Chapter Eighteen
WINTER
I waited for Deacon’s text at eight o’clock.
“It’s Christmas morning,” Ro said. “Give him some grace. He’s probably having breakfast.”
“No, he would’ve had breakfast at like six or something. They’re morning people. He was going to check the overnight patients at the vet clinic—”
“Well, there’s your answer. He’s busy. Maybe one of the sick little animals needed him.”
I sighed and held Bright a little tighter. They’d already been up, had breakfast, played, and were about to have their first nap of the day. He was just so cute when he was all cuddly and sleepy.
Twenty minutes ago he was doing burnouts in the hall and using the sofa as a parkour launching pad.
I had to take the cuteness whenever I could get it. My sweet little Merry was playing with a toy mouse he got for Christmas.
As cute as they were, I just couldn’t stop thinking about Deacon. “I know, I just . . .” I sighed and pouted like a child. “We had such a good night last night. I told him I was falling in love with him and—”
Ro gasped. “You did?”
I nodded, smiling as I remembered his face. “He was so excited. He hugged me. Like an actual hug. And he’d hugged his dad earlier yesterday.”
“He did? Wow. I thought he didn’t like physical touch.”
“He doesn’t. That’s why it’s a big deal. Maybe it was all too much. Maybe he—”
Ro cocked her head. “Is that a car?”
I got up and Bright and I peeked out through the curtains. A truck with Hartbridge Veterinary Clinic written on the door was coming down the drive.
“Eeep. Look who it is, Bright. Can you see?”
Bright let out a tiny meow, which I was fairly sure meant please put me to bed.
“Glad you didn’t overthink anything and assume the worst or anything,” Ro deadpanned.
“Oh, shush. And you still have details to spill about a certain reindeer-owning postal carrier. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
Then I stopped and looked down at myself.
“I’m wearing my pajamas. Dear god. Why?”
“Because it’s Christmas morning,” Ro said. “Give me the child and go and put your robe on.”
I handed Bright over and raced to my room and was pulling on a hoodie when there was a knock at the door. A hoodie was better than a robe, right?
I opened the door with a little more gusto than was probably necessary. “Deacon, this is a lovely surprise. Come in.”
“I’m sorry for stopping by unannounced,” he said.
“I’m getting used to it,” I said, but I think he missed the joke. He looked kinda stressed. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, it’s just . . .”
“Come in and sit with me,” I said. Having a conversation inside the front door wasn’t a great idea.
Ro was putting the boys in their crate. “I’ll just go take a shower,” she said. “Let you boys talk. Merry Christmas, Deacon.”
“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Yes. Merry Christmas to you as well.”
Once we were alone and sitting on the sofa, I turned to give him my full attention. “What happened? Was something wrong with the overnight patients at the clinic?”
He was momentarily confused. “Oh no, they’re okay. Doing well, actually.”
“Oh, good.”
“I missed the eight o’clock text,” he said.
Oh no, was that what he was upset over?
“Deacon, it’s fine.”
He shook his head. “I had one ready to send but it wasn’t right. It was a Christmas Day one . . . What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more’.” He winced. “It is Christmas Day, after all.”
“It’s a beautiful line,” I said gently. “Seuss, right?”
He nodded.
“I love that movie. It’s on our list to watch today.”
He frowned. “It’s not the one I wanted to send.
Like yesterday’s as well. That was the Christmas Eve one so I had to send it, even though my favorite line is the sugarplum one.
I was going to save this one until tomorrow, but I wanted to send it today.
But then I’d have missed the Christmas Day one, and I was trying to decide all morning, but then I ended up missing it and sending none . . .”
I reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze, not for long, just a moment. But then he was quick to grab my hand before I could pull it back.
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,” he whispered. “And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
I stared at him.
“Is that . . . what you wanted to send me?”
He nodded and gave me a tortured, embarrassed smile. “To reference your Cupid. It wears a blindfold so it can only know by heart.”
“Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“You know it?”
“Of course I do,” I said, my eyes burning. “It’s only the most beautiful words ever written.” A stupid tear escaped my eye, and I scrubbed it away. “Deacon, it’s beautiful.”
“I don’t know if I believe Cupid found us, but .
. . it’s how I feel. I’m not good with expressing myself,” he whispered, gripping my fingers now, his hand trembling.
“I get overwhelmed, and the words get stuck in my head. But these poems say it for me. Each one I’ve sent you is what I wished I could say. ”
My chin wobbled and I had to wipe away another tear. “If you want to quote poems of love to me, that’s more than okay. In fact, it’s almost better.”
“Then why are you crying?”
I let out a super classy snotty laugh. “Because I’m a sap.
And I’m a romantic, and I love books and poetry, and you combine them all.
You’re so perfect for me. I love you, Deacon.
There, I said it. It’s true. You’re just,” I shrugged.
“Like the best of Shakespeare and Byron and Keats and Dickinson all combined, just for me.”
He smiled, blushing and shy. “I didn’t want you to be mad or disappointed. I hadn’t forgotten to text you. I just . . . it wasn’t right and then I got all caught up in my head.”
“I could never be mad or disappointed. I thought you might have got busy at work, that’s all.”
Ro scoffed as she walked out, clearly having heard my little white lie. “I’m making Christmas pancakes. Deacon, would you like to stay for breakfast?”
He looked at me, as if asking for permission. “I like pancakes,” he whispered.
“Yes, he’ll stay,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze.
Then he frowned. “What are Christmas pancakes?”
“Normal pancakes shaped like Christmas trees. And you can add toppings to decorate it. It’s a thing we do.”
His smile was blinding. “Then yes.”
“Ooh,” I said, remembering. “Your gift. Would you like it now? Or should we exchange later?”
He grimaced again, suddenly awkward. “Well, I . . . what I got you . . .”
“Will be perfect. What you’ve given me already today is all I could ask for, Deacon.”
He seemed somewhat relieved. “Good. Because I got you a scarf that is the colors of the asexuality flag but without the dog wormer logo, and a flat pack bookcase, which now seems grossly inadequate.”
I laughed. “Really? That’s perfect!”
“It will fit along the wall you wanted it to,” he added. “I thought we could make it together.”
It was my turn to grimace. “Well, my furniture building skills are non-existent, but I can hand you the tools and offer moral support and cookies while you build it?”
He chuckled. “Okay.”
I took his gift from under the tree. “Speaking of grossly inadequate gifts, I have this for you. It’s okay if you want to take it back or exchange it for something else. I kept all the receipts.”
He opened the gift slowly, perfectly, and pulled out the box and then the items in turn.
I explained as he inspected them.
“They’re noise-canceling headphones. In case we have to go somewhere where there’s a lot of noise and people. I’m sorry if they’re inappropriate, but I thought they could help. If you don’t like them, I—”
“I like them.”
“I asked your dad if I should get in-ear or over-ear and he told me,” I added quickly. “I don’t want you to think you need them or that I think you should use them, because I don’t. I just read that some people find them helpful . . .”
He smiled at me. “I’ll try them. Thank you.”
The next was a journal, pages blank. “I thought we could make our own keepsake journal, of us, to keep on your bookcase. We could take photos, or stick in movie stubs, or an awesome shaped leaf we find, or little quotes, or hearts. There are special pens as well, and some different washi tapes and crafty things to make them pretty. It’d be like your tray of keepsakes but in book form. ” I shrugged, uncertain.
His eyes met mine. “I love this so much. This idea. This journal.” He swallowed hard. “You.”
My heart skidded and thumped, my breath caught.
He just . . .
He just said that . . .
“I love you too,” I whispered.
“Christmas pancakes are ready, boys,” Ro called out from the kitchen. “Fresh coffee too.”
I gave Deacon’s hand another gentle squeeze and let out a shaky breath so I could speak. “Merry Christmas, Deacon.”
“Merry Christmas, Winter.”