Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Raya
Strictly platonic.
This should be easy.
It’s not. Not by a long shot.
While Finn deals with the tree, I walk into the house and set the pizza on the kitchen counter. Thankfully, he had the forethought to convince me to buy a tree stand, but I don’t have a single ornament to decorate this thing with.
I never tried to win Christmas, I guess.
Once the tree is stable, I rush into the bathroom where I spend at least three straight minutes telling myself this is a terrible idea. Earlier today I’d decided not to let myself be alone with him, and now here we are—about to eat pizza together.
Very much alone.
But it’s fine. My willpower is strong. And I can make and follow rules with the best of them.
Never mind that I spent the day watching him make kids laugh. Or that he learned sign language so he could talk to my dad. Or that I still have memories of that almost-kiss floating around in the back of my mind.
I splash some water on my face and walk out to the kitchen where he’s dishing up slices of pizza. There’s a crumpled piece of paper on the counter. “What’s this?” I pick it up.
“My Christmas checklist,” he says.
“You actually made it?” I notice he’s crossed out “Get Raya a Christmas tree.”
“I said I was going to.”
I scan the list:
Get Raya a Christmas tree
Teach Raya to ice skate
Christmas Carnival
Luminary Walk
Ice Carving Contest
Watch The Polar Express
Tree lighting
Macy’s windows
Shop for nieces
Community Center donations
Go to the Christkindl Market
Drive around and look at Christmas lights
“This is ambitious,” I say.
“I love Christmas.” He looks at me. “Remember the first time we ate pizza together?”
I don’t have to think too hard to conjure the image of him leaving his Halloween party to make a frozen pizza because I said I wanted it.
Without responding, I walk over to the refrigerator and pull out two bottles of water. I hand one to him. “Sorry I don’t have a beer or anything.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” he says. “I don’t actually drink.”
“You don’t?” I sit down at the island, across from where he’s standing.
“Nah.” He hands me a plate. “Never really tried it. Even figured out how to win beer pong without ever taking a drink.”
I run back through my memory and realize I don’t have a single memory of him drinking. “I don’t really drink either,” I say. “For obvious reasons.”
He smirks at me. “Oh, I know,” he teases. “I was there.”
I wince. “Yeah.” I pick up a slice of pizza and take a bite. “I guess I never realized this about you.”
“I’m not super strict on it—it’s just not something I really enjoy.”
“Me neither.” I take another bite and watch him. “Can I ask why you don’t? Is it just the taste or . . .?”
“Actually, no, not the taste.” He pauses, then, like he’s made up his mind about something, he adds, “It’s because of my brother.”
I stop chewing and look at him, but his eyes are on the counter. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he looks up at me. He smiles, but it’s one of those smiles that masks another feeling. “He was killed by a drunk driver.”
I set my pizza down. “Oh.”
“Mood killer, right?” His mouth quirks.
“Finn—”
He holds up a hand. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
And yet . . . there’s still pain there. I can see it in his eyes.
“I’ve never lost anyone that close to me,” I say. “But I imagine there’s no statute of limitations on grief.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like to be a downer,” he says, shrugging and acting like he’d rather talk about something else. He piles another piece of pizza on the stack already on his plate. “It kind of wrecked our family for a long time. Everyone dealt with it differently. It’s better now.”
I think about the way he talked to his mom on the phone. The way this tragedy must’ve bonded them for life. The way a person’s outlook would change after something like that.
“I can’t even imagine.” I say. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen,” he says between bites. “He was seventeen.”
I go still, thinking about my own family, knowing that if anything happened to one of my sisters, I wouldn’t recover.
He gets a faraway look on his face. “He was that guy everyone loved, you know? The guy who never met a stranger. The one everyone wanted to be friends with. All the girls wanted to date him.” He looks at me. “He was that guy.”
“So, this runs in the family,” I say.
He chuckles, then takes another bite. “He’s the reason I play hockey.”
“He is?”
“I mean, I play because he can’t.” He opens his water. “This was always his dream—to play in the NHL one day. He was good too. Definitely would’ve made it.” He picks up his plate and walks into the living room.
I follow him, taking a seat on the end of the couch. “So it’s not your dream?”
“I mean, it is now. After he passed away, I just kind of put all that on the shelf.” He sits.
“I know that’s a crazy thing to say to someone like you, but I’m not a person who needs to accomplish some big goal.
Losing my brother shifted my perspective on that.
On everything, really. I’m just happy to be here.
Happy for every opportunity I get. Every chance I get to do something incredible—like play professional hockey with the likes of Dallas Burke.
” He says his name like he’s reading a headline.
“But every little thing too—like buying you your first Christmas tree.”
I wonder if he’s cracked some sort of happiness code. I can’t imagine feeling as content with a day like today as I would after a day with a huge win on a professional stage.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I look at him. “You do know that they’re also really lucky they get to play with you, right?”
He shrugs and waves me off. “You have to say that because, like, your whole family is dating the team,” he says, mouth half-full of pizza.
“I mean it, Finn,” I say. “It’s awesome to be content and grateful, but don’t sell yourself short. You put a lot of good into the world too.” I say it matter-of-factly because I don’t want him to see that all of this is affecting me in ways I don’t understand.
I’ll process it later. I’ll process all of it later.
He sets his plate down and looks at me. “Hey, do you have a calendar?”
I do a double take, confused. “Yeah, I’ve got my calendar on my phone.” I fumble for it, then open the calendar app.
“Okay, you’re going to want to mark the date—” he taps my phone with his finger. “The first time you’ve ever complimented me.”
Slowly, I lower the phone and look up at his stupid grinning face.
I take a bite and look away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”