Page 72 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“That seemed to be going well for you,” she says. “I thought you were a zombie.”
I laugh, relieved that we’re moving off the topic. “I felt like a zombie,” I say.
“And now?”
“I feel human. Thanks to you.” I reach across the table and grab her hand, brushing my thumb over her fingers. “No one has ever done something like this for me.”
She shrugs. “It’s what I do, Adam.”
I sit up then, remembering. “Didn’t you have to go to the community center this afternoon to organize the gifts?” I stare at her, watching her body still, then relax so quickly that I would almost think it didn’t happen if I weren’t watching so closely.
“Yeah, I got it covered.”
“You got it covered?”
She looks up, turns to me, and I see her biting her lip.
“Okay, don’t get too excited, I have to go there after work tomorrow to get it done, but I pushed it off.” I stare at her, and even though I don’t like that she is going to be working late tomorrow because she helped me, I know it’s a big moment, even more so when she continues. “I called Sue, whom I was meeting there, to tell her I needed to reschedule, and I was worried that she would be mad, but she didn’t mind at all.” She sounds surprised by that fact, which is so very Wren.
“You didn’t have to change your plans for me.”
She shrugs. “You were sick.”
“I would have survived. You didn’t have to do all of this just for me.”
She bites her lip, then reaches over and runs a hand through my hair. I’m sure it’s tangled and probably sweaty from my fever, but she doesn’t seem to care. Instead, she looks nervous.
I get why when she speaks her following words aloud.
“Are you mine?”
They’re exactly like the words I spoke to her a few days ago in the driveway, and I remember them seeming to take her breath away.
I get why now.
They hit me square in the chest, reaching somewhere deep in my soul as she stares at me, nervous and expectant.
It doesn’t make sense, especially considering how short an amount of time it’s been that we’ve been together, but I feel like we were meant to be here, to be next to one another and find each other.
I answer honestly. “Yeah, Wren. I’m yours.”
“I take care of what’s mine, Adam.”
The words are a whisper, but for a man who is becoming more and more aware of the fact that no one has ever taken care of him, it means everything.
TWENTY-SIX
“Hey, Will, how’s it going?” I ask when Willa Stone picks up on the second ring. Nerves rack through me, and for a split second, I can’t remember why I called at all. But then I look down and see the scribbled lines of the song before me. Typically, Greg handles this by calling the artists or their labels with a new song, but I’m hoping that by sharing my vision for the song I’ve written with the pop star myself, I might get better results.
“Adam Porter, as I live and breathe. How are you? I haven’t heard from you in forever,” Willa says, a small tinkling laugh in the words.
Again, I wonder if this was a bad idea. This morning, I realized the song I’d been tinkering with wasn’t just decent. It had real potential in a way a song hasn’t in a while, and I instantly knew who I would want on it.
Still, I don’t know exactly what has me picking up the phone and calling Willafirstinstead of Greg. It’s probably because the last time Greg called, I snapped at him and haven’t heard from him since. Either way, some ghost took hold of me this afternoon, and before I knew it, I was calling Willa to tell her about the new song instead of my agent. He’ll probably have afuck ton of things to say about that, but he’ll get over it when I land this and get him a nice little check for it.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. I’m calling because, uh…I think I have something for you.”
“Oh yeah?” she asks, and even though she sounds intrigued rather than irritated or bored, my pulse still pounds with nerves.
