Page 26 of Holiday Love
I clench my jaw and will my stiffening dick to chill the hell out.
She twists the cap back onto the tube and disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, the refrigerator door swings open, then shuts with a hollowthunk. When she returns, something is clutched tightly to her chest, her knuckles pale against it. She grips it so hard that the sides buckle inward, caving under the pressure.
“I know it’s a total cliché,” she says, her voice too light, too casual, as she drops onto the couch beside me. The movement is deliberate, but there’s a stiffness in her shoulders, a tension in the way she holds herself. She lifts two spoons, forcing a smile. “But ice cream really does make me feel better when I’m down.”
That worddowncatches in her throat, weighted and uneven.
She sets the tub of Rocky Road between us.
I hesitate. Something about the way she says that, the way her voice dips, tells me she’s barely keeping it together. Like if I breathe wrong, she’ll unravel.
I can’t stand it, watching her suffer and not being able to do a damn thing about it. If it were a physical wound, something tangible, I could help. If it were a person, I could fight. But this? This invisible weight pressing on her, stealing the light from her eyes? I have no idea how to make it better.
I match her light tone. “I never say no to ice cream. Even when it’s only…” A quick glance at the digital clock on her microwave and I add, “six a.m.” I hold up my spoon with a “cheers.” We clink spoons together, and she manages a smile, but it flickers, fragile. For a minute, we eat in silence.
Hoping to cheer her up, I hand Helen the remote. “You gave me ice cream, so I’m giving you control of what we watch. Choose wisely, though,” I tease, “otherwise your TV privileges will be revoked.”
Helen rolls her eyes. “Umm, last time I checked this wasmyTV, so I don’t think you hold the power to take it away.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” I counter, desperate to erase the shadows I still see lingering in her eyes. The ones she’s trying to hide. “I am your esteemed houseguest; thereforeIget to choose. Didn’t anyone teach you manners?”
“I believe you are actually my renter, which makesmeyour landlord and puts me back in charge,” she says with a note of victory, one that I’m happy to hear.Thisis the Helen I remember. The one who challenged me. Who didn’t fall for my usual shit.
“Fine. Fine.” I wave at the TV. “You win, oh-high-and-mightylandlord. What do you want to watch?”
“Not this.” She frowns at the image of the drowning cruise ship on the screen. “Too depressing.” She sighs from deep in her chest. “We need something light, a rom-com maybe. Preferably with kittens or a cute dog.”
“A rom-com with an adorable animal? I don’t know, that’s pretty specific for this time of morning.” I pause and tap my chin, debating. I want to ask her how she’s doing, handling the loss of her job, but I don’t want to bring it up if she’s not already thinking about it. That might make her feel worse.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Helen says, jolting me from my thoughts.
“What?”
“Everything. What you were just about to ask me. The hospital. My suspension.”
I startle, wondering if she’s psychic. “How’d you know I was going to ask about that?”
A side-eye glance from her. “You’re a loud thinker, Teddy. I could tell.”
That’s weird. I can’t think of anyone else who can read me as well as that. Definitely not Jamie or Gina. Maybe Gwen?
“Well,” I say, turning to her, “why not? Don’t you think it would be good to talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” she responds, putting some snark into her tone. “How about we discuss how you got high and tried to drown yourself? Does that sound like fun to you?”
Okay. She’s got a point.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” My lower lip sticks out like I’m eight years old.
“Hmm. Not so fun to be on that side of the questions, is it?” She raises a brow. “Besides,” she continues, “I thought about it all last night and decided I’ll be okay. I can spend this time working on a presentation to show to the committee proving my competency. No one can resist a good PowerPoint presentation.”
“Does anyone still use PowerPoint?” I ask around a marshmallow.
That widens Helen’s eyes with alarm. “Don’t they?”
I shrug and point at the TV, where channels flip by rapidly as Helen clicks the remote. “How about that one?When Harry Met Sally.That’s one of Gwen’s favorites.”
“I haven’t seen it in forever. Good choice.” Helen turns up the volume, and we settle against the couch, eating our ice cream.
