Page 23 of The Christmas Keeper

“Oh, sorry, the front door was open.”

I looked over at Kenan. His mouth was a papercut. “I wanted to double-check that you two are coming to the party and gingerbread bake-off tomorrow night?”

His sight stayed locked on the sandwich he was making. “I plan to be there. I can’t speak for Kenan. He could very well be in Tallahassee by then.”

Kenan’s chin jutted up an inch higher. Fire danced in those brown eyes of his. I suspected I was about to see the angry side of the man that, to this point, had been nothing but loving and sweet. And to be honest, after that Tallahassee comment, I kind of deserved whatever hellfire he rained down on me. Fuck, I was a petty dick when I was cornered.

“We all hope Kenan will be here!” Al said and slathered enough mayo for three sandwiches on his cold hamburger bun. “I wanted to see if you’d be willing to perform something Jewish at the party?”

Al glanced at Kenan standing by the boxes.

“Something like a bris?” Kenan asked with such innocence, I nearly snorted in amusement.

“That would be lovely!” Al beamed, then slapped his monster sandwich together. “A few songs about your oil days. Oh! Glory and I love that one that the boy on Saturday Night Live did a few years ago.” Kenan blinked. I rolled my eyes, for I knew what wascoming. “You know the one that he sings about Bowzer from Sha Na Na and the Fonz?”

“Jesus Christ,” I huffed.

“No, I don’t recall him mentioning our Lord in that Hanukkah song,” Al commented. I slammed the lid down on the sandwich station. Al startled. A slice of tomato fell from his sandwich to his shirt. “Well damn. That will stain. I best get back so Glory can scrub that out. Thanks for the bite. See you both at the firehall tomorrow night,” Al bellowed and hightailed it back to the hardware store without offering to pay…the cheapskate.

I stalked out after Al, locking the front door with sharp twists of my wrists, then taking a moment to rest my brow on the cold wood.

I heard the floor creaking as it does by the bar. I sucked it up, straightened, and turned to look at Kenan holding a small, bent to fuck fake tree. The poor thing looked like someone had wadded it up into a ball, of sorts, and then flung it into a box, which was exactly what had happened.

“Paulie bought that tree for the bar,” I said with zero emotion. That was the only way I could get through trying to explain why I was such a fucking asshole loser. “It used to sit at the end of the bar, back when I thought he loved me. Turned out he loved being drilled by someone else more than me.”

Kenan nodded, not angrily actually, but in something that was probably resignation. He plunked the abused tree on the bar and then went back into the kitchen for the other boxes. One by one, he carried them into the pub, placed them on the table nearest the old jukebox, and stood there staring at me. Willing me to say more, perhaps?

“I could drive home for about sixty bucks if I avoid toll roads,” he informed me, his voice cracking slightly, his twang a bit thicker.

“Oh.” There was a shiny bit of dialog if ever I heard it.

“I made sixty-two bucks the first night I sang here. So far, I’ve made close to four hundred dollars between tips and my wages.”

“Okay.” I began to rock side to side, just a little as if I could prepare myself for whatever slings and arrows Kenan would launch at me. “I’m glad.”

He closed his eyes, thick dark lashes lying on his cheeks before he lifted them to stare at me. “I’m saying all that because if I wanted to be anywhere else, I would be. I have enough money. I just don’t want to be down south.”

“Yet.” Confusion knitted his eyebrows. “You’re not down southyet, but you will be someday. And that’s why the decorations stay in the boxes because it’s easier to leave that kind of shit in the basement in a damp egg box than bring them out for someone to shred.”

Amazingly, or shockingly, or maybe both, Kenan didn’t hurl a verbal spear at me. Paulie would have. Any time I expressed any kind of self-doubt about myself or our relationship, he’d fire back with both barrels.

“Okay, that was a lot to unpack. Why don’t we just sit and talk this out?” Kenan moved to the table next to the one heaped with ugly memories of an ugly holiday. He pulled out a chair, patted the seat, and planted his tempting ass in another chair. Then he sat there, watching me expectantly.

“This feels a lot like being called into the vice principal’s office,” I confessed, shuffling over, shoulders slumped, to plunk myself down onto the padded chair. My back was to the jukebox. I wished some music was playing. Anything really at this point. Hell, I’d take opera right now. Any sort of something to distract me from the way Kenan was handling this.

“I hope not.” He sat forward, stretched his arms over the table, and laid his hands out, palms up. “I’m not going to yell at you. I shouldn’t have done so before.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m a champion ballbuster. My mother will tell you all about my attitude. She’d scream at me for hours when I was a kid.”

“I’m beginning to see a pattern of how others interact with you,” he said, wiggling his fingers. I resolutely linked my hands with his. The touch of warm skin to clammy skin—mine being the moist flesh—helped to ease my shoulders down from my ears an inch or two. “But that’s a discussion for another day. Tonight, I wanted to just let you know that whatever happened with Paulie wasn’t on you.” I rolled my eyes. “It wasn’t. And no matter what he said to you or how he tried to spin it that you were this, that, of the other which led to his infidelity is bullshit. He cheated on you. End of. If he was that terribly unhappy, he could have broken up with you and found a new guy. Right?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean yeah, true.” I studied our fingers as I spoke. He squeezed my hands. “I hate that he did that to me.” My sight lingered on the callouses on his fingertips. I loved his rough skin on my tender bits. It was the only part of Kenan that was abrasive. The only part that I had discovered so far, anyway. Probably there were components of the man that were gritty and unpleasant. We all had those grating aspects.

“I hate that he did that too. But—and this is a big but—you need to try to let go.” I must have made a face because he gave me a tender smile, rich in understanding. “I know. I know it’s hard. One of the many things we learn in rehab is to let go of the past.” His dark eyes darted to the boxes sitting atop a table and reeking of mouse pee. I’d not noticed that smell before, but it was much warmer up here than in the cellar. “There’s some merit in rehashing the past, to a point. Looking back, we can see where we made mistakes and hopefully learn from them. However, when we get stuck in the past and can’t move on because we’re lost on the what-ifs, then we’re in trouble.Sometimes we get mired down in our previous mistakes to the point that it becomes obsessive.”

“I’m not obsessing over Paulie,” I barked and went to break our connection.

He held tight. “I didn’t say you were obsessing over him. You’re just bogged down in what he did, which was super shitty, make no mistake about that, and you’re caught in this endless cycle of rumination over things that serve no benefit at all.”

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