian shout from down the hall, and I drop my hand instantly and clear my throat. What the hell has gotten into me? I see her swallow before taking a breath, righting herself. Glad it wasn’t only me affected.

“Are you ready?” she asks, stepping toward me with the largest grin I have ever seen. I have no idea what I am about to walk into, my heart thudding as I look down at her, seeing the joy on her face.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I murmur before I feel her small hand, a little cold against my warm palm, and while there are no media here and her family out of view, I grip her hand like a lifeline, liking the feel of it in mine.

She looks beautiful with this smile. It looks genuine, even though I know it isn’t. She is only with me because she wants something. It was something my father drilled into me. People are only nice to you when they want something, and Haylee needs her shop. I must remember that.

18

HAYLEE

With our Thanksgiving meal all but finished, we all sit around the table, feeling full, content, and a little sleepy. I overate. I always do, and now my jeans are feeling tighter than they were only an hour ago. But Mom’s turkey is amazing, and then there’re the green beans, stuffing, potatoes, and don’t even get me started on the gravy.

“Okay, who’s going first?” my dad asks, looking around at each of us, our annual tradition kicking off. I see Alex out of the corner of my eye looking confused.

“Oh, me!” my nephew Charlie shouts. He is a bit of a firecracker, but I love him and am interested in hearing what the kids are most thankful for.

“Okay, shoot,” Dad says, grinning. It is contagious, and we all look at Charlie with a smile.

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