Page 68 of The Bright Side of Christmas
She is the cutest thing on this planet.
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’ve never been to Paris. Maybe one day we’ll go together. Use that passport of yours. I’ll whisk you away to all of the places you’ve always wanted to go.”
She shakes her head and lets out a small smile, a blush creeping over her cheeks. “You don’t have to impress me with lavish trips, Adam. I’m already yours.”
Clearly, she doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t get that I will never takehavingher for granted. All I want to do is spoil her and give her anything and everything. She doesn’t get that when I say I want to give her everything she asks for, I mean it.
That’s fine.
I’m starting to realize that I’ll be content to spend the rest of our lives proving it.
TWENTY-FOUR
I don’t see Adam much on Sunday, leaving bright and early to set up the classroom for Monday’s half-day Polar Express party. I came home late, spending the night with Hallie and Nat, having a mini girls’ night, gabbing and filling them in on everything new in my life.
We texted a few times throughout the day, but I was crazy busy, and he seemed to be the same. On Monday morning, I feel a dash of disappointment when Adam doesn’t step out for his run when I leave, and when I get home just after one (thank you, half day!), I note that Adam’s lights are off, including the tree visible from the front window and the twinkling fairy lights I convinced him to wrap around the wreath on his front door.
I roll my eyes and snap a picture before sending it to him.
I leave you alone for one day, and you turn off your Christmas tree?
I wait for a few moments as I bring my bag into my house and unpack it. It remains silent as I gather my dirty clothes and carry the hamper down to the laundry room, attending to my usual weekend chores that were pushed off. When I throw everythingin and start the load, I check my phone and notice that the text is marked as read but unanswered.
Of course, Adam would have hisreadreceipts on—he wouldn’t care at all if someone knew he read a text and didn’t respond. But Iamsurprised he didn’t reply. I let it be for another five minutes or so while I carry the clean clothes from my dryer back up to my room. Then, I take a deep breath and decide to send another text, guilt and nerves eating at me.
I know that a big part of our story began when I started bugging him about decorations, but I don’t want him to think I actually care that much about it all. I now understand why he doesn’t really like Christmas decorations, and even though I’m making it my mission to assign new memories to the holidays, that won’t change overnight.
I’m joking, by the way.
I hit send, then stare at it nervously before deciding to send another clarifying message.
I really don’t care about the tree, promise!
I add an exclamation point because everyone knows that an exclamation point means friendly excitement, and a period meansI’m so mad at you, I might never talk to you again,before I set my phone down and try to distract myself by emptying the dishwasher. But when I check my phone again in five minutes and see that the text is marked as read but unreplied to, my gut churns. I pace, trying to think of a response that doesn’t come across as too clingy, while also wanting to check if everything is okay.
Are you leaving me on read because of Christmas lights? Be careful, I might think you’re flirting with me.
Yet again, he leaves me on read.
If it were any other man, I might think he was ignoring me, that he was over whatever glimmer of a relationship we had, and was trying to end it without actually doing so.
But I’m pretty sure Adam is the type who always tells it like it is and does it straight to your face if he were ending things.
Maybe this is his way of telling me, “Game on?” I had started to miss this aspect of our relationship.
As I glance over at my bin of decorations, I try to decide which to tackle first. I’d planned to go easy on him after our talk, but maybe that was the wrong move. Making a decision, I grab my options and then walk out my door toward his place.
I knock on his door, holding up two different blow-mold decorations in my hands and smiling wide. After a moment, the doorknob turns, and I start my spiel.
“Which do you think would look better for your front porch, angel or snowman? Personally, I think both, but—” My words trail off when I get a good look at Adam, whose face is pale with dark bags under them. He’s in a sweatshirt and sweats, along with a pair of socks, but for once, it doesn’t look too hot.
He looksmiserable.
“Tomorrow I’ll be ready to battle with you about lights, Wren, promise,” he murmurs, and even that sounds like it takes the small amount of energy he has out of him.
“Oh my god, you look terrible. Are you okay?” I set the decorations down and reach for the screen door, but Adam shakes his head.
