Page 30 of Not In The Christmas Plan
But as I open the door, the first thing I note is how uncertain he looks standing in the hallway. Like he’s as nervous coming to my room as I am having him here. Then, I laugh.
He’s in the same red, green, and black pajamas as I am. And where my bonnet is black with a cheetah print band, he’s got a green durag on.
“Let me guess,” I say, trying to sound serious but a few giggles slip through. “Ivy had those waiting for you when you got here?”
“Yo, and here I thought I was special,” he says, all the while his eyes sweep slowly from my head to fuzzy-sock-covered toes.
“Right. So, what can I help you with?”
He holds up a plate of our shortbread cookies. “Dessert? I didn’t want to eat them alone.”
“You mean, you need a co-conspirator for your week-long sugar binge?”
He shrugs but a quick glance at the ground lets me know he’s not as confident as he’s trying to appear. “Someone’s gotta do it, and you’re the only one here so…”
That crooked smile of his should not affect me the way it does. And yet, I step back and grant him entrance.
I get the weirdest sense of Déjà vu when he walks in. It feels like I’m in high school having a boy in my room for the first time. Dad’s stern voice is in my mind, telling me to keep my door open, my bed empty, and my lips to myself.
“You can set the plate next to the lamp,” I tell Grant when he stops beside a box full of old books.
Once he turns, I do a quick scan around my room to make sure there’s nothing embarrassing out in the open. It's mostly packed up, aside from the old snow globes Dad and I picked together I lined up on my dresser.
There's a snow globe featuring a snow woman with a wig and pink scarf. A city square with shopping bags piled under a tree. A father and daughter building a snowman. They vary in size and shape, some glass, some plastic, and each one holds a place in my heart.
“What’s this?” Grant asks.
I look to see what he's talking about then rush to his side and snatch an old notebook away.
“What is it? A diary?” he asks.
“No. It’s a junk journal.”
Which is so much more than a diary. It’s an old notebook from high school full of drawings and ramblings,lyrics and pictures. Hopes and dreams from when I was young and bright-eyed.
Grant lifts an eyebrow. “That’s like a scrapbook of sorts, right? Destiny had a few of those. They were always full of things like ‘Boys Suck’.” He pauses then looks at me with eyes full of hope. “Can I see it? Please? I want to know what you were like when you were younger.”
I inwardly groan.
I miss the Eve I was two weeks ago who would have kicked this man out of my room with nary a thought. Because this Eve I’m morphing into wants to let Grant into the deepest parts of her.
“Fine.” I shove the book at him before I can change my mind. “But you better not laugh. If you do, I’ll never show you anything ever again.”
He wipes all traces of a smile. “Yes, Your Honor.”
He sits on the bed and opens the journal, and I have to interlock my fingers so I don’t snatch it right back up. I found it the other day, tucked behind some books I figured Ivy would never find with her nosey self. There’s nothing too juicy in there; however, knowing how dramatic I was as a teen, I can’t help but cringe as Grant’s large fingers flit through the pages.
I let his chuckle slide when he comes acrossmyhugeALL BOYS SUCKspread. His smile is still there when he finds a photo of Ivy and me giving the camera our best ‘duck lips’ pose. But when he finds the zoomed in drawing of a snow globe, his face shifts.
“Tell me about this one.” He gently tugs on my hand, pulling me downbeside him.
I swallow, looking at a pencil sketch of parents and their two kids standing in front of a modest house while snow flurries dance around. “It’s the family I was supposed to have. And, well, you know how well that turned out.” I tug at my hand but quickly give up when Grant makes it clear he doesn’t want to let go. “It’s not that good anyway. I’m pretty sure it was practice for an art entry I never ended up submitting.”
“Why do you do that?”
I blink up at him. “Do what?”
“Try to make yourself smaller.” His frown deepens. “You said you weren’t good at baking, but you made that amazing pie and these bomb cookies I’m about to demolish. You talk down on your art like anyone off the street could have drawn it with as much detail and emotion. And even now, you’ve turned Christmas into some kind of project that’sjustfor Ivy. You don’t let yourself admit how much it means to you.” His voice softens and eyes that see me too much don’t let up. “When do you get to enjoy the holiday?”
