Page 25 of One Small Secret

“You must have had to leave a lot behind in Vietnam.”

I want to nod but that feels dishonest. So I don’t say anything. Instead, I jump off the couch, pull the last of the soggy, crumpled wrapping paper out of Axley’s hand, and help him get the rest of the wrapping paper off in one big chunk.

“Cars!” I say to Axley in an overbright voice that matches only his mood. “Let’s open the box.”

The garage is made up of a few pieces that need to be assembled. Ruben and I sit on the floor so we can do it together. He grabs the instructions, which have exactly zero words on them, and flips to the first page. After studying it for a moment, he hands me the largest of the wooden parts. I grab it from him, and his fingertips slide softly over the knuckles of my hand. The gesture isn’t accidental.

He’s worried about me.

There are only seven pieces in total, and each time we stack one part on top of the next, I wait for that brush of our hands. Every time the contact lasts a little bit longer. And each moment is a repeat of his words earlier. I’m so sorry.

When the last piece clicks into place, I’m nearly in tears over a man I’ve never met. I blink my eyes fiercely and stand up. Six cars of different shapes sit at the bottom of the box, and I hand one to Axley. Ruben takes out another and places it at the top of the garage. Axley follows suit. Then Ruben places his large, tanned hand over Axley’s chubby baby-pale one and gives the car a push. It rolls down the ramp and Axley bounces up and down in delight. Ruben hands him another car, and Axley pushes it hard enough to fall off the ramp.

Eventually Axley’s excitement calms down enough that he can push the cars down on his own, and he does so repeatedly. We play with him for a while before Ruben stands up next to me. His little finger grazes mine, and when I don’t pull away, he takes my hand and leads me back to the sofa.

I’ve known Ruben for over twenty years and he has never held my hand. I can’t even remember us touching at all, before this week. Which is strange, right? In all of our interactions, surely we had to have hugged or something. But if we did, I don’t remember it.

His actions are borne of pity, but his hand feels oddly at home in mine, as if we should've been holding hands for years. As if we’ve wasted a lot of time not holding hands. We sit and I don’t stop myself from sinking into his side. Our hands land on his leg and I wait for him to drop my fingers but he doesn’t.

I want to squeeze my fingers together, just to assure myself that this isn’t some strange dream. But I’m pretty sure most dreams involving the man sitting next to me would be escalating to something more by now. We're sitting on a couch playing the world’s most unengaging—but also, somehow, the most tantalizing—game of chicken. Who will let go first?

Not me and my Ruben-fantasizing fingers. How many times have I typed his name into a search engine? Could I really blame them for wanting to inspect him personally? I’ve been unknowingly training them for this since the day he became the poster child of every teenage dream.

I don’t have an excuse for Ruben’s fingers though, and every once in a while his thumb glides over my knuckles as if he's checking to make certain they're still there. Why? Surely nothing about my knuckles can be more interesting than those of the supermodels and social media darlings he typically dates.

I don’t date anyone. So my curiosity is totally justified.

“We should probably open our presents.” I say, because I can’t keep my dumb mouth shut.

Ruben nods but he makes no move to stand up and get them.

What if I want to change my mind about the present I got him? What if instead of a mug, I scoot onto his lap and kiss his brains out? If he would take make-out sessions in exchange for gifts, I wouldn’t need a week's notice. He could bring me presents any day of the week.

My hand does tighten then, because somehow I’ve let one thought conveniently stay out of my mind. Ruben has a girlfriend. A famous, hot one, and he's holding my hand because he feels bad for me as a single mom, not because he wants my tongue down his throat.

Not that I would put my tongue down his throat. I’m a much better kisser than that. At least, I think I am. It’s been a very long time, and Ruben has way more experience than I do.

That thought, more than anything, is what gives me the fortitude to let go of his hand and pick up his present from under the tree and add it to his pile on the coffee table.

He doesn’t complain when I leave him, but I do hear the soft thud of his hand landing empty on his leg. When I return with his brown paper bag, Ruben leans forward and grabs a thin rectangular gift from the table. He smiles, and most of the sadness of the last few moments has left his eyes. “Open yours first.”

I narrow my eyes at the present. So mine isn’t the pretty little box that looks like it could be jewelry. Noted.

I smile back, because I’m so done being sad on Christmas Eve, even if the handholding was worth it. Also, now that I have a gift for him, no way am I feeling guilty about getting one from him. The last two Christmases I opened a few gifts I bought myself while on Zoom with Mom, and it's high time I ripped open wrapping paper without knowing what was hiding underneath it.

I set the other gifts down on one side of the coffee table and I sit on the other. Because maybe I shouldn’t sit next to Ruben in that droopy couch anymore.. I’m close enough to the couch that our legs intertwine, just as our hands do when we push the stroller. My leg, Ruben’s leg, my leg, Ruben’s leg. We’re like a fancy layered sandwich. So yeah, my brilliant plan of making distance between us pretty much backfired. But hey, at least now we aren’t touching. Not unless one of us moves more than an inch. I hold my hand out and he places the gift in it. My excitement must have shown, because suddenly Ruben is grinning with that soft gaze of his.

I scowl in return. “Don’t give me your Teen Heartthrob smile. I positively can’t handle it. Save it for the paparazzi.”

“My what?” His smile fades into a more manageable lopsided grin.

“You know what I mean. That smile. The one that put you on the map and on every teenager’s wall when we were in high school.”

His smile falters a bit. Is he being self-conscious? He used to blush all the time when people mentioned it, but he had to be over it by now. That smile had made his company millions of dollars. Maybe more than millions.

“That’s just how I smile.”

“No, it isn’t. You're purposely making your eyes do that dreamy thing. You know it gets you whatever you want.”

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