Page 93 of Seeds of Christmas
Site Five thermal readings were collected on December 26th under optimal conditions...
Optimal conditions. Right. If you don’t count the fact that we could barely look at each other. That we moved around the site like strangers. That every accidental brush of hands felt like touching a live wire.
Delete.
My eyes are burning. I’ve been crying on and off for the past two hours, and I’m exhausted from it. Exhausted frompretending I’m fine. Exhausted from telling myself this is what I wanted.
I should call my roommate Meg. Text my mom back. Do literally anything productive.
Instead, I’m sitting here in Carter’s sweatshirt—the one he lent me days ago that I forgot to give back, or maybe didn’t forget—and trying not to fall apart.
The sweatshirt smells like him.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin on them, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen.
What am I doing?
That’s the real question. Not what are the thermal gradient measurements. Not what does the data indicate.
What am I doing pushing away the best thing that’s happened to me in years, because I’m too scared to try?
A knock on the door makes me jump.
I freeze.
It could be anyone. The motel manager. Someone with the wrong room.
But I know it’s not.
“Rhi? It’s me.”
Carter’s voice through the door.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
“I know you’re probably not ready to talk. I know I said it was fine but?—”
There’s a pause. I hear him lean against the door, can almost see him with his forehead pressed to the wood.
“But my Dad called. And he reminded me that being brave means showing up. Even when it’s hard. Even when you don’t know what to say.”
My throat gets tight.
“So I’m showing up. And I’m going to say what I should have said in the truck instead of being angry and hurt and defensive.”
I stand up slowly, move toward the door. Put my hand on it but don’t open it yet.
“I’m sorry. For pushing you and dropping too much baggage on you. It’s not your responsibility to hold all that.”
He thinks this is his fault.
“But, Rhi, I do want to fight for us. I do think what we have is real. And I’m terrified you’ll realize I’m not good enough. That I’m too much of a mess. That I’m still figuring out who I am, and you deserve someone who has their shit together.”
He’s terrified I’ll realize he’s not good enough.
Not the other way around.
Not that I’m too much.
