Page 17 of Matches and Mistletoe
He smiles. “I would love some tea. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll make it?”
“But—I know where everything is, and it won’t be any trouble at all. I’ll do it.”
“Nonsense. Sit.”
For some reason, I obey him.
He opens a cupboard, then another, and picks out two cups, spinning them expertly by their handles and setting them on the table with a flourish. I watch him, feeling oddly useless. As he’s filling the kettle, he says, “No one has done anything for you in a long time.”
It’s not a question. He knows.
“My husband died overseas,” I say. “Over a year ago now.”
“The war?”
“Yes.” I narrow my eyes. He looks young, maybe mid-twenties. “You didn’t fight?”
“It’s not my place to fight human wars.” He gives me a calculating half-smile, as if he’s wondering how I’ll react to that comment.
Because you’re an angel.
When I don’t reply, he continues. “I’m sorry about your husband. You’ve done well, though, with those two.” He nods in the direction of the bedroom and sets the kettle on the stove.
You’ve done well.
The words pierce my heart, shattering the carefully constructed walls around it.
You’ve done well.
It’s all I’ve wanted to hear for weeks, months. Years. Not my mother’s veiled criticisms, or my father’s silence during their rare visits from two states away. Not the pious advice of the women at church. Not the long homilies of the priest, or the cheerful greetings of neighbors. Just those words, with real meaning behind them.
You’ve done well.
I realize that I’m crying.
And then he’s right in front of me, cupping my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears running down my cheeks. “What’s your name?” he whispers.
I’m looking deep, deep into his eyes. I snatch Tom’s name before it slips out of my consciousness, and I hold it in my mind like a shield against those silver eyes, against the magic and magnetism shining from him. But he’s melting away Tom’s name and memory.
It’s been more than a year. It’s been months of struggle. Surely I deserve a moment of madness.
“My name is Gloria,” I say, and it feels like I’m giving him more than just a name.
“Gloria,” he whispers, and he kisses me.
I forgot what it feels like, being kissed.
Softness and warmth, and sweetness and fire. The kiss starts a thrilling stream of light that runs from my mouth down my neck and chest, into the deepest parts of my body.
I am alive again.
I could cry for joy.
He deepens the kiss, mouth moving against mine, lips opening. I part my lips, too, and he touches my tongue, my teeth, with his own. My heart erupts into a shower of incandescent, fluttering creatures. Not butterflies. Fairies. Because this kiss is pure magic.
He pulls back a little, smiling, his fingers stroking my cheek. “You’re lovely.”
A harsh laugh bursts out of me. “No, I’m not.”
