Page 32 of Holiday Love
“Sometimes I’m in a conversation with someone, and it’s like I’m so busy thinking about what I should say next, I lose track of what they’re saying.” She sighs and hangs her head. “The whole thing turns into a mess.” She takes a spoonful of ice cream before she asks, “How do you do it? Make it seem effortless?”
I put my chin in my hand and consider the question, wanting to give her a good answer, which is hard. I’m bad at lots of things—school, being responsible—but getting along with people is one of my strengths. It’s always come easily. “Honestly, I think people are interesting. They all have fascinating stories to tell. I always want to know more, and people like that. They like talkingabout themselves. They want to be seen, to feel special. All I do is listen.”
“Just listen?” she repeats, doubt thick in her voice.
I nod. “It’s that simple.”
Helen gets up and walks into the kitchen. Yanking open a drawer, she pulls out a neon yellow sticky note and pen. She scribbles down a single word:Listen.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, curious.
“Bathroom mirror.” She peels it from the pad. “I give myself goals and post them there. It helps motivate me.”
“Ah.” I smile, remembering the note I noticed earlier today. “So that’s what the push-up reminder was about.”
Helen pulls back her sleeve and flexes. “One hundred a day, and yes, it’s going great.”
My eyes widen because,damn, she’s got some definition there and also,damn, if that’s not kind of sexy.
“I’d challenge you to arm wrestle, but…” She glances at my cast, my bruised chest, and I curse it, hating how she must see me as weak and broken.
“Rain check,” I say, trying for mock solemnity.
Helen ducks her chin, smiling. “Deal.” She rises. As she walks past me, I spot the yellow sticky note in her hand, clenched between her fingers like it’s something important.
Chapter seventeen
NOVEMBER
Chapter eighteen
Helen
By the time I get back from the grocery store, my arms ache from lugging overstuffed bags for three blocks. I had gone in for oat milk and somehow emerged with half the store. I fish out my keys, fumble with the lock, and nudge the door open with my hip.
“Hey, Teddy, can you—” I freeze in the doorway, stunned by the scene in front of me.
Teddy stands barefoot in my kitchen, leaning on the counter for support.
Wearing my robe.
Mypurple, fuzzy, thigh-length robe, which gapes open at the chest, showing off a frankly unfairnumber of muscles and tattoos.
He’s holding a steaming mug of tea and looking incredibly guilty.
Across from him, perched on one of the counter stools, is mymom.
My mom, with her wispy blonde hair and a billowing top that makes her look like she floated in on a breeze. She wears it because chemo has left her skin blotchy and raw and the fabric doesn’t chafe. I’ve bought her every lotion known to man, tried everything to soothe it. Nothing really helps. The loose sleeves also hide the frailty of her arms, the way her skin has become paper thin, almost translucent.
Even sick, with the changes cancer has carved into her, she’s still beautiful. Always has been, a fact that caused me no small amount of angst during my painfully awkward teen years. It’s not easy to be a pimply fourteen-year-old with glasses when your mom looks like she just walked off the cover ofVogue.
It’s never just been her looks, though. She’s magnetic, talented enough to be a backup dancer and, for a brief, shimmering moment, an emerging starlet. She could sing, she could move, she could hold a room without even trying.
Skills she slowly lost once she met my dad and had me. She gave up the stage for diapers, and although she claims to have never regretted that decision, I have my doubts.
Mom beams when she sees me. “There she is!” she says brightly, as if this is all totally normal.
I blink. “Mom?”
