Page 39 of A Very Addicted Christmas

“You alright?” I ask him quietly.

He nods tightly and produces an even tighter smile. He’s agitated.Drug withdrawals, most likely. Or maybe he just can’t stand to look at my face. I dunno.

His face isn’t bringing warm fuzzies either.

As his eyes flit around the cupboards, the fridge—everywhere but me—I try to refocus on the sweater. Seems like Beckett has the same avoidance list and my name is scrawled somewhere on his, too. Instead of leaving, he surprisingly comes further into the kitchen.

Tension bakes my body with an uncomfortable heat, and if someone told me we were stuck in the Sahara Desert, not a snowstorm, I might believe them.

I hear Beckett open a cupboard near the fridge.

The wind roars and rattles the icy windowpanes, and right as he shuts a cupboard, the flame extinguishes on my candle.

“Fuck,” I curse, and I unpocket my lighter.Let’s try this again.Cupping my hand around the wick, I try to produce a flame. It extinguishes too fast.Shit.I roll my thumb over the lighter’s wheel.

Come on, baby flame.

Light my world.

Come on.

Just light up enough so I can see this fucking counter at least. I’m not asking for a whole lot, am I?

Beckett is watching my focused attempts while he fills a glass of water from the sink. After a full minute, the fire finally stays long enough to catch the wick.

Never doubted you, lighter. I kiss my cheap lighter and shove the thing in my pocket.

Back to the sweater, I break the safety pin further open. It’s not a needle and thread, but it should work as a hook to fish the yarn. I’d say I’m handy. Crafty. I should be able to fix this.

Beckett opens a few drawers.

It distracts me, honestly. I bite back frustration, and after accidently unspooling a yarn that’d been perfectly fine and I form a bigger hole, I set the safety pin down and wonder where I went wrong.

I sense Beckett nearing, and I cast a glance towards him.

He’s found a sewing kit, and without a word, he extends his hand towards the sweater. I know he can sew. And it’s not that I have a vindictive instinct yelling at me to deny his silent offer.

It’s that it hurts to accept it.

Just as silently, I take a few steps back, letting him have the sweater and the light. Beckett stands where I’d been, and without a word, he flips the sweater inside-out and threads a needle.

I take off my reading glasses. Pocketing them. And while he stitches the hole shut, we say nothing.

Not one thing.

I lean my shoulder blades against the fridge, a rock in the pit of my throat, and I can’t even watch him do me a favor. Should I have said no?

Should I have rejected the offer? ‘Cause this is more painful than I thought it’d be.

The flame never goes out. Beckett is either barely breathing or he’s so graceful, he moves without stirring the wind.

He bites off the thread, does something fancy with his fingers (can’t really see; still trying not to look) and then turns the orange and green alien sweater outside-in.

Once he’s done, he hands it to me.

Thethanks, manis lost. It’s buried behind,You happy without me? You wish you talked to me before you got me transferred? Why couldn’t I stop you from using?

Why did I never try?

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