Page 33 of Holiday at Home
“That, my dear, is a hell yes.”
I end the call and stand there, grinning to myself in the living room.
Nora’s right. Getting involved romantically with Simon is a bad idea. He has to go back to his big, fancy life in New York at the end of the month. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Just because our relationship didn’t work the first time doesn’t mean a friendship is impossible. We’ve grown. We’ve aged. We can keep in touch.
In fact, it’s healthy, right? We meant a lot to each other, once upon a time. Having him in my life again feels like something important has clicked back into place, like I’m whole again.
That can’t be a bad thing.
It just can’t.
I won’t let it.
I race upstairs, fuss with my hair and makeup, then—on a whim—yank off the black T-shirt I’ve been wearing and slide into the red and white Christmas tree sweater Mom bought me last Christmas. Simon wants color and bright. He’ll get color and bright.
A knock sounds at the door, and I bound downstairs, almost tripping over myself in my enthusiasm. When I throw open the door, Simon’s standing there with a wide grin on his face, holding up a plastic bag with takeout containers.
His hair looks tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it. A blue henley stretches tight across his chest and pops the colors in his eyes. The sunset gleams behind him, casting long glorious shadows, and I swear I hear a choir of angels singing.
“If I didn’t know better,” I say, leaning against the doorframe to appreciate his beauty, “I’d think you did it on purpose.”
Simon cocks his head, dark hair falling playfully into his eyes. “Did what on purpose?”
“Every time you’ve come over here, you’re standing there with the sun behind you, perfect magic hour lighting, smiling, confident, handsome. I think you time it that way.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “Aww. You think I’m handsome?”
“That shouldn’t surprise you. I’ve always thought you were handsome.”
“You thought young Simon was handsome. Don’t know what you think about old Simon.”
“Let’s just say the years have been kind and leave it at that. Now come on in and show me whatever’s in the bag because it smells delicious.”
We wander into the kitchen and Simon unpacks several generic Styrofoam containers, then opens one of the lids to reveal a patty melt and fries.
“I took a chance here. But after stopping at the Dana’s Diner truck at the tree-lighting ceremony, I’ve been craving one of these. Remember? We spent so many nights there, I think they considered creating a plaque with our names on it for our table.”
Those nights are emblazoned into my heart. Core memories. Simon and I discovered Dana’s Diner the summer before he left for college. We were both eighteen, flexing our new adult boundaries, and spent almost every night there. We’d eat sandwiches and cheesecake, drink coffee and talk into the wee hours of the morning about all the magic our future would bring.
“Hmmm,” I say, drawing my brows together and chewing on my bottom lip. “I actually don’t remember that.”
“You are so full of it, Violet Sterling.” Simon widens his eyes and shakes his head, looking so much like the young man I used to know that I can’t help but laugh.
“Hey, that’s what you get for your little joke on the phone.”
I almost sayall’s fair in love and war,but catch myself in time. I wouldn’t have meant anything by it…
…but still.
We eat, talking about everything and nothing—the past, the present, while carefully avoiding the future.
“By the way, digging the sweater.” Simon crams a giant bite into his mouth and chews around a smile.
“Yes, someone really smart told me once that inviting color and energy into my life could be a good thing. Turns out, he was onto something.”
“Bet he likes hearing that.”
“Shame I’ll never tell him, though. His ego is way too fond of being right.”
