Page 79 of About Last Christmas
“As a caregiver.”
“Yeah. It’s like, I know it’s coming, but don’t know when.”
He gently squeezes my hand and lets go, as if he can tell when I need space. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“Ask her when she’s leaving?”
A server comes by to pick up our plates, and Leo waits until she walks away. “More like, ask your mom if she plans on staying for the long haul. Then maybe you can ask her why she left in the first place.”
I want those answers but … “I think I’m afraid of her response. Which is probably why I hold her at arm’s length. Why I hold everyone at arm’s length.” Even Leo.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I understand that. You know that I grew up in boarding schools. I hardly saw my parents. I didn’t even have a relationship with them until just a few years ago.”
“What changed?”
“I did. I made more of an effort to understand them. I still don’t agree with their choices. I would’ve rather had a steady upbringing with present parents, but I can’t change the past. Our relationship still has hiccups, but it’s getting smoother as we keep trying.”
His words give me hope. “Where are they now?”
“They spend most of their time at their villa near Lake Como.”
My mouth parts. “Italy?”
He nods. “They’re supposed to come to the States in January.”
If they plan on visiting after the new year, that means Leo might be alone for the holidays. “You’re welcome to spend Christmas with me. I always go to Pap’s. The Mavericks will be there, of course.”
His head tips slightly back, as if the invitation surprised him. He smiles at me. “Thank you.”
My conscience nudges me to finish what I started. Here goes. “Circling back to what we were talking about. Now that you know a little more about my background, I hope this makes more sense.” I force myself to breathe, so my words don’t all run into each other. “I rushed out last night because of something Fletcher said. He warned me that you never stay in the same place for long.”
“Ah.” His eyes light with understanding. “And given what you just told me about your mom always leaving?—”
“It shook me. That same twist in my gut—the one that always hit me when she left—came back full force last night. So I ignored confrontation and ran. That’s kind of my defense mechanism.” That and self-deprecation. But I can only deal with one personality defect at a time. “It was less about you and more about me getting my head on straight about my mom. In a way, it was good for me.”
His grin sparks. “Which is basically saying kissing me was good for you.” He leans back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “Say the word, and we can work on this self-awareness thing whenever you want.”
I laugh, needing a break from the heaviness. But also, having the freedom to kiss Leo any time I’d like makes me heady. It’s best not to think about that too much to avoid spontaneous combustion.
As if realizing the conversation hasn’t yet reached full closure, he says, “Fletcher probably said that about me because of how I grew up. I was always moving around, shuffled here and there. Then as an adult, I drifted because I never had a permanent home.” He shrugs. “Or maybe he said it because I’m only a volunteer at the fire department. Who knows. But just because I’m not tied to the job doesn’t mean I’m going to leave.” His eyes take on an intensity that makes my breath turn shallow. “I have the strongest reason to stay. I’m not going anywhere, Greta.”
My heart leaps in response.
Some slow song—that I can’t remember the name of—filters through the speakers, and Leo extends his hand. “Dance with me?”
I shoot off a quick text to Mom, explaining we’ll talk soon, and I answer Leo’s question by slipping my fingers into his waiting ones. He leads me to the dance floor and, keeping our hands intertwined, he wraps his right arm around my back. Our rhythm syncs, and I note how this dance is far different from our first, when I was furious with him for thinking he deceived me. But the one thing that hasn’t changed is the spark between us, which seems to burn fiercer with every touch.
I rest my head on his shoulder, and he presses me close.
“Greta?”
I feel rather than hear the rumble of my name. “Hmm?”
“A week from Monday …”
I know exactly what that day is. “The fifteenth?”
He dips his head lower, his late-day stubble skimming my temple. “I know it’s the anniversary of your Gran’s passing. What can I do?”
