Chapter 20 #2
“Okay, but I can’t stay long.”
We walk into the kitchen and sit at the tall table Grandee uses as an island. As I slide onto a barstool, I ask Max, “What do you mean back?” Grandee places deep bowls in front of us filled with creamy broth and buttery dumplings that peak up like icebergs.
“I’m headed back to school.”
“I thought you were going to your sister’s.”
He stops with the spoon on its way to his mouth and looks at me, making it clear I’m asking intrusive questions. “No.”
Ignoring his one-word answer and the clear signal he’s giving to drop it, I press, “You said you spend Christmas with your sister. Carter was right? You’re going to be alone?”
He bites and chews and swallows. “She’s gone this year.”
“Then you should stay here!” The cheerful offer is from Grandee, who is pouring tea into two glasses, one for each of us.
“Oh— No— I—” Max stutters over his words, which feels odd for him.
“Yes. You will,” Grandee says like it’s already decided.
Max looks at me like he’s waiting for me to argue. But I surprise even myself when I say, “If you don’t have anywhere to go, you should stay here.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer than is comfortable, as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m being sincere. “I didn’t bring clothes.”
“I’ll wash those for you while you sleep,” Grandee adds.
“I don’t want to get in the way.”
I think about how Linden and I would stay up late and watch movies in the living room and fall asleep to the sounds of It’s a Wonderful Life by the light of the tree. “Stay,” I tell him suddenly, not wanting to be here with only Grandee.
He looks at me for a long while, and I’m sure he’s going to tell me no, but finally he says, “All right.”
After dinner, I get out all the ingredients for box mix brownies, and Grandee brings Max an enormous T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that I’ve never seen before.
The shirt says JUST SHEAR IT and has a cartoon sheep on it.
I change into my own pajamas. When he joins me in the kitchen, I try really hard not to laugh at him, but a smile cracks my lips.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I tell him and go back to mixing the brownies.
“Dessert?”
“Linden and I would always bake and watch Christmas movies on Christmas Eve, but since she’s with everyone else, you’re stuck with me.”
He looks cautious as he leans against the counter and watches me put the batter in the baking pan.
“Wanna make the popcorn?”
He looks around. “Where’s the microwave?”
I point at the silver Whirley Pop sitting on the stove. “You crank it. I’m sure there’s a YouTube tutorial about it.”
In the end, Max has only a mild panic attack about the popcorn, and when the brownies come out of the oven, I put them on a plate and pour us two glasses of milk.
I sit on the couch in the living room, and Max goes over to the baskets full of blankets and grabs mine. I feel my pulse start to thunder.
“Wait, no.”
He holds it up, the last stitch still a long thread. “Not this one?” he asks.
I’m going to lie to him. Say it’s gross and scratchy. But my mouth betrays me. “It’s my blanket.”
He waits for more information, and I know I don’t have to tell him the truth, but seeing him holding all the pieces of me … I do. “We have blankets that we work on. Like our whole lives.”
He looks down at the yarn and color and stitches of different sizes and styles. “All the time?”
I grab it from him and lay it across my lap, smoothing out the fabric.
Max sits down next to me on the couch. “Grandee believes each stitch is like a time capsule. Each one that you make keeps a little of the moment you’ve lived, who you are at that time, your hopes and dreams, what you were thinking.
A little bit of you goes into each one.”
Max looks at me, and I wait for him to laugh or tell me I’ve lost my mind. Instead, he runs a hand over the bumpy stitches toward the top.
“Little Nieve,” he says quietly.
Something happens in that moment. My heart bends and folds and transforms inside those two words, and I feel seen in a way I don’t ever remember experiencing.
I swallow down the intensity that builds in my chest with each beat of my pulse and watch as Max grabs the remote from the coffee table and hands it to me.
The fireplace burns bright, and on the TV across from us, I scroll to It’s a Wonderful Life. But before I can hit Play, Max takes the remote away.
“No.” He’s already scrolling to another movie.
“It’s a classic!”
“It’s long and boring. Elf is a classic.”
I go silent.
He turns toward me, realization casting shock onto his face. “You’ve never seen Elf?”
“I like movies with a message.”
He sits up straighter. “‘The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.’ That is the best message.”
“Are you going to start singing?” I ask him seriously.
“We are watching Elf. And if you’re not tired after that, we can watch your boring movie.”
“Fine,” I huff.
Max and I sit on the couch together at least a human-body width apart, but each time either of us moves to get popcorn or another brownie, we move closer and closer to each other, until I can feel his arm brush against mine and the heat from his skin when he moves to grab his drink.
When Elf is over, I admit that it’s good and tell him I was glad that Buddy found his dad.
Then we watch It’s a Wonderful Life.
I’ve seen it so many times my eyes start to close on their own.
About twenty minutes into the movie, Max nudges my side and tells me to go to bed.
“No,” I grumble, and sink down into the couch. Pulling my blanket over me, I close my eyes, and when I open them again, the movie’s over and Max is asleep next to me.
I could get up and go to my room, but there’s something that feels so different about Max sleeping so close to me.
He’s softer like this—gentle in a way I’ve not seen.
The lights from the tree glow softly on his face and make everything near him look hazy and painted with a golden brush.
I stand and grab the crochet needle from my basket, and make three half double stitches—my favorite stitch—and I know this moment will always live here, with these feelings that warm against my skin.
I won’t ever forget the Christmas Eve where Max and I fell asleep in the living room, next to the fire.
I brush a strand of hair from his cheek before I lie down and tuck my hand under my chin as I watch him take slow, steady breaths.
Part of me wishes he would open his eyes and catch me staring.
Instead, I close my eyes and pull my feet underneath me so I don’t disturb him.
And promise myself I won’t dream of Max.