Page 21 of She Came Upon A Midnight Clear
She blinks at her phone, looks up and blinks hard at me. She says in a small whisper, “Yes. Maybe.”
Her eyes are pooled with tears, and when I put my arm around her she goes a little stiff.
“Hey,” I say gently. “I get it. I do. But we don’t have to do anything fancy; it can be just you and me. I already had the party, and I didn’t make any other plans.”
“What about your dad? You haven’t really mentioned him.”
“He’s on a cruise with his new girlfriend.”
“Ah, good for him,” she says, averting her gaze. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being a big baby.”
I pull her chin up with my fingers. “Hey. Evie. It’s really okay. You can be here with me, and feel your feelings. You don’t ever have to hide from me. Okay?”
A fat tear slips down her cheek, and I brush at it with my thumb.
“Somehow I haven’t managed to be very reassuring, have I?”
“It’s not that. It’s just…what if we spend the holidays together and you make it wonderful for me—and I know you will, but…I can’t get too attached to that. Because if it ever goes away, if you go away, then it’ll be worse than ever, because I’ll have something to miss again.”
The last few words come out on a choking sob, and I gather her in my arms and just let her cry it out. It goes on for a long while, but I don’t mind at all. In fact, the protector in me is so damn glad I’m the one to be here with her through this.
Finally, the tears ebb, and she uses the tie on the robe to wipe her eyes.
“I…I need a tissue,” she says, hiccupping.
“Be right back.”
I go into the bathroom, grab the whole box and bring it back to her, and she takes three or four tissues and wipes her face. When she seems to have calmed down, I take her hand again.
“Baby, I want to tell you not to be afraid, but I know I can’t do that. I can’t erase your past, your pain. I wish to God I could. But can you try to trust in what we have, what’s always been there, even before we finally connected? Can you let me help you through the holidays? It’s okay if you need to say no. But please, just… consider it? We know each other. Okay, maybe an olderversion of each other, for the most part, but we’re still basically the same two people. And I care for you, so damn much…”
I have to trail off before I tell her how I really feel. This is not the moment.
She nods, her head down, then she looks up at me, and her red eyes and damp cheeks break my heart a little. I stroke her silky cheek—her skin is hot from crying so hard—and she leans into my hand a little. A good sign.
“Okay,” she says, so softly it’s almost a whisper. “I can try.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Baby steps.”
She smiles up at me, and I can see the trust in her eyes. It may be a bit fragile, still, when it comes to Christmas, but she trustsme, and that’s the important part. I try to focus on that, and brush off how her avoidance of the holidays saddens me because I understand why.
I would do anything to make her feel better. At least I know of a temporary cure.
“Wanna go cuddle some puppies?”
“Yes. Always,” she says, the smile getting wider.
“Good. Go put some pants on and we’ll head out to the kennels.”
An hour later we’re back in my loft, me having checked on all the dogs and gotten a medical update from my vet tech on a Bassett Hound who recently had eye surgery. Evie spent the entire time with the young pittie siblings. I get it; those two have sort of stolen my heart, too, and it’s taken everything I have not to adopt them myself. But they’re still practically puppies; I’m sure someone will give them their forever home, and since they’re so bonded, hopefully they’ll be adopted together.
“Want some tea?” I offer as she settles onto a stool at the counter. “Or coffee?”
“Oh, tea, please.”
I pull out the Early Grey—her favorite—and start the kettle, then lean over the counter, facing her.
“You seem to be getting attached to those two,” I comment.
