Page 105 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
“Exactly,” he says, the pride in his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket.“When did you get so wise?”
“I had a good teacher.”
There’s a comfortable silence, filled only with the distant sound of gulls from his end of the line.
“I haven’t told Mom and Dad yet,” I confess.“Or Adam.”
“They’ll be thrilled,” he says simply.
“What if I don’t get the job?”
“Then, you’ll find something else.”
And I voice another fear of mine that hadn’t left the confines of therapy.“What if I’m not enough?I made it.I’m here.And I’ve been trying to give back.Being a nurse was part of that.”
“You’re enough.You’ve always been enough.We don’t stay frozen in time, any of us.Your grandmother and I aren’t the same people who taught you to swim.Your parents aren’t the same people who brought you home from the hospital.”
“I thought having had cancer meant I’d knew better, though.I stayed with Chuck.”
“That man,” Papet says, his voice darkening like winter clouds.I can almost hear Chuck’s voice in my head, clinical and dismissive:“Still making excuses for your choices, Eve.”But the thought flickers and fades like one of those Christmas lights that burns out, leaving only the warm, steady glow of Papet’s understanding.For once, I don’t catalog Chuck’s criticism or mentally diagnose its impact.I simply let it fade into the past where it belongs.
Papet continues, “Your heart always belongs to you.Even when you love someone.And that man didn’t only try to steal it, he tried to make it so it only beat when he was around.That’s not love.That’s possession.”
His words hit me with the precision of a perfectly delivered diagnosis, identifying exactly what I couldn’t articulate about Chuck all these years.Like when you finally see the pathology report that confirms what you suspected but couldn’t prove.
“That heart ornament I made you.Do you know why I created it?”
I glance at the dresser where the glass heart sits safely in its padded box, ready to be hung on whatever Christmas tree I find myself near each year.
“Because I was born?”I suggest, my throat tightening.
“Because I wanted you to have a physical reminder of how deeply you’re loved,” he says, his voice warm with decades of affection.“I hoped that even when you weren’t looking at it, you’d carry that feeling with you.Like a pocket of warmth in your chest even on your coldest days.”
I curl my fingers into my palm, the familiar triple-tap rhythm against my thigh slowing as his words penetrate the defensive barriers I’ve built around my heart.I’d always approached that ornament with the careful reverence of handling fragile lab specimens, but maybe that wasn’t the point at all.
“I made that heart when you came into our lives,” he continues.“But it found its true purpose during those long hospital stays, didn’t it?When you hung it where the light could catch it?I’ve always known that no matter how far apart we are, I’m in your heart just as you’re in mine.”
I nod, remembering how I’d positioned it to catch the morning light during my worst days, using it as a focus instead of the pain scale charts on the wall.“The nurses used to comment on it,” I tell him, my professional detachment slipping.“Said it was the prettiest thing.”
“That heart has witnessed your whole journey,” he adds.“From pigtails to college graduation.Through diagnosis and remission.From Pine Creek to Chicago and all the places between.It’s been your connection to home even when you couldn’t bring yourself to return.”
I mentally catalog the heart’s migrations: dorm room windows, hospital stands, Chuck’s designer Christmas tree (where it never quite belonged), and now this temporary B&B room.Like tracking a patient’s progress through different departments.
“I love that heart,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the pressure building behind my sternum.Not pain from a tumor pushing through or from unshed emotions, just feeling, raw and real and unfiltered by my usual clinical assessment.
“I know you do.That’s why I want you to bring it when you come home.So, we can celebrate the new year watching the sunrise catch its light.Together.”
After we say goodbye, I turn back to my laptop, LoverBoy still warm against my legs.The cursor still hovers overSubmit,but my hand is steady now.
I think about Dr.Harrison Sr.and his journey back from losing his license.
I think about the kids I’ve connected with here.
I think about the emerging idea for integrated care.
And yes, I think about Adam, about shared mornings and inside jokes, about the way he makes me feel simultaneously safe and challenged.About whatever this is between us that I’m not quite ready to name but can’t bear to lose.
With Blanche watching approvingly, Dorothy arranging socks like puzzle pieces, and LoverBoy nestled against me, I clickSubmit.
