Page 80 of A Not So Merry Rescue
For a moment, I forget they’re Christmas-themed and lose myself in the fun of the game.
Each man takes one final step away from the line, our last look at each sweater. I jot the winner down on the paper and fold it up. Beckett collects them, a wink for me when our hands meet.
“We’re talking later about your runway walk.”
One brow rises. “You should see me on the stage. Thestripperstage.” He enunciates stripper, but his voice gives nothing away. I can’t tell if he’s serious.
My imagination fills in the gaps. Instead of Channing Tatum, I picture him as Magic Mike. Losing his clothes, thrusting his hips in tune with the music, giving lap dances. It’s a vivid picture. Another thing to add to the list to discuss tonight.
Beckett hands over the papers to his father to tally the scores.
“Well, looks like we have a new champion. Drum roll, please.” I watch in awe as every family member pounds on a solid surface until Merritt closes his fingers into a fist in the air tosilence them. “The winner of this year’s Nicholas sweater contest is . . . ” He pauses, making eyes with his sons and son-in-law. “None other than . . . Beck.” A raucous chorus of “hooray” and “congrats” erupts in the room. Even the “losers” chime in.
From behind the couch, a trophy is produced. With a spray-painted gold Christmas tree on top, it appears to be years old. Vintage, almost. Bethany also produces a notebook, handing it over to her husband. He flips through the pages, scanning whatever’s written on each one until he comes to a blank page. A sharpie in his hand, he scribbles something on the page, holding it up once he’s done.
“After a few years’ hiatus, he’s back in the winner’s circle. Well done, Beck. Nice choice of sweater. Tell us, where did you find this monstrosity?”
Holding the trophy, Beckett radiates joy and excitement. Elation oozes off him, his dimple front and center, and I can’t help but bask in his glow. It’s less about the holiday sweater and more about the victory. What I wouldn’t do to feel his warmth on a more permanent basis.
Beckett waits until everyone’s quiet. “I couldn’t find what I wanted, so I embellished it. I bought a plain red sweater at Target and created the argyle pattern, then sewed on the letters. If you don’t believe me, I have pictures to prove it."
Is there anything this guy can’t do? So far, I’ve yet to find it.
“Impressive.” His mom comes closer to inspect his handiwork. “Very impressive. Nice use of crochet. Nana would be proud.”
“That part was simple. It was the embroidery that was a bitch. Poked my fingers a few too many times over the months I worked on it.”
As his family interrogates him more, I watch their interactions. All the decorations are making me kind of twitchy, but for Beckett, I’m trying not to let it show. With the way this family goes all out in their celebrating, it’s almost hard not to want to join in on the joy.
Telling Beckett about Elias unlocked something inside me, a box I’d kept secured tightly with a padlock. With it opened, some tension of holding onto the anger lessened, paving the way for more acceptance. More celebrating the joy.
Perhaps this year’s holiday won’t be the sob fest I’ve been dreading.
Dinner is interesting, to say the least. Bethany made a feast, more so than chili, salad, and cornbread. I get the sense not every family dinner night is like this, but holiday dinner night definitely is.
Covered by a holiday tablecloth, the dining table seats us comfortably. I’m seated next to Beckett and across from Heidi, with his parents each at one end. The discussion centers on the festivities over the next few days. Bethany made it clear the next two days were appetizers and finger foods, though there was mention of a brunch Christmas morning. My ears perked up on brunch, and damn if I don’t want to come for this mouthwatering feast. I’d have to put aside a lot—more than a plethora—of feelings to allow myself to appreciate the work going into something like that and not freaking out or hyperventilating at anything Christmas-related.
I’m honestly not sure I’m up to the task. Could I break the pattern from last year, knock down the walls I built to guard my heart against allowing myself to feel . . . happy?
Time will tell.
I won’t come if I don’t think I can handle it. I won’t do that to Beckett or his family. If I’m not completely on board with whatever the Nicholas holiday traditions are, I’ll stay away.
Beckett knocks his shoulder into my arm. “You’re quiet.”
“Ruminating things.”
“I like that one. Ruminating.” He nods, trying it out on his tongue. “In place ofpondering or wondering.”
“Exactly that.”
“What are you ruminating about?” Under the table, he laces our fingers, my palm fitting perfectly in his larger one.
I give him a half-truth. “Life. Your mom’s chili is delicious. Much better than my mom’s. I was almost scared. She scarred me for life with hers.” A shudder passes through me. She’d make it at least every other week, forcing Clem and me to eat at least one bowl of the congealed crap.
“Nana’s recipe. It’s been so long since I’ve had hers, I can’t remember whose was better.”
I pat my stomach. “I’d be so fat if I ate this regularly. That, or I’d have to participate in the classes a friend drags me to.”
