Page 114 of I'm Your Guy
She sets the pillow down on the bed. Then she steps close and hugs me.
I close my eyes and let her hold me, as if I were a little boy again. My eyes feel hot.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says gently. “I’ve been telling myself that Colorado has been good for you.”
“It has,” I croak. “Really.”
She steps back and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Let’s make your friend Carter some cookies. Does he like cookies?”
“Probably.” If his love for waffles is any indication, I’m pretty sure it’s a safe bet.
“Will I be meeting him?”
My mouth opens and then closes again. Like a fish. Twice. “No, I don’t think you will.”
She frowns. “Honey, is he important to you?”
My heart practically detonates, and there is suddenly not enough oxygen in this room. This is it, right? The river I swore never to cross. I’ve always been sure that if I tried, the current would instantly drown me.
But what if I could drag my sorry ass to the other side? There will never be a better time. Besides, there’s probably a special place in hell for men who lie to their ailing mothers.
I don’t meet her eyes, though, as I swallow past the dry spot in my throat. “He could be,” I manage to say. “But it’s complicated.”
“I can only imagine,” she says softly. “Still—do you think he’d like my raspberry thumbprint cookies? Or is he more of a chocolate man? I need to know.”
Another deep breath, and I picture Carter’s smile. Would he be proud of me right now? Would it make a difference? Or have I already fucked things up too badly? “Strawberry thumbprints, I think. But they’ll go stale before I see him again.”
“You never know.” She claps her hands together. “Let’s make a shopping list. We’re going to need some strawberry jam.”
* * *
She sends me to the store, which is crammed full of last-minute shoppers like myself. Yet I survive it.
And then we cook for hours and hours, with breaks for watching Christmas movies and lounging on the sofa that will always make me think of Carter.
It’s exactly the holiday I’d been planning. Except for the heartache, of course. I can’t stop wondering where Carter is, and if he’s okay.
On Christmas Eve, my mother gives me a jigsaw puzzle. A thousand pieces. And the picture is an artistic map of Colorado. “Your new home,” she says.
“Thanks, Mom.” I give her another careful hug. She’s still too thin, but I have to admit that she seems perky. And she’s eating. It’s something.
I text Newgate.
My mom is visiting, and we made a dozen cookies for you guys. I know you’re not big on carbs so yours are peanut butter. Can I bring them by?
I’ll come over instead! My house is covered in wrapping paper and I’ve been up since six. Christmas with a kid is like surviving a hurricane.
Come over whenever.
Newgate knocks on the door a little later, and I wave him in. “Happy Christmas. Want coffee?”
“Sure,” he says. “This is for you.” He hands me a bottle of wine. “One of Gavin’s favorites.”
“Thanks, man.”
“And these are for you!” my mother announces, carrying a tin of cookies out of the kitchen. “I’m the pushy mother. How do you take your coffee?”
I introduce Newgate to my mom. My teammate doctors his coffee and then follows me into the living room to sit on the sofa. “Wow, DiCosta. Your place rocks.” His eyes take a tour of the fireplace wall and all the new furniture. “Your designer guy has it goin’ on.”
