Page 88 of Host for the Holidays
“I’ll be fine.” I probably won’t. But I wrap my arm around her and pull her toward me, trying to convince myself it doesn’t feel like locking two puzzle pieces together to have her there. “I promise to keep inside all the other lines.”
“Me too.”
So I watch Edward Cullen sparkle (gosh, it’s painful) with Madi snuggled up next to me, no longer shivering. It’s not long before she’s warm enough to fall asleep, and it’s evenlesslong before I’m struggling to pay any attention to the movie. My body isn’t crossing lines, but my brain and my heart have sprinted past so far, they can’t evenseethe lines anymore.
I don’t even care about kissing her right now. Okay, that’s a stretch. I would absolutely love to kiss her right now—if she weren’t unconscious. But what I’m feeling as I hold her against me and try to shift so that her head doesn’t roll off my shoulder? It goes so far beyond mere physical attraction.
It’s crazy to care this much about Madi after how short a time she’s been here—I get that—but knowing that doesn’t change how I feel.
When my dad would leave on business trips when I was a kid, it didn’t matter that I knew I’d see him again in a few days. It was hard every. single. time. And Iwon’tbe seeing Madi again. Maybe if she left tomorrow, I would be okay. Maybe? I don’t know. But she’s here for almost two more weeks. If I feel this way about her right now, how will I feelthen?
I take another look at her—or as much of her as I can see from this angle—trying to gauge whether it’s possible for me to keep doing this, to compartmentalize. They do it on TV shows, right? If a covert agent can kill druglords at midnight and kiss his kindergartener at school drop-off the next morning, can’t I manage to separate being Madi’s host for the holidays from my desire to spend every second of every day as close to her as possible?
I sigh and let my head drop onto the back of the couch. Pretending we can just be friendsisn’tworking for me. Not at all. Not even after one measly day. And I have a suspicion it’s not working for Madi, either, which means things are bound to turn sour for both of us—just like André feared.
But even though there’s no doubt in my mind that spending a frigid night without radiators is a solid 1-star Airbnb experience, this isn’t even about the 5-star rating. It’s about doing the responsible thing. It’s about not hurting Madi when she’s already experienced major career and relationship disappointments this week.
And yes, it’s about protecting myself, too, because I can’t pretend I don’t see the oncoming train wreck. I can’t sit and do nothing to stop it, no matter how fun playing on the tracks is.
THIRTY-SIX
MADI
I forcemy eyelids to open, but all they’ll do is flutter like a fledgling bird. I’m covered by a layer of blankets, while Rémy’s body makes my left side cozy and warm. It takes me a second to realize that I’m slumped over onto him with my head on his lap. He’s shifting under my weight, probably trying to get more comfortable.
I push myself up sleepily. “Sorry.” My voice comes out weak and crackly. “Here, there’s space for you.” I lie down, inviting him into the place directly in front of me. “I’ll be the big spoon.” My eyes are already closing again.
He moves so that he’s sitting on the very edge of the couch. “I think I’m just gonna go to my room.”
My eyes open a bit more. “Oh.” I can’t tell what’s in his voice, but it’ssomething. He sounds more serious than usual. He’s probably been super uncomfortable for the past—I check the TV screen and see the rolling credits—hour and a half.
“I’ll bring you the blanket from your bed to make sure you stay warm,” he says.
It’s really generous of him, and yet the thought of swapping out Rémy for a blanket—however new and cute that blanket is—is depressing. Depressing but smart. We promised to keep inside the other lines, and I think spooning all night falls squarely on the wrong side. I’m going to chalk the suggestion up to fatigue.
He leaves for a couple minutes, then returns with my blanket, which he drapes over me, spending time making sure every part of me is covered.
“Goodnight, Madi,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I hover between consciousness and sleep for a few minutes, vaguely aware of the sound of running water as Rémy brushes his teeth (kudos to him for braving the elements for his dental hygiene), and a couple of minutes later, the shutting of his bedroom door.
* * *
When I wakeup in the morning, I have the same sensation I did camping as a little girl. I’m a hot pocket in the middle of the arctic tundra, and any movement of mine risks introducing sub-zero temperatures into the delicate crust that is my blankets.
It takes me a full half an hour to persuade myself to heed the demands of my bladder and stomach, and I do so wrapped in one of the blankets, cursing as my feet hit the tile floor. Maneuvering a bathroom experience in my state gives me a new respect for women in the ages of massive skirts. They are the real MVPs.
While I’m up, I heat some water and glance at Rémy’s door as I wait for the kettle, trying to remember how everything played out last night.
I don’t think the lines are doing as much for me as I hoped they would.
My skin prickles as I remember those words. I wanted to kiss him so badly right then. And about a hundred other times throughout the day. I could see how hard he was trying, though, so I stuffed little temptress Madi back into her box and matched his efforts with my own. And pretty soon, warmth and contentment put me to sleep.
Rémy still hasn’t emerged by the time I’ve finished my hot chocolate. He’s never slept this late, which makes me worry that having my dead weight on him kept him up last night.
I’m anxious for him to wake up, to get the day started and see what it holds. I’m counting on something warmer than yesterday. Preferably with less body odor.
My pulse quickens at the memory of taking refuge in Rémy’s cologne and having his face nestled next to my ear.
