Page 61 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
My conscience clears its throat. This is an opening. An opportunity to tell him about my un-diagnosis, my eye, my fear. But that would mean hijacking this moment about his grief and his mom, and I’m not going to do that.
“She’d go overboard at Christmas,” he says, and a smile tugs at his lips, sunshine peeking out behind the lingering sorrow. “We weren’t even religious. But she loved dressing everything up. I bet you do, too. If you do Christmas?” he adds, hurriedly. Worry puckers his brow, and I nod, smiling as relief replaces the wrinkles.
“Yes and yes.” I squeeze his hand before taking mine back. “Simple, but all-out. Garlands, white lights—”
“A tree?”
“I’ve never had a tree. But I buy an ornament everywhere I visit. My first tree will be very well-traveled.”
“Mom did that, too. Bought ornaments on trips. Not the ‘simple’ though. Multicolored lights, no theme. Dad called it ‘Christmas chaos.’” He’s beaming now. “She passed before the blow-up yard decor got popular. She’d havelovedthose.”
I redirect my attention to the photo again. But he’s watching me, I can feel it. I don’t dare look back at him. Ihatethose things.
He leans into me, and I elect to focus on the pleasant heat of him against my shoulder and not the burning dislike I have for the inflatable abominations. “I bet you can’tstandthem.”
“They are not to my taste.”
“Nah.” He’s smiling now, so big, I can make it out from the corner of my eye. “Youhatethem, I know it—”
“They’re such a cop-out! Taking up as much space as possible and zero effort. They’re never the right scale,” I rail. “Like Macy’s parade rejects. When they’re on, the fans are loud and annoying, and when they’re off, you have ugly heaps of nylon scattered around your yard. No one even tries to make them look cohesive, they’re just dumb and inelegant, and yes, I hate them!”
He stares at me, then nods. After a moment, he heaves a sigh. “I can’t believe you hate my dead mom’s favorite Christmas decorations.”
Panic detonates in my chest. “You said she passed before—”
“My dead mom’shypotheticallyfavorite Christmas decorations.” He can barely shape the words, he’s trying so hard not to laugh.
The anxiety leaves me in a rush. “Youturd. That was so dark!” I laugh, and he surrenders to his laughter, letting out a deep rumble that warms my insides. “That was fucked-up!”
He shrugs.
“Wow,” I marvel. “I didn’t know you had it in you to go there.”
He chuckles, his gaze returning to the photo. He’s looking at it differently now, no trace of the earlier sadness in his eyes.
“You should frame it,” I say. “Hang it up somewhere.”
He nods, placing the picture back on the table, but his eyes linger on the photo. He’s still smiling, and there’s something soft in his expression that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It makes him look about as young as he was on that beach.
He taps the stack of clippings I wanted him to look over. “If you keep these out, I’ll look through them this afternoon so y’all can get going on whatever it is you’re planning with them.” He fans them out, smiling to himself. “I haven’t thought about this stuff in forever.”
“I’d guess so, Captain Cock Sock,” I say. “Those about gave me a heart attack.”
He laughs, and while I know it’s at my expense, I can’t help grinning back.
Ian’s still smiling at me, somewhere between amusement and something warmer that has me wanting to reach out and take his hand again, when his phone buzzes with an alert. He blinks, checking his watch. “Shoot, I have a personal training client in five. You good back here?” he asks, and I nod.
“There’s one more bin to go through,” I say. “Anything I should be warned about?”
“Nothing you can’t handle.” He heads for the door, but turns around before walking through. “Thank you, Ellie. For listening.”
My breath catches a little. “Happy to. Thank you for telling me about her.”
He nods, shooting me an almost-smile, then leaves.
The last bin is sadly void of anything resembling a cock sock. Just trophies, but there are a few medals that will look good on the wall, as well as a Best of Austin award for Best Group Classes, dated last year, still in a bubble-wrapped mailer. It’s cute, with a hand giving a thumbs-up beside Firehouse’s name. It’s absolutely going up, too.
I tuck the mailer under my arm and pick up the shot of the family of four and the smiling woman in the center. Had she known then that the cancer was back? Had she suspected it? And when had she decided not to tell her boys?
