Page 55 of Holiday Love
I nod once to let her know I understand.
Helen comes bustling back into the room. With unspoken agreement, her mom and I busy ourselves chopping vegetables and washing lettuce. If Helen notices we didn’t get much done in her absence, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she slides in beside me, grabbing an onion and a knife. Within minutes we’re both blinking through tears, laughing at how ridiculous we look. When I swipe a Kleenex off the counter to dab the onion tears from Helen’s cheek, I try not to notice how she leans into my touch, her eyelids fluttering shut. Linda notices, though, and the smile she gives me, soft, knowing, almost proud, makes the kitchen feel warmer, like maybe there’s a place for me here after all.
Chapter twenty-three
Teddy
The sun is setting by the time dinner is ready. I watch out the window as the fiery orange ball sinks into blue, winking once before it disappears. We take our seats with Helen on my right. Turkey, green beans, mashed potatoes, and fresh biscuits cover the table, their aroma mouthwatering. The wine I brought sits uncorked in the middle, but only Helen and her dad pour a glass. Linda and I stick with water. I wasn’t kidding when I told Jamie I’d given up alcohol, at least for now.
Phillip picks up the carving knife. His eyes flick to Helen, then to me. The corner of his mouth twitches and, for the first time tonight, I think he might actually be fighting a smile.
“You know,” he says dryly, “cutting this is the one surgery I’ll perform without billing insurance.”
“Dad.” Helen groans.
Linda swats his arm, laughing anyway. I chuckle, then laugh harder when Helen shoots me acan you believe him?look.
“Sorry, Baobèi,” Phillip says to Helen, smiling. “You know I can’t resist a good dad joke.”
The tension at the table loosens. By the time the plates are filled, it almost feels normal—like family.
“What does Baobèi mean?” I ask, curious.
“It’s a Chinese term of endearment,” Helen says. “Roughly ‘baby’ or ‘treasure.’”
“That’s cool.” I relax and lift my first forkful.
Phillip’s focus sharpens. He turns to Helen. “How’s the ER? Have you been hit with that new flu variant yet?”
The shift is subtle, but I catch it, the way her face pales, the slight stiffening of her shoulders. She gets tense anytime the subject of a hospital comes up. Just the other day, a commercial for a new medication came on TV. Some actor in a white lab coat rattled off the side effects, ranging from hair loss to death, and Helen bolted from the room. When she came back, her eyes were puffy and red. I’d pretended not to notice, which was hard. I wanted to comfort her, but I’m learning she doesn’t always like that. It embarrasses her. Makes things worse.
Not wanting her to feel that way again, I jump in. “That’s the one you were telling me about yesterday, right, Helen? When you came home from your shift?”
She chokes on her food slightly, then washes it down with a swallow of water. “Y—yes. That’s right.”
Phillip’s gaze narrows in on me like a laser. “Home? What? Are you two living together or something?”
Oops. Well, at least he’s not grilling Helen about work anymore. Now I’m the one who doesn’t know what to say.
Like we’re taking turns, Helen comes to my rescue. “Teddy’s house has stairs that he can’t manage with his cast so he’s living with me for a couple of months. The elevator at my place works better for him.” At her dad’s glower, Helen repeats, “It’s temporary. Just for a little while.”
Don’t know why it bothers me that she said that so quickly, with no hesitation.
Temporary.
That’s me, I guess. Always temporary.
I stare at my plate, pushing my food around but not lifting it to my mouth.
“What college did you graduate from, Teddy? You’re what? In your late twenties?” His eyes linger on me, a slow, appraising glance. I get the feeling he’s not happy with the age difference between me and his daughter.
For a second, I want to lie, to erase that veiled judgment from his expression, but I remind myself not to take the easy way out. “I’m twenty-six, sir, and not quite finished with college, but I’m close.”If having over a year and a half left counts as close, that is.
“Hmm,” he mutters. “What’s your major?”
“Communications.”
“What do you plan to do with that?”
