Page 71 of Booked for the Holidays
“I’m thankful for…” Mac trails off, thinking hard. “I’m thankful for Bridget. Thank you for being someone I can talk to.”
“Jeez, Mac Attack. You’re going to make me cry,” Bridget chuckles. “My turn? I’m thankful for…” She taps her cheek and her eyes meet mine from across the table. “Traditions. New and old. And strangers who turn into… not strangers.”
“I’m thankful for holiday competitions,” I say. My voice feels scratchy, throat coarse like sandpaper. “And randomly generated computer pairings.”
Bridget grins. Under the table, her foot finds mine, tapping against my boot.
“Wonderful! Thank you, everyone, for sharing. Bridget, how is the holiday competition going? Theo’s been sparse on details.” My mom smiles as she hands over the bowl of potatoes to Mac.
“It’s been incredible. Lucas is making us these life-size figures we’re going to set up. All the exterior and interior lights are hung. We’re also adding some Christmas photos from years past. If you have any baby pictures of Theo in a stocking I’d love to steal them.”
“I have some of him from the pictures we did with a mall Santa when he was… Gosh, he must have been about three or four years old. He screamed bloody murder, and everyone in line looked at me like I was torturing my child.”
“I think they’re in the shoebox upstairs,” my dad adds. “I’ll track them down after we eat.”
I groan. “Do we really need to show off memories of me being tormented?”
“Grams, BB and I decorated a tree and it lookssogood,” Mac says.
“Did you? I’ll have to come by and visit. I bet it looks great. What’s it like owning a bookstore, Bridget?”
I mouth out a “sorry” to Bridget. Mom loves meeting new people, and it doesn’t happen as frequently anymore. With no mobility in her lower body, she relies on Dad to get in and out of the wheelchair. Physical therapy four times a week is the majority of her social interaction. There’s a chance—a very, very,veryslim chance—she might walk again. It’s less than one percent. It’s less than a tenth of a percent, but Mom’s determined.
“Incredible,” says Bridget, unfazed. “It’s always been my dream. I wanted to translate my passion for books to an occupation. I opened the store with a friend and I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“And you’re next door to the hardware store, right?” Mom asks. She throws a wink my way. “Interesting.”
The rest of the meal passes with good conversation, delicious food, and lots of laughs. Mac regales us with her friends’ holiday plans, and the most-wanted item on her Christmas wish list. Bridget blends into the dialogue easily, nodding along, answering questions and never seeming bored or out of place.
“Does anyone need more food?” Dad asks when our plates are clean.
“I’m stuffed,” I say. “Bridget made pumpkin pie, so I need to save some room for dessert.”
“I can start the dishes,” Bridget says.
“I’ll help!” Mac announces, standing and gathering the empty plates.
My dad retreats to the living room, getting the television cued up for football.
“She’s very beautiful, Theo,” Mom says, keeping her voice low. “Incredibly sweet, too.”
I shrug, feigning disinterest. Like I’m not watching her out of the corner of my eye, rolling her sleeves up and dipping her arms into soapy water. Like I’m not listening to her laugh traveling over the room. Like I don’t notice how much colder the air around me feels without her nearby. “Don’t get any ideas. I invited her so she wouldn’t be home alone today.”
My mom nods and reaches over, patting my hand. “Of course you did, son. Of course you did.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THEO
My dad is passedout in his recliner, the football game broadcast on the television. My mom, Bridget, and Mac are doing a puzzle in the living room, keeping their voices low. Ziggy found his way onto the couch and is taking a nap on a stack of pillows.
I step out to the porch for some fresh air. I yawn, taking a seat on the top step and stretching out my legs. My parents live at the end of a cul-de-sac, and it’s always quiet out here. You can hear the birds chirping, the wind blowing. It’s peaceful, calm. To my left is the wheelchair ramp Dad and I constructed five years ago, cutting down the hedges to accommodate the incline from the driveway.
It brings back the bad memories, yeah, but it’d also been the first time since the crash I heard my dad laugh. It was four months after the accident. We were working outside, trying to set the foundation for the ramp. I nailed my shirt to the wood, so distracted I wasn’t looking where my hammer was aimed. I lost my shit when I noticed, trying to rip myself free for ten minutes. Dad was no help, cackling so hard he could barely breathe. When I saw him laughing, I’d started too. We stood out there, cracking up for half an hour. Sometimes, in the dark days, you’ll take any kind of relief you can find. Even if it includes moronically nailing your brand new shirt to a homemade wheelchair ramp.
I hear the front door snick open then closed. A glance over my shoulder shows Bridget standing on the porch.
“Hey,” I say.
