Chapter 16 #3
We handed out bags to people as they came by, no questions asked. Some smiled shyly. Some joked. A few looked suspicious, like they were waiting for the catch. There wasn’t one.
A woman about my age, her hair pulled into a messy bun under a hat, took her bag and paused. “You’re new,” she said to me.
“Yeah,” I said. “First time.”
She studied my face for a second. I tried not to fidget.
“Hope we don’t scare you off,” she said. “Some people don’t come back.”
“I think…” I glanced at Graeme. “I think I’ll want to.”
She gave a crooked smile. “Good.” Then she moved on.
Time blurred again. My world narrowed to the repetition—smile, hand over bag, “Here you go. Happy holidays.” The words started to feel thin in my mouth, stretched over everything I couldn’t fix for these people.
At some point a kid joined the end of the line with no adult. Maybe twelve. Maybe younger. Oversized hoodie, jeans too short at the ankles, no gloves. Their cheeks were raw from the cold, nose red, eyes wary.
I felt something deep inside me lurch.
“Hi,” I said softly when they stepped forward. “I’m Rudy. What’s your name?”
They hesitated. “Jay,” they muttered.
“Hi, Jay.” I slid a bag toward them. “This one’s for you, okay?”
They stared at the tote but didn’t take it. “Do I gotta… sign something?”
“Nope,” I said quickly. “No forms. Just… stuff that’s yours.”
Slowly, they reached out and grabbed the handles. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
They turned to walk away, then paused, eyes flicking back to me. “Um. I like your shirt.”
I glanced down at my navy sweater with the little embroidered snowflakes. “Thanks. I like your hoodie.”
Their mouth twitched. “Got it free.”
“Sometimes free is the best kind,” I said.
This time when they smiled, it reached their eyes. They moved away, blending into the crowd.
I exhaled shakily. My vision went a little blurry around the edges. The noise of the room pressed tighter.
Graeme’s hand brushed the small of my back. “Breathe,” he whispered.
I tried. I really did. In through my nose, out through my mouth. But my chest felt too tight. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder. Every voice seemed to bounce off the walls twice before fading.
I kept handing out bags. My hands started to feel disconnected from my body, like I was watching someone else move them.
“Rudy,” Graeme said quietly after a while. “Look at me.”
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring at nothing. I turned my head. His face swam into focus, concern etched around his eyes. “Hey,” he said. “Where are you right now?”
I swallowed. “I’m here,” I said automatically. Then, softer, “I think.”
“How’s your body feeling?” he asked. “Heavy? Light? Tight?”
“Um.” I had to think about it. “Floaty. And my shoulders hurt. And my head feels… buzzy.” The words tumbled out without my usual filter. “There’s a lot of people. And noise. And smells. And… feelings.”
He nodded. “Yeah. There are.”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m okay. I can keep going.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe you can. But I don’t want you on autopilot until you crash. That’s not the goal.”
“But there’s still people in line,” I protested, glancing at the shrinking-but-still-present stream of folks. “If I stop, you’ll be one person short, and—”
“Rudy.” His voice was gentle but firm. Daddy-voice. “Look at me.”
I did. My chest hitched.
“You did hours of good work today,” he said quietly. “You showed up. You were kind. You saw people. You didn’t treat them like a chore or a project. That matters.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Needing a break doesn’t erase that.”
My eyes burned. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” I whispered, the truth slipping out before I could swallow it back.
Something in his expression softened, broke, reformed. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, almost like it hurt. “You don’t disappoint me by having limits. You’d disappoint me if you didn’t listen to your body.”
I bit my lip. A tiny, traitorous part of me wanted to fold in on myself right there, small and quiet and needing. Not here in front of everyone.
“I can make it to the end of the line,” I argued, but my voice sounded weak to my own ears.
He considered, then nodded once. “Okay,” he said slowly. “We’ll finish this batch. Then we’re done for today. Deal?”
My shoulders sagged with relief I hadn’t wanted to admit I needed. “Deal,” I whispered.
He brushed his fingers along my arm, a quick stroke. “That’s my boy,” he murmured.
The words steadied me enough to get through the last few bags. When the line finally thinned and Maribel waved over a new pair of volunteers to relieve us, I felt hollowed out and full at the same time.
We shrugged out of our aprons and turned in our name tags. Maribel hugged us both.
“You two were stars,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for letting me be here,” I said, voice hoarse.
“You’re welcome back anytime, honey,” she said. “We always need hearts like yours.”
I didn’t trust myself to say anything else. I just nodded.
The air outside hit me like a reset button. It was colder now, afternoon light already starting to fade into winter gray. Snow flurries swirled down, dusting cars and sidewalks in a clean new layer.
Graeme opened the truck door for me and waited until I was buckled in before starting the engine. The heater whirred to life, slowly pushing back the chill.
For the first ten minutes of the drive, I just watched the snow. The road unspooled in front of us. Houses gave way to trees again. My body sagged against the seat, the exhaustion finally catching up now that we were out of the noise.
“You’re quiet,” Graeme said softly.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“About?”
“Jay,” I said without hesitating. “And the man with the mismatched gloves.” My voice wobbled. “It’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
“I keep thinking… that could’ve been me,” I admitted.
“If Mrs. Davis hadn’t… if she hadn’t taken me in.
With my parents, the way they were…” I swiped my thumb under one eye, annoyed at the wetness.
“I was never hungry like that. Not for long, anyway. I always had a bed. Even if it changed a lot. That wasn’t…
me being better. That was luck. People. Her. ”
“And now you’re one of those people,” he said quietly.
I shook my head. “I just ladled stew and handed out socks.”
“You smiled,” he countered. “You listened. You told a scared kid that free clothes are still good clothes. You looked them in the eye and made them feel human. That’s not nothing, Rudy.”
I swallowed hard. The truck’s cabin felt very small all of a sudden. Very safe.
I let my head tip toward him, resting against his shoulder as much as the seatbelt allowed. “I’m really tired,” I murmured. The admission felt huge.
“I know,” he said. “You did big emotional work today. That’s a lot for anybody, no matter how strong they are.”
“‘Strong’ is a weird word,” I muttered, eyelids drooping. “I feel… little. Not—” I corrected myself quickly, “not that kind of little. Just… small.”
His hand left the wheel for a moment to brush the side of my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Both can exist,” he said. “You can be strong and feel small. You can give a lot and still need a lot.”
I made a small noise of agreement that was half sigh, half something else. The rhythm of the road and the heater’s drone lulled me. By the time we turned into his driveway, my body felt heavier, like gravity had been turned up a notch.
Inside Graem’s house it was warm. Familiar. Our boots left melting trails on the mat. I fumbled with my coat buttons, fingers clumsy.
“You’re running on fumes,” Graeme said gently, helping me ease the coat off my shoulders. “C’mon. Let’s get you comfy.”
There was no edge of impatience in his voice. No you should’ve told me sooner. Just calm, steady care.
Something inside me loosened.
My brain slid toward that soft, blurred edge where everything felt too big and too bright and all I wanted was to be held and not have to make decisions.
“Can I…” The words stuck in my throat.
He turned me to face him, searching my expression. “Can you what, sweetheart?”
I swallowed. “Can I be little?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so tired.”
His gaze warmed, went tender and serious all at once. “Yeah,” he said immediately. “You can. Thank you for telling me.”
Relief hit me so hard my knees wobbled. He must’ve seen it because he slid an arm around my waist.
“Let’s switch gears, then,” he murmured. “Want help changing into something cozy?”
I nodded, cheeks heating. The familiar mix of vulnerability and safety wrapped around me like a blanket.
He led me to the bedroom, pulling out my softest pajamas—the ones with the tiny snowflakes.
When I crawled onto the bed, my body felt too big for itself and too small for the day I’d just had. I curled on my side, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for my paci in the drawer.
“Go ahead,” he said softly from the doorway, like he’d read my mind. “If you want it, take it.”
I did. The familiar silicone, the weight of the clip he’d given me with the little snowflake charm—it all grounded me instantly. My muscles unclenched. My breathing slowed.
He joined me on the bed, stretching out behind me and gathering me up against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His arm draped over my waist. His hand rubbed slow circles over my stomach. “You did so well today,” he murmured into my hair. “I’m so proud of you.”
A small, muffled sound escaped me around the paci. My eyes stung again, but this time it felt good, like something washing clean.
“You saw hard things,” he went on quietly. “And you didn’t look away. You let it touch you without letting it break you. And when it was too much, you told me. That’s… that’s everything I could ask of you, baby.”
The word baby settled over me like a soft quilt. My whole body melted back into him.
I let my mind drift, the sharp edges of the day blurring into impressions—Jay’s wary smile, gloved hands around paper cups, the card that said You matter.