Page 104 of Booked for the Holidays
FORTY
BRIDGET
“Alright folks.”
My hands clap together twice. The conversations around me come to a halt. It’s Sunday afternoon and both groups of employees are gathered in the bookstore. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they’re listening intently to what I have to say.
“This is our final time together before judging in a week. I split us into groups to tackle our tasks. Some of you are painting the last of the wooden figures. Some of you are working with Malik on the lights. Some of you are cleaning, making sure the floors are swept and glass is wiped down. Our other two groups will be moving the completed projects to their final spots. We’ll do a walk through at the end of the day, then head out for the boat tour and caroling.”
Everyone springs to life. Decked out in ugly holiday sweaters, Santa hats, light-up necklaces and Lucas in a reindeer onesie, they break into their groups, eager to work.
“Doing okay?” Theo asks, nudging my side.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Just nervous.”
“What can I do to help?”
“You’ve done plenty. More than enough.”
I spent last night at his house while Mac was with his parents. Tucked in his bed under the warm, clean sheets, his arm draped around my waist and fingers splayed out over my stomach, I couldn’t sleep. I tried. I tossed and turned, huffing out sigh after sigh of annoyance.
I peeled the covers back, ready to take my pillow to the couch so I wouldn’t disturb him anymore, when Theo turned on the lamp. It was hours before sunrise, the world dark and still outside his window, and he asked me what was wrong. For the next forty-five minutes, he listened to me ramble about figure placements, the order of photos, and how many trays of cookies I should put out for the judges. His eyes, half-closed and with sleep caught in the corner, stayed on me through my wild gesturing and animated soliloquy. He rubbed the space between my shoulder blades, small circles over the valley to my back, mouth shut and refusing to interrupt. When I finished, throat sore and thoroughly spent, he kissed me softly. He pulled me tight into his chest. He held me close until I finally drifted off to sleep.
When I’m with him, I think I can conquer anything.
“Your concentrated face is one of my favorites,” he adds. “It’s cute.”
“I don’t have a concentrated face.”
“You definitely do.”
“Oh yeah? What does it look like?”
“You stick out your tongue, like you were doing a few seconds ago. If you’re not using your hands, you tap your cheek with your pointer finger—the Bowie finger. If youareusing your hands, your shoulders hunch up to your ears. Your eyes narrow and you get tunnel vision. You huff, but it’s always very quiet. I think you’re afraid of people noticing, because you’re trying to find a way to make things perfect so everyone is happy.”
I stare at him, processing his vivid description. All the little details he picked out, like he’s known me for years. “You pay attention to me,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” Theo nods. “I do. I have for a while now. Unintentionally at first, but then on purpose. Now I can’t fucking stop.”
“I’ve never felt like someone has seen me before.”
“I do.” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “And I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.” He drops a quick kiss to my head, so fast you wouldn’t know he was ever there. “I’m going to help Lucas. You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
“Yeah.” I nod. There’s the threat of emotion, threatening to spill out. I clamp down on it, shove it away, and smile up at him.
“Miss you already, Brownie,” he says, walking out the door to the hardware store.
I watch him leave, missing him already, too.
“So how much longer are you going to pretend you two aren’t together?” Chandler asks, sliding to my side. “Are we waiting until after Christmas or…?”
I rub my temples, pain spider webbing across my forehead and to the base of my neck. I sigh, knowing there’s no point of lying, so I don’t bother. “We’re enjoying each other.”
She grabs my arm and drags me over to the paint station I assigned us. A brush gets shoved in my hands. “Spill,” she says.
I dip the brush into the palette. “It started the night I was babysitting Mac. But I think it’s been building for a while now. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple weeks. I don’t know, Chan. He’s a great guy. Sometimes I wonder why he hides these wonderful parts of himself, but then I remember he’s afraid to let anyone get too close. I’ve broken through the barrier, I think.”
“Could you see something with him long-term?”
