Page 21 of Holiday Star
“Always.” He’s firm. “I’ve never once been home for Christmas. Usually, I’m not even with my parents. They stay here in L.A. and celebrate without me.”
Instantly, my anger evaporates. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Caleb! That’s literally one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.”
He acts as if I’ve hit him with the wrench again, dropping the lights and bringing his hands up to ward off my sympathy. “Oh, no!” he exclaims. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you pity me. Just…stop it. Trust me, it’s fine. I’ve spent Christmas in lots of cool places. On yachts. In airplanes. Once, I was in the Swiss Alps and it was snowing.”
“That all sounds awful.” I clutch my chest, remembering Thanksgiving, how lonely it had been, working in the hospital without my family.
It’s like that for Caleballthe time.
His hands drop, and he gives me a strange look, like he really thought he could change my mind and now that he can’t, he doesn’t know what to do.
“Why?” he asks, his voice gruff. “What was your Christmas like?”
I brighten. Warm memories of my past Christmases flood me. “When my dad was alive, our Christmases were pure magic. He loved it even more than us kids. It was his special holiday.” My eyes close as I picture it, all those perfect days. “My family would decorate the entire house together.”
“Dad would string these lights,” I hold up the ones in my hands, “along the eaves of our house. Mom would pace nervously below while he worked, worried he was going to fall off the ladder.”
“As a family, we would go pick out a tree. The entire house smelled like pine. We put on this TV station every year. It had a picture of a yule log burning. We’d make hot chocolate with tiny white marshmallows.”
I remember how, when I was little, I’d push those marshmallows down with my spoon, trying to submerge them, and be delighted when they would inevitably pop back up to the surface, where they would bob and float. That’s how my family seemed in those days.Unsinkable.
“After he died, Mom tried to keep the old traditions going. We all did, but it was never quite the same.” I sigh, my joy deflating. “This year is the worst. Now it’s just me. All alone.” I drop my eyes to the bulbs in my lap, the corners of my mouth sinking down.
Caleb’s voice sounds far away. I’m too wrapped up in my misery to fully process it when he says, “You’re not alone.”
“Huh?” I look up, wondering if I heard him correctly.
“I said you’re not alone. I’m here.” Grumpily, he concedes, “I guess we could put upsomedecorations.”
My smile returns, sneaking back into the room like it’s not sure if it should be there. I shake the string of lights, letting it unspool from my hands. While we were talking, I got the knots out.
His hand is up again, in a “stop” motion. “Just a few decorations,” he amends, alarmed by my rising enthusiasm. “Not the whole box. And don’t even think about asking me to get up on a ladder.”
I don’t pay attention to his words, too happy picturing our little space all cheery, full of Christmas joy. I clap my hands together excitedly. “Oh, Caleb, it’s going to be so fun.”
He looks doubtful.
I spring up and go to the box, leaning over until I almost fall in. As I dig through the items all the way down to the bottom, Caleb comes to stand behind me, bringing his cinnamon scent. It’s from his toothpaste. I’d figured it out this morning when I saw the tube next to the sink in the bathroom. That’s why he always smells so mouthwatering.
“Here’s garland for the stairs.” I pile the sparkly red material into his arms. “These snowmen figurines go on the mantle.” I hand them over. “Oh! Look at this adorable bell Teddy made when he was in kindergarten.” I add it to the stack.
By the time I’m done, Caleb’s swaying, buried under an assortment of Christmas décor, only his eyes and the top of his head peeking out. I glance briefly at the cut in his hairline from where I hit him. It seems to be healing nicely, shouldn’t leave much of a scar.
Working together, we wind the garland through the stair railing, passing it back and forth between each spindle. I decorate the kitchen countertops while he does the fireplace mantle.
Caleb finds Christmas music on his phone and plays it, the small speaker making it sound tinny and faint. Those old songs don’t need to be heard clearly, though. I have them memorized with the many times I’ve listened to them over the years.
“Turn that up,” I shout to him. Construction on the house continues, with a loud drilling noise coming from behind the plastic tarps.
Caleb cranks up the volume, and I hum along, doing a shimmy to Rocking Around the Christmas Tree. When I glance up, I see Caleb watching me, his lips tipping up into a bemused smirk.
“What?” I demand, hands on my hips.
He tries unsuccessfully to dampen that amused twitch of his mouth. “It’s nothing.”
