Page 53 of No Room in the Inn

I strip the tape off the box, waiting for Nixon to speak, and when there’s nothing but silence, I look over at him. He’s staring out the window, looking suddenly closed off.

My hands still as I watch him for a second. His shoulders are tense, his face blank. Crap. I think I said something wrong. I hope his family hasn’t all passed away or something, and I brought it up and reminded him. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard him talk about any siblings or parents.

“Sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he says, cutting me off abruptly. “It’s okay.” He turns away from the window and comes to help me with the box, but his posture is still stiff. He looks at the box for a second and then sighs. “I don’t really have any family left,” he says. “My dad walked out when I was little; I don’t remember much about him. And my mom…” He trails off, looking lost in thought. “She passed away when I was in high school. Cancer. I’ve been on my own since then. Until Granny,” he adds.

Icy horror washes over me as he speaks. Horror and embarrassment and shame—utter shame that while I was complaining about my parents not supporting my choice in college, he probably would have been happy just to have parents at all.

“I—” The words, whatever they are, won’t quite come out. “I didn’t—I’m sorry,” I finish lamely. “That…really sucks.” It’s a horrible sentiment, but what else can I say?

To my complete surprise, Nixon smiles at me. A little smile, but a smile all the same. “It does suck,” he agrees. His eyes, as green as ever, stay on mine, and as per usual, I can’t look away.

I swallow, suddenly aware of how long his lashes are, of how his dimples only seem to come out when his smile is sincere—like it is now. “It sucks, and yet…you’re smiling?” I say.

He shrugs. “It’s just nice to hear someone say ‘it sucks’ rather than reassuring me that she’s in a better place or she’s at peace or whatever. Idothink she’s in a better place, and I hope she’s at peace, but…” He shakes his head as he trails off, his gaze finally leaving mine.

But he doesn’t have to finish his sentence; I know what he means. “I get it,” I say. “Sometimes you just need someone to mourn with you.”

He nods slowly. “Yes. Exactly.”

And when his eyes come back to mine, the oxygen leaves the room. It exits stage right and doesn’t return, and I’m left with his intense gaze searing into my very soul.

“Um,” I say. Brilliant, I know. But something about being around this man makes my brain short circuit. Plus, the way he’s looking at me is just so…so…powerful. Moving. Intimate. He has the most expressive eyes of anyone I’ve ever met.

“Um,” I say again, and that seems to snap him out of our little staring match.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. His eyes dart away from mine, and he looks…unnerved?

Which makes me feel a little proud of myself, if I’m being honest. Goodness knows he intimidates me enough. I understand him enough by now to know that he’ll deflect with a cocky grin at any second, but as long as it lasts, I’m going to soak in the feeling of having thrown him off balance.

Together we remove the Christmas ornaments from the box, remarking over ones that are familiar or ones that are particularly tacky. Granny never could pass up a tacky Christmas ornament. Sure enough, Nixon is back to teasing me about some of my less impressive homemade ornaments in no time. There are multiple popsicle stick creations, like I expected, and some little salt dough ornaments as well. We laugh over an ornament depicting a surfboarding cat, finally putting it in the very back where no one will see it.

Nixon seems to give priority to the ornaments that are more spiritual in nature, placing them front and center. When I ask him why, he just shrugs.

“I like the reminder,” he says.

I nod, because I understand what he means. He was right when we talked about my Hallmark list; it’s easy to get caught up in the festivities and forget about the sacred. I mean, don’t get me wrong; the festivities are great. Hot chocolate for days, and I’d love to nail Nixon in the head with a snowball. But…the other stuff is nice, too.

When we finally have an empty box and a tree covered in ornaments, I feel a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment steal over me. “Hey, look at that!” I say, turning to Nixon. “I managed a Christmas activity with no mishaps—” But I break off as my foot catches the Christmas tree skirt, and I stumble. I reach out blindly for anything that will stop my fall, and my hand finds only one thing: the Christmas tree.

Which is how I end up crashing to the ground, the tree landing squarely on top of me.

Chapter 25

Willow

Some people have cool stories to go with their scars. A motorcycle accident, a knife fight, a dark wizard that tried to murder you as a baby—that kind of thing. But when people ask me about the cut near my left eye, I will have to tell them a Christmas tree fell on my head.

So that’s great.

“Don’t touch it,” Nixon says as I prod gently at my stitches.

His voice pulls me out of my pity party for one, and I sigh. But come on; how embarrassing is this? Maybe I could come up with a better story. Could I pull that off?

I don’t know that I’d be able to lie well enough. Dang it.

My phone rings, and I leave off touching my stitches. When I see that it’s my mom calling, I sigh. But I answer, because I’m visited by the memory of Mildred Moore, old and bitter because she and her daughter aren’t on speaking terms. Whatever I feel about my parents, I don’t want that for them—for us.

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