Page 83 of Holiday Love
He glances back at Helen, who’s standing now, wearing her mom’s hat, and laughing. “You seem like a good guy, Teddy, but that isn’t enough. It doesn’t protect people. It doesn’t take care of them. Provide for them. Actions do.”
“You’re right.” I pause, thinking back. “My dad was that kind of guy. The ‘get things done’ kind. I learned from him, so I know it’s in me.”
Another long silence where I get the sense that he’s thinking things through. Deciding on his final judgment of me. I try not to fidget. To wait it out as patiently as I can.
“Fine.” Phillip nods, then adds like he can’t help himself, “I’m watching.”
“I’d expect nothing less, sir.”
He gives a small grunt at that, almost a laugh, then studies me for a long moment. The moment stretches, weighted and taut. Finally, he nods once and extends a hand.
I take it.
His grip is firm but not bruising like it was at Thanksgiving. “Don’t screw it up.”
I swallow hard and promise, “I won’t.”
He turns and walks away, back toward Linda, who’s dancing with her eyes closed, swaying to the holiday music that still plays over the speakers, even though the parade is over and we’re heading home. Helen catches my eyes across the deck.
She raises her brows in question.
I smile, just a little, to let her know everything is okay.
She smiles back, and something cracks open in my chest. I can practically see a tiny piece of my heart break off, float over, and tuck itself into her pocket unnoticed. I’ll never get it back, that piece of me, not because I’ve lost it, but because it’s found where it belongs.
Chapter thirty-six
One Year Ago
New York City
Teddy
We almost get caught by my mom.
Helen and I are kissing. Messy, desperate, consuming kisses as we stumble from the elevator toward my hotel room. Of course, my family has a block of rooms all next to each other. A charming little detail I never would’ve considered an inconvenience, until now.
Please God, let the walls be thick.
We’re three doors away when my mom steps into the hallway. She’s distracted, looking back into her room and saying something to my stepdad.
I don’t think. I grab Helen’s hand and pull her into the stairwell two doors down. It’s cold in there. Stained concrete walls, exposed pipes, the smell of mold.
“What’s going on?” Helen asks, rubbing her arms for warmth.
I peer through the narrow glass window. “My mom’s out there. Getting ice, judging by the bucket in her hand.”
Helen folds her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing. “You want to hide me. Are you ashamed?”
There’s a hitch in her voice. A flicker of hurt, of betrayal.
“No.” I swing around fast. “No! It’s not like that.”
She doesn’t say anything, just stands there with that look, shoulders stiff, mouth a flat line. The kind of silence that’s louder than yelling.
“I’m not hiding you,” I say again, softer this time. “I don’t wantherto ruin this moment.”
Helen arches a brow. “This moment where we sneak into a cement stairwell to avoid your mother?”
