Page 102 of The Holiday Hate-Off
Lucy is adorable drunk, which isn’t a surprise, since she’s adorable doing anything, first and foremost giving me shit.
When I carry her to her bedroom, she snuggles in close, and an odd sensation unleashes inside my chest.
I can practically hear Aria saying,That’s your heart growing two sizes, you dipshit.
Nothing like a sibling to put you in your place—even if it’s just as an imagined voice in your head.
But I tell myself the sentiment is bullshit. My heart has nothing to do with this situation. I’m just feeling protective of Lucy because of what she told me.
She delivered the information about her mother so matter-of-factly, but I know a brave front when I see one. Lucy would say I’m a pompous asshole for thinking in such aggrandizing metaphors, but Icreatedthe brave front.
I know enough about Huntington’s to understand it wasn’t easy, what she went through with her mother. At the end, she must have been doing everything for her mom. Practically living at the hospital.
Which means this woman in my arms is stronger than I realized. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t run from challenges but toward them.
Like you.
“Uh, Lucy,” I say. “Where’s your bedroom?”
She’s out of it, but it would be impossible to get lost in a one-bedroom cottage, thankfully, so I find the bedroom and open the door. There’s an enormous king-size bed inside with a bright pink, heart-shaped headboard.
It’s a bit…tacky, and there’s nothing about Lucy that strikes me as tacky, but then again, she and Eileen are obsessed with all this matchmaking business. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.
I set her down on the mattress, and she surprises me again by tugging me down with her. “Lay with me,” she mumbles. “Just for a little while.”
Does she know she’s tormenting me? Probably. If she’s coherent enough, I’m guessing she’s glad for it.
Smiling to myself, I adjust the blankets and then tug them over her, tucking her in the way I used to tuck in my little siblings.
It feels nothing like that. Lie to everyone else, but not yourself. She’s unlocked something inside of you.
Then I lie down on top of the covers, facing her, and let myself wrap an arm around her.
“You’re so warm, Enzo,” she says, snuggling closer so her head is nestled against my chest, her hair tickling my nose.
“I’m glad I can be your space heater.”
“Why are you so handsome?”
I laugh a little—but only a little, because even though I’d never touch her when she’s like this, my body is reacting to her nearness. To the memory of what she tastes like and the throaty sounds she made when she came.
“It’s a question for the gods, Lucia. You might also ask whythey chose to give you such luscious, ticklish hair. I’ll be waiting for their answer.”
“You’re very good at drawing,” she says. “I kept the flyer you drew. I couldn’t make myself throw it away. No one’s ever drawn me like that. Only those people at fairs who give everyone big bobbleheads.”
“A bobblehead of you would be a crime.”
She laughs, her body shaking against mine, making my need for her more powerful. “You know what? I really, really want to see a bobblehead drawing of you. Do you think anyone does those here? Oh, why am I asking? It’s probably your uncle’s hairdresser’s driver or something, and you know all about it because you’re a Hidie.”
“I don’t believe my uncle has a hairdresser. He’s as bald as a cue ball. But it’s kind of you to ask.”
She’s quiet for several minutes, her body still and warm against me. Then suddenly she asks, “Did you love her, Enzo? Rachelle, I mean.”
“No,” I say, stroking her arm, her hair. “She didn’t love me either. We weren’t good together.”
Rachelle had liked that my job involved firing people. Once, she’d asked me to talk about the people I’d let go that day as a kind of foreplay. It had made me sick.
“I shouldn’t have said anything to her that day,” she says softly. “She just seemed like she felt so left out. It’s awful to feel that way. But it sounds like she wasn’t very nice after all. I don’t know why men are drawn to women like that.”
