Page 40 of Hold You Close
“You’re welcome, sweetie. Come on, I’ll tuck you back in.” I hold her hand and take her back up to bed, and when I pass Christopher’s room on my way back down the hall, I notice the light is still on and I hear muffled sobs. My heart squeezes, and tears come to my eyes. These poor kids. I knock twice, softly.
The crying stops, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Chris, honey? Can I come in?”
“No!”
I try the handle anyway. Locked. “Please, Christopher. Let me in.”
“I’m fine. Go away.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. So if you won’t let me in, I’ll just sit right here and wait for you to come out. I’ll stay all night if I have to.” I plop down on the hall carpet, legs crisscrossed.
A moment later, he opens the door. His eyes are bloodshot, his nose red. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.” I scramble to my feet. “Can I come in?”
He sighs. “Fine.”
I follow him into his room and perch on the edge of the dresser while he sits on the bed. “How are you feeling?”
He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Great.”
“You know, it’s okay to cry when you’re this sad.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Of course it is, honey. Everyone cries when they’re sad.”
“Men don’t.” He sits up a little taller, his chest puffing out.
“Says who?”
“Uncle Ian. He told me men are fixers. Men are strong. Crying shows weakness.”
Fury boils inside me. “That is ridiculous,” I snap, standing up. “A real man is not afraid to show his feelings, no matter what they are.”
“That’s not what he says. He told me men have to be strong for the women. I need to be strong for my sisters.” He swipes at his nose with the back of his hand.
“You have every right to cry, honey. Your Uncle Ian is wrong.” But I can tell Christopher doesn’t believe me.
“Well, I don’t want to cry,” he says angrily. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being sad and people asking how I’m doing and telling me how sorry they are. It doesn’t fucking matter. I just want to be left the fuck alone.” He turns his back to me.
I could tell him to watch his language, but I don’t. Anger will be part of the grieving process too, and it’s not like his sisters are in the room. “Okay, Christopher. I’ll leave you be. But if you change your mind, I’m here.”
Leaving his room, I shut the door behind me and go back downstairs with a heavy heart. We’re going to have to keep an eye on Christopher—he’s a sensitive kid, and if he feels like he has to bottle up all his sad feelings, eventually they’re going to be channeled into something else.
In the living room, I finish folding Ian’s and then the girls’ laundry, and place everything back in the baskets. The girls’ basket I leave at the bottom of the stairs, but Ian’s I take to his bedroom.
I planned to simply leave it on the floor in his walk-in closet and go back to the living room couch, but once I’m in there, I can’t resist looking around a little. It’s surprisingly neat—he hangs his work shirts by color, his shoes are lined up in tidy rows on two shelves, and his knits are nicely folded and stacked three deep. Gingerly, I pull open one drawer and find two piles of crisp white undershirts. The drawer beneath it holds colored T-shirts. A third reveals neat stacks of underwear. Belts and ties are hanging on cedar racks, all the hangers match, and nothing is out of place—no stray pair of jeans tossed over a hook, no workout wear flung on the floor, no sad, dirty sock crumpled and forgotten in the corner. It even smells good, like leather and wood and a faint whiff of cologne. I inhale deeply, and get a tingly feeling between my legs.
Yes, it turns me on that Ian’s closet is so organized and clean. It also annoys me—who’d have thought that such an uncivilized caveman, one who believes men can’t cry and thinks naked pool parties at three AM are perfectly acceptable, would turn out to have a neat streak? I decide that since I’m in there and can clearly see where everything goes, I might as well put away the laundry I’ve folded. As I do so, I try my best to ignore the nagging voice telling me I shouldn’t like this so much. There’s nothing wrong with doing a little favor for Ian, is there? After all, we’re trying to get along better. It’s not like I’m snooping or something. I’m being nice.
When I’m finished, I leave the empty basket in his closet. A bedside lamp is on low in his bedroom, and I can’t resist wandering over to the bed.
I remember he told me to stay on the left side and I eyeball it warily, wondering how many women have spent the night there. Is Ian the sleepover type? Or is he more like the guy who has rules about staying over and calls a car for his conquests as soon as he’s done with them?
Then I stare at the right side for a moment, imagining his sleeping form beneath the covers. Does he sleep on his stomach or back? Does he stay still during the night or move around? Does he sleep in pajamas or naked? My stomach whooshes, and I place a hand over it. It’s been almost twenty years, but nothing, not even hating him, has erased the memory of his body on mine.
