Chapter 49 #3
“Not immediately,” he said, icing the cookie. “For a while, working on new comics was like an escape from the old comics,
the ones that everyone was reading . . .”
“And then?”
“And then I couldn’t ignore the fact that everyone was reading all of them. That nothing was mine anymore.”
“It’s still yours,” she said.
“Huh,” Tom laughed. It sounded hollow. Cold.
Cherry didn’t want to hear more of it. “Did you remember to make Oliver, from Oliver & Company?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Mochi?”
Tom frowned. “Who’s Mochi?”
“From Big Hero 6.”
He groaned. “Right. Mochi. Okay . . .” He picked up another cookie and squinted at it. “This is Mochi now.”
“Who was that before?”
“That cat girl from Treasure Planet.”
Cherry laughed. “Deep cut.”
He smiled at her. “You’re wide awake.”
“I got my second wind.”
He kept smiling. Tom had a gorgeous smile, and almost no one got to see all of it. He only smiled wide like this when his
guard was completely down. Never at work or in big groups—or on television.
It had been a while since Cherry had seen the complete expanse of Tom’s smile. It made his chin sharp and pushed his cheeks
into his eyes.
Tom’s face was so easy to draw . . . Flat, slightly tipped eyes. Square forehead. Thick eyebrows, wide jaw. Full lips.
Cherry would draw him happier and more handsome than he drew himself. Tom always drew himself slouching—but he almost never slouched in real life. Tom had lovely broad shoulders. They were one of his nicest features.
He looked good in just a T-shirt . . . His arms were nice, too. Thick and capable. Maybe Cherry only thought so because she
knew that they were capable. That Tom could do almost anything with his hands. And he could carry almost anything a man might be asked to carry.
Cherry had always felt so lucky to be with Tom. Like, on his team. If you were planning an expedition, Tom would be the first
person you’d choose. Someone who could figure anything out, and fix anything that broke, and fight off anything that threatened
you—with his bare hands, if it came to that.
Cherry was feeling a little unsteady . . .
Here, after midnight on Christmas Eve, standing across the table from the man she’d promised to love through hell and high
water. (A promise she’d kept so far, appearances notwithstanding.)
Tom held up a perfectly iced Mochi cookie.
“You remembered his bell,” Cherry said.
“Once I remembered him, I remembered him completely.”
They finished the last of the cookies together. The caffeine had worn off. Cherry was exhausted, and her lower back really
was unbearable. She kept twisting her shoulders, looking for relief.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Tom said. “I’ll put these away.”
“Aren’t you tired, too?”
“I’m all right.”
Cherry walked into the living room and sank down into the couch. “Oh god,” she said. “I’m probably never getting up.” Her
legs ached from standing.
She watched Tom take the cookies into the kitchen. She watched him clean off the dining room table.
He came back through the kitchen and sat down on the couch. Right next to Cherry. He groaned.
“You are tired,” she said.
“I’m good-tired,” Tom said.
The Christmas music was still playing. “This Christmas” by Donny Hathaway.
“Thank you,” Cherry said. “I’m not sure I would have finished anything without you.”
“I’m sure you would have finished everything. You just wouldn’t have been able to walk tomorrow.”
“Well. Thank you for your help.”
“Thank you for letting me help,” he said quietly. “For giving me a little Christmas.”
Cherry turned to him—you could say “suddenly,” but she’d been on the verge of this all night—and said, “Come with me tomorrow.”
Tom made a face. Like she was being absurd. “What? To your sister’s?”
“Yes. Come.”
“Cherry.” He shook his head, still like she was being absurd. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Everyone will be so happy to see you.”
“No.” He shook his head again. “No . . . You don’t want your sisters to think—”
“I don’t care what they think. And I’m telling you, everyone will love to see you. Tom, just because you and I . . . broke
down, doesn’t mean you’re not part of the family.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I think it does mean that,” he said. “I can’t just keep coming every year.”
Cherry was insistent: “Maybe not every year, but you could come tomorrow. You should come tomorrow. You already put in all the work.”
“I wasn’t angling for an invite.”
“I know that.”
“Cherry . . .” Tom’s forehead was lined. The corners of his eyes were pinched. “It’s hard for me to believe that you’d want
me there, considering . . . everything.”
“I do want you there. I’ll feel better if you’re there. I mean, if you want to come.” She put her hand on his arm. “Just come, Tom. It’ll only be weird at the start.”
He laughed out a breath. Less hollow than before. Much less cold. “Okay.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “Yeah, all right.”
“You’re coming?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll come. You know . . .” He squinted at her. “Unless you change your mind. Just tell me if you wake up tomorrow
morning and can’t believe you invited me.”
“That’s not going to happen—that’s like inverted Scrooge. Don’t you change your mind. Don’t have second thoughts.”
“Well . . .” Tom stood up.
“Are you getting out of my hair?”
He glanced back at her. Their eyes met.
“That’s what you say every time you leave,” Cherry said.
Tom’s eyebrows twitched down, but he didn’t say anything—just went to get his coat from the kitchen.
Cherry got up, too.
Stevie hauled herself up off the dining room floor to follow them. When they got to the foyer, the dog started walking up
the stairs. Tom watched her go.
“She puts herself to bed these days,” Cherry explained.
“You’re letting her sleep with you?”
Cherry shrugged. “All her bad habits are your problem now. I’m going to start letting her eat bacon directly off my plate.”
Tom snorted. “Great, thanks.”
She smiled up at him.
“Are we driving together tomorrow?” he asked.
“In for an inch.”
“I’ll come early and walk Stevie.”
“Eleven?”
“Sounds good.” He opened the door and looked back at her, over his arm. “Good night, Cherry.”
“Good night, Tom.”