Page 50 of Late Bloomer
“I’d certainly hope so.” I laugh so hard they turn into obnoxious goose honks. Opal, for her part, snorts at that.
“God, we sound like a barnyard,” she says, wrapping her arms around her middle as she continues to giggle.
“We should go roll in the hay,” I say. Without thinking. Obviously. Becausewhy the hell would I saythatof all things.
Opal’s laughter stops, her eyes going wide. Our gazes hold for a second, before she blinks away, color creeping up her throat.
“As in, like, uh, farm animals,” I weakly offer. Another moment of painful silence.
“I…” Opal coughs, then clears her throat, staring down at the ground. “I have a present for you,” she whispers. I lean forward, not wanting to miss a word. “But it’s kind of silly yet not at all funny and I think I totally missed the mark on the gift-giving theme tonight… Hard to believe that’s not the first time that’s happened to me, right?” Her laugh is sharp andloud, like it hurts her to make the sound. Nothing like the usual playful tinkle of it.
“Anyway.” She thrusts her arms out, eyes averted, a small brown rectangle clutched between her hands.
I look at her for a moment, an odd mask of worry on her features. After a beat, her gaze sweeps to me, earnest and vulnerable, making my pulse trip over itself.
She’s cute in the most inconvenient type of way. Round and rosy cheeks that look devastatingly soft. Full lips quirked at the ends as if constantly desperate to jump into a smile. Even her absurd hair has an effect, something a bit wild, a bit feral. Just like her.
And her eyes. Well, her eyes aremajorlyinconvenient because I can’t stop feeling like I’ll drown in that pale ocean blue.
Which is an incredibly dumb idea to have.
She proffers the gift again, this time holding my stare. With a shaky hand, I take the board. It’s about the size of my palm and, turning it over, a small hiccup catches in my throat, making my eyes burn.
The other side is a canvas, covered in the most beautiful watercolor painting I’ve ever seen. A moment I’ll never forget.
I don’t hold on to a lot of memories—my autistic brain has left a lot of holes in my mental film reel—but I could never forget that day.
It was my first Christmas Eve with Grandma Lou—her sixty-eighth birthday. She used to joke that being born on Christmas Eve was proof she was the greatest gift to the worldSanta could have conjured. After those first few months of living with her, I knew in the deepest parts of my bones it was true.
It was the first holiday I’d ever had where the focus was on comfortable, quality moments. It wasn’t at one of Mom’s random boyfriends’ houses, sitting on the edge of the couch while one or the other screamed at the top of their lungs about a gift coming up short or being forgotten altogether. It wasn’t Mom snipping the tags off a Walmart dress in the store, stuffing me into the itchy stolen garment in the parking lot while filling me in on what long-lost relation we were pretending to be to whoever her latest target was.
That Christmas, it was me, Lou, and our plump evergreen from a farm up the road, a roaring fire in the living room and a steady snowfall out the window. We’d made three different varieties of hot chocolate, the sugar fueling our dances around the living room as her record player cranked out Ella Fitzgerald’s Christmas songs.
I’d been snuggled up close to Lou on the couch when she’d snapped the photo, grabbing an old Kodak from the junk bowl on the coffee table, blinding us both with the flash.
And Opal somehow captured the magic of it perfectly. Our faces pressed close, cheeks rosy, hair tangled together. The background is illuminated with a gauzy swirl of gold and copper, our smiles shimmering just as brightly.
“What do you think?” Opal’s voice is small. Hesitant. It rips through me and my eyes jerk away from the painting to look at her.
“You… you painted Grandma Lou,” I say, swallowing past my rough throat.
“And you,” Opal whispers, taking a step forward and tapping lightly on teenage me. “I love your smile in this picture so much.”
The soft and subtle smell of her curls around me—ink and paper and something sunny. My hand dives into my pocket, pulling out the sprig of chamomile in there as my fingers twirl it around and around.
Opal’s eyes trickle away from my face to my hand.
“Do you play with those when you’re nervous?” she asks, nodding at the flowers as she watches me.
“Yes.”
“Are you nervous right now?” She takes a step closer. It seems impossible that I canfeelher without actually touching her. So much warmth and energy circling my waist. Pulling me a step closer too.
My words trip out over a humorless laugh. “Yes, and I don’t know why.”
Oops. Too honest. I can tell by the way Opal’s eyes widen, her eyebrows arching up.
“But I’m also happy,” I bumble out. “I’m feeling a lot of things, I guess.”
