Page 46 of The Significance of Moving On

“Next?” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Next we go home.”

I guess I got my answer.

Winter

Chantal

Chapter Twenty

When he said he wanted to take things slow, I didn’t exactly expect snail’s pace to be an option, but here we are. He hasn’t kissed me or even touched me more than holding my hand sometimes.

Thanksgiving was hard, this being my first in years without Tom, but Casey and I hosted a real traditional dinner with his brothers to give me something else to focus my attention on. Kelsey was expected home in Florida, which means she had to pass. Though, we facetimed with her for about an hour. Jesse called to talk with the guys, too. I didn’t know him too well, but they were happy to hear from him.

I appreciated the effort Casey put in. Tom’s version of Thanksgiving dinner was to celebrate with crispy roast duck and rice, along with side dishes from seaweed salad to barbequed baby octopus and store-bought pumpkin pie. But Casey made it special. I’d never celebrated with a house full of “family” before.

Casey’s boss, CJ and his wife Jill joined us too. As did Chris and Nick, coworkers. Apparently, our dinner wasn’t the first that day for either of them, and Nick had a third to attend afterward.

I couldn’t believe the way Casey tried to include Daniel, even shooting him high-fives when their team scored a touchdown. One of the men turned on the game after dinner but before dessert. I kind of wanted to watch too, but Jill didn’t seem to be all that into football and since I was the only other female in the room, it fell on me to entertain her.

Since Thanksgiving, and because Casey prepared most of the meal. I mean, I managed to toss together a pretty appetizing, mash the potatoes and followed the directions to keep the store-bought rolls from burning. I’ve been watching cooking tutorials on the internet. Today I’ve tried my hand at roasted chicken and herbed new potatoes.

He doesn’t bring home takeout anymore unless he calls to ask first. We eat dinner at the table allowing us to talk, and not in the living room watching movies.

The table is set and the chicken pulled from the oven to rest when his keys jingle in the door. I look up as he enters the living room brushing a light dusting of snow from his hair.

“Got snow tires put on your car,” he says. “I should’ve done it sooner, but you should be good to go.” He always thinks of me. Our meandering routine.

“Thank you.”

He continues to stand in front of the closed-door eyes full of intensity. My lips part and my chest heaves under the weight as he continues to stare. He rarely does this and it affects me the same way every time it happens. If it weren’t for these moments, I’d hardly know he wants to try with me.

“Are… um…” I thumb to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

Casey nods and steps forward. “The house smells amazing, sweetheart.”

My heart flutters when he calls me sweetheart. Like the stare it doesn’t happen often. He could tell me he planned on harvesting one of my kidneys but if he ended it by calling me sweetheart, using that tender voice, I’d probably offer him up the other one too, and do it smiling.

Before I make a fool of myself by launching my arms around him and planting the long, wet kiss I’ve been waiting for ages to give him, I turn around and walk into the kitchen. I serve up the food while Casey pours the drinks. Milk for him. Lemonade for me. Then when we’re both seated with our plates in front of us, he grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“What do you think about getting a real tree this year?” he asks.

Attempting not to show my sock by choking, as this is such a kind gesture, I continue to chew my food slowly. “That would be nice,” I tell him after swallowing. “I’ve never had a real tree before.”

“I know.”

“What? How?”

“Cleaning out the house. I packed an artificial one in storage.” He squeezes my hand once more before dropping it to take another bite and it occurs to me that he’s offering this because of Thanksgiving. He’s starting new traditions.

My nose prickles from the tears that want to fall and I desperately want to throw myself in his arms to show him exactly what I think of the gesture. Instead of doing that I keep seated and answer. “When do you want to go?”

“After dinner?”

We both seem to eat faster from that point. He helps me store the leftovers and load the dishwasher and then we dress for the cold.

The drive takes a good thirty minutes—from city to country—for us to reach the tree farm. Even with the temperature dropping considerably from the storm system settling over the area, blanketing us in more of the fluffy white stuff, excitement still bubbles within me the closer we get to the parking lot.

Pine scent surrounds us, filling our noses and lungs in the most pleasurable way. Casey comes around the car to take my hand and I give shoot him a ginormous smile. He’s giving me firsts that I’d never even considered when Tom was alive. Life had been one way—a way I loved—but seeing as there’s no going back to that one way life, experiencing Casey’s alternative means everything. Right after Tom’s death, smiling or laughing or loving seemed an impossible concept and an even bigger betrayal.

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