Page 118 of The Holiday Hate-Off
We didn’t make it very far. We had sex against the door, and then she admitted she’d had second thoughts about hooking up under the bridge.
“We’ll still go,” I said. “And we’ll do what most people do out there.”
So we made out for half an hour under the bridge, until the tips of our noses were frozen, and then I walked her back to the dead animal house—only to go home and write a letter for her to find when she returned to her apartment in the morning.
It’s easier to be open when I know I won’t have to look into her eyes and tell her what’s in my heart, worrying that she’ll decide she doesn’t want it.
Dear Dancing Stalker,
Who doesn’t like The Golden Girls? My grandmother used to watch it when it firstaired, but I wasn’t alive to watch it with her. Does that give you a better idea of how old I am?
I can imagine you pulling out your phone and doing the math, or maybe you’re the kind of woman who can do that sort of equation in your head. I’ll bet you are.
I’d like to know more about you, Dancing Stalker. About what you do and what your dreams are. I already know you love Hideaway Harbor in a way that makes me jealous. Because I don’t see it like you do, not anymore, but I think I’d like to. I want to let go of the past and open my eyes to the present.
Here’s something else I can tell you about me:
I played Santa Claus for my siblings when I was a kid, because my parents couldn’t be bothered to. For years. I got help, but I stayed up late every Christmas Eve, wrapping gifts. I loved it, and I hated it too. Because I knew I shouldn’t have to be the one who protected their innocence.
So this week, I’m going to buy presents for the people in my life just because I wantto. Not because I have to or because they’re expecting it. Although, to be honest, they will NOT be expecting it. I switched to giving gift cards years ago, which made it so easy, but not very much fun.
Your Lobster Stalker
I left the letter at her door last night, wondering if I’d given too much away. Maybe hoping that I had—and that the knowledge of who I am will open her eyes to possibilities, same as it’s done for me.
The note’s gone when I come back from a day of meetings to pack my bag for Nonna’s—making sure to include the book I got my grandmother from the Hard to Find bookstore—but there’s no reply waiting for me.
I’m on the way to the Chowder House Rules to pick up dinner for my grandmother and Lucy when my phone buzzes with a text, sent God only knows when, because everything’s been coming through on a delay today.
I lift it up while I’m walking. The message is from Giovanni:
You made Lady Lovewatch again.
The text is accompanied by a photo of the article?—
Everyone saw L and L together at the lobster trap tree lighting. It was gossiped about almost as much as poor Larry’s floppy claw. This author looks forward to watching the holiday hate-off blossom into a holiday lovefest.
I’m not upset about it.
I still don’t like people prodding into my business, but Idon’t mind if people think there’s something between Lucy and me. Thereissomething between us, and I’d prefer it if the other men in town saw her as off-limits. Asmine.
Maybe that’s not fair, but that’s where my head’s at.
Do I know what the future holds?
I’m less certain every day.
I’ve enjoyed making changes at Hidden Italy, but once those changes have been made, I’ll need a new professional challenge.
Still, I don’t want to walk away from Lucy.
She and I fit.
I’ve suspected that for a while now, down deep, and the knowledge that she’s Dancing Queen solidifies that. The fact that we’ve lived in the same building, down the hall from each other, all this time blows my mind.
Of course, I could be wrong about Dancing Queen’s identity, but there are a limited number of newcomers to Hideaway Harbor every year, and it can’t be a coincidence that she has the same backstory as Lucy. The same heart as Lucy. The same loneliness. The same love for Hideaway Harbor.
A love so profound that it makes me want to see my hometown through her eyes.
