Chapter 27
By the time I pull in I’m going to have every pine needle on this damn tree memorized.
I’ve been sitting on the side of the road next to the Marcuses’ mailbox for the past ten minutes, contemplating my every life choice and possibly even my very existence.
I’m trying to find the mistake that led me here, as if it’s not obvious.
Maybe it was when I decided Hinduism wasn’t for me, or when I decided not to go on the eighth grade field trip to D.C.
Maybe it was none of that, or maybe it was when Dad died.
It would just sound so much better if I could say it wasn’t just me being totally and completely pathetic.
I’m not going to lie this time. I’m not.
It’s a lie that got me into this. It’s a lie that compounded into more lies and made things even worse, so it’s not going to be another lie that gets me out of it all. I promise myself and Freyja.
I really hope they don’t have cameras out here. They strike me as the type that would have little hidden cameras spread around the property, and it’d be my luck that I’m staring one down right now. They’re probably watching me on their phones, wondering what I’m doing out by their mailbox.
I slouch and put my car in gear. Just get this over with.
It’s not going to get any easier just because you wait another minute.
I barely press the pedal and my tires start crunching down the driveway.
I still take my time, letting the now familiar canopy of pine needles and bare branches guide me to my doom.
It’s fitting. It’s dark under the branches.
My headlights sweep the pavement but fade to nothing at the edges of the trees, into the unknown.
It’s sort of scary until it opens up and the stoic black columns and hard geometric lines of the Marcus residence slide into view.
I come to a stop and sit with myself a moment, fingers gripped around the amethyst hanging from my necklace.
Please Freyja, Odin, Thor. Please give me strength.
Somewhere in my chest I find the will to open the door and practically ooze out onto the pavement.
At least, that’s how it feels. I’m upright, on my own two feet, but it feels like my legs are coated knee-high in some thick, heavy, sticky goo pulling me back, tethering me to the ground.
Each step is a labor of sheer willpower, and it only gets harder when I mount the steps, fear crashing through me, and without me so much as reaching for it, the front door swings open.
“Mack!” Zachary steps outside and shuts the door behind himself. “I need to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, Zach, don’t.” I cough against the cold to uncrimp my nerves.
He freezes, eyes confused and hurt. I brace myself against those beautiful gray eyes so they don’t bring me to my knees. Why do you have to make it so hard to be strong?
I look at him. Gods, it’s so hard to hold back the feelings roiling through my chest. The need.
I steel myself. I can’t show him the struggle behind my eyes.
I know the truth about my feelings for him.
What I want. I want him. I don’t know if I love him, but I don’t think I really know what that means yet.
I like Zachary. I want Zachary, not Hayden.
I want the boy standing right in front of me.
He’s kind and thoughtful, even if he gets a little carried away.
Funny. Confident but not full of himself.
A bit of a nerd, and a lover of this big ball we call home. Someone who sees me and still wants me.
And I ruined it all.
“Gods, I’m sorry,” I blurt when I realize I zoned out for a moment.
“No, you’re okay,” Zachary says, fiddling with his fingers. It’s the only thing that betrays the calm in his eyes.
I want to reach out to him and wrap my arms around his waist and kiss him. I want to tell him how I feel and run away with him—go anywhere but here, but that’s another life. Another time.
“Can we just act like we’re okay?” I ask and start forward, trying my best to ignore the chill in the air.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he dips his head and gives me the saddest smile I think I’ve ever seen.
Eyes on the floor, he pushes the door open and holds it open for me to go in.
Torture isn’t harsh enough a word to describe walking past him.
He’s not even making eye contact, yet I can feel the hurt I’ve put him through in his downward gaze.
I finally breathe again when I cross the threshold and smiling faces turn to greet me.
It breaks me all over again knowing how I’m about to ruin everyone’s idea of me.
“Kenzie!”
It’s a chorus of voices. Everyone but Gramps and Kiki are here. I hone in on Eliza. She’s smiling uncomfortably, like me.
“Hey, y’all,” I say back, and then Hayden comes around the corner.
“Kenz, you’re here!” He sounds excited, but it’s off. His tone is almost like an act, or maybe it’s just the way I’m hearing it. And did he call me Kenz?
“I’m here.” I bounce my shoulders awkwardly.
“Come sit, you’re just in time. Mom just finished cooking,” Hayden says.
I start toward the table and sit in the chair Hayden pulls out like some sixteenth century gentleman. What is happening? What does Hayden have to tell me that merits this? I’m in so much trouble.
“I like your sweater,” Holly says as she takes the chair opposite of Hayden’s.
“Thank you.” I grin, touching the simple thick navy fabric with the snowflakes all over it. It’s the first genuine, not horrified smile I’ve given today. She’s so sweet.
“It’s cute,” Mary-Anne echoes from across the table. “Where did you get it?”
“I, uh…” I have to think about it a moment.
Most of my clothes come from Walmart or the local thrift stores around town.
This one, though, I think I remember getting last winter at one of the second-hand stores with Mom.
She’d said Dad would have liked it, and I wouldn’t let it go after that.
“It came from a consignment store. I don’t remember the name. It’s really nothing special.”
“It looks great on you though,” Mary-Anne says, smiling tightly.
“It does,” Super Old Gran agrees. She’s bent over in the chair across the table from Mary-Anne, next to Mr. Marcus at the head of the table, all smiles as I’ve become accustomed to.
I can always believe it if she says it. “Shows those hips off good. At least we know Hayden has something to hold on to.”
“Granny!” Hayden and Zach say simultaneously.
“Mom!” Mary-Anne reaches across the table. “That’s not—”
“Don’t be old fashioned, Mary. We know what they’re doing. I don’t know how they’re doing it, but we all know they’re—”
“Okay!” Mr. Marcus bellows over my favorite grandma.
The look on Zachary’s and Hayden’s faces would have been delightful a month ago. The panic. But now, it does little more than help remove the spotlight from me for a moment. I smile with my teeth clenched. I love her. I don’t want to lose her, but it’s inevitable.
“How about we say grace, and then we can try to have more appropriate table conversations.” Mr. Marcus nods and then drops his head to pray.
I bow my head but don’t close my eyes. There’s always this part of me that feels weird in these situations, when everyone else is blind and I cautiously look around the table. It’s like I’m peeking into something I shouldn’t be, but I think it’s just knowing people’s expectations.
Holly has her hands up in front of her face, fingers clasped together.
Jeff is next to Eliza, who to my surprise looks to be praying along.
Hayden looks like he's focusing hard. I hope that has nothing to do with me. I say a quick little intention of my own. Freyja, give me strength. Give me peace. Give me…strength. I say it again while Mr. Marcus passes the two minute mark of his prayer. Granny looks like she’s about to nod out.
I bite my lip and hold back a giggle. That’s when I notice Zach’s eyes are wide open and he’s looking at me.
I slam my eyes shut like I’ve been caught looking at something private. It’s absurd, but it’s instinct.
“Amen,” Mr. Marcus ends the prayer, and a few other amens go up around the table.
“Dig in,” Mary-Anne says, and everyone except me starts attacking the food on the table.
Finally I reach for the basket of rolls and pull one out.
“You should have Christmas with us,” Super Old Gran yells across the table. “Randall here,” she nods toward Mr. Marcus, “always reads from How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”
“And we watch the movie too!” Holly shouts.
Christmas? How the Grinch Stole Christmas? It’s a lot at once. Especially since I won’t be around then.
“The good one, too, the one with Jim Carey,” Zachary says.
“I don’t know. I think Mom and I are doing our usual,” I tell Gran.
It’s just staying home and opening gifts, but it’s what we do.
We used to go to the theater on Christmas Day to watch whatever was playing.
It was our tradition. I think it might have been Mom and Dad’s tradition first though, but the theater started closing on Christmas last year, so now we just stream something at home. At least we have more options.
“That sounds nice.” Mary-Anne nods. “We don’t want to take you from that.”
“You could do both,” Gran steps back in. “We have Christmas on Christmas Eve. The night of. I’m sure Hayden would love to have you here.”
I don’t know. I mean, we’ve always done Christmas on the morning of Christmas itself. The idea of opening presents a day early is foreign to me, except back when I’d beg and Mom would let me open one. There’s not usually enough to do that nowadays though.
“I might be able to,” I say. I can entertain them for a little longer, but I know it’s not going to happen. “I’ll ask Mom.”
“It’s really okay if you can’t,” Mr. Marcus says.
“Oh, we can make it work.” Super Old Gran waves him off, and I can’t help but let out a tiny laugh.