21. Maya
Maya
“Dad…” I begin, sitting on the couch while a movie plays Christmas Eve night.
“Yeah?” he answers, looking away from the TV.
“Jamie’s spending Christmas alone,” I blurt out, unable to reign in my guilt and sympathy at the idea that he’s probably home by himself while we’re here.
Dad is silent for a moment, then he speaks softly. “I had a feeling he might be.”
I cock my head to the side, asking, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“He doesn’t want us around—at least, he doesn’t want me around. How do you know he’s alone?”
“I ran into him getting coffee this morning… Is there nothing we can do? I hate this.”
Dad scoots over to my end of the couch, wrapping a big arm around my shoulders.
“You know how he came to my office a few weeks ago?” he asks, and I nod.
“He said something that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, and I wasn’t sure if I should tell you or not.
” His voice is serious, quiet and troubled.
“What?” I whisper.
Dad swallows, trying to think about how to start. “Jamie…Jamie sort of let it slip why he’s been so angry with me all these years. He said he couldn’t respect me for sending a child to go live with a man like Ross Booker.”
I frown, leaning back so I can look my dad in the eye. “What do you mean?”
But I know where this is going. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I know what my dad is going to say, and I don’t want to hear the confirmation.
“I grabbed his arm to try to stop him from storming out, and—” Dad stumbles over his words, “—and he flinched like I was going to hurt him.”
I raise a hand to my mouth, shaking my head slowly, not wanting him to continue, but unable to look away.
My dad leans his head back on the couch, blinking up at the ceiling, guilt and anger painting his face.
“I don’t know any details, Maya. I don’t know what happened throughout the years. But I…I sent that boy into the arms of a monster.” A single tear slips down his temple, and I bury my head into my father’s chest.
“He—he hit him?” I ask, muffled into Dad’s shirt.
I can feel him nod as he rubs a hand comfortingly up my back. “Yeah, honey. I think he did.”
I don’t know what else to say, how to feel, how to do anything but cry silently for the little boy who lost his mom and his safety all in one fell swoop.
After a few minutes, Dad tugs on my shoulder and pulls me up to look at him.
“You should go spend time with him tomorrow.”
My brows furrow in confusion. “But tomorrow’s Christmas morning. I don’t want to leave you by yourself.”
“I’ll be here when you get back. But Jamie shouldn’t have to be alone, and he won’t appreciate me showing up at his house. He still doesn’t want to speak to me. But it sounds like he’s been opening up with you.”
I haven’t told my dad about the interactions I’ve had recently with Jamie, but Dad saw him sit beside me on the couch at team dinner, and now this conversation at the coffee shop. He must have a lot of faith in my ability to break down Jamie’s walls.
Slowly, I nod my head. “Okay. I’ll try.”
Ten a.m. Christmas morning, I find myself bundled up in my winter coat on Jamie’s front porch, holding the pan of homemade cinnamon rolls to my chest for warmth.
I knock. And I wait. And I knock again. After more than a few minutes of shivering, I wonder if he’s even home.
Just when I’m about to head back to my car, the door swings open to reveal a shirtless, sleepy Jameson Booker.
His black hair sticks up in every direction and his biceps flexes as he rubs one eye. “Maya?” he asks, squinting into the morning sun. “What are you doing here?”
“Merry Christmas!” I say too cheerfully. “I brought you some cinnamon rolls…they used to be your favorite.”
Jamie stands in the doorway, looking like he’s trying to decide if I’m real or if he’s still asleep and this is a dream.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I continue, the wind blowing snowflakes through the door.
The cold wind seems to pull Jamie from his trance, and he backs up, inviting me in with a wave of his hand.
“Uh…Merry Christmas.” He takes the pan from me, walking to the kitchen on bare feet. I can’t stop myself from admiring the way the sweatpants hang on his hips and the way the muscles on his back flex as he sets the tray on the counter. “What exactly are you doing here?”
I sigh, shrugging off my jacket and kicking off my shoes. “I didn’t want you to be alone,” I say truthfully, fighting off the self-conscious feeling that he might not want me here.
“What about your dad?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He’s got some last minute wrapping to do before we go to my grandma’s house tonight, so he didn’t mind when I told him I was going out for a bit.”
“He knows you’re here?” Jamie asks, leaning against the counter.
I don’t reply right away, instead walking over to uncover the food I brought. “Do you have a spatula? And maybe a paper plate?” I ask.
Jamie retrieved both items, plus two forks, handing them over silently as I dish him and myself out two cinnamon rolls each.
Handing him a plate, he takes it with a raised brow, awaiting an answer to his previous question.
“Fine, yes. He knows I’m here.” I take a bite of my breakfast to avoid having to continue, but Jamie doesn’t ease up the questioning.
“Maya…?”
“Can we at least sit?” I ask, and head to the dining table when he nods.
We eat in silence for a few minutes—or, more accurately, I eat and Jamie watches me, studying me with his sleepy eyes and serious expression.
“I told him about seeing you at the coffee shop, and he told me about what happened at your meeting in his office. I said I didn’t want you to have to be alone today and he agreed with me, so here I am.”
Jamie finally takes a bite, processing my words.
I look around, taking in the dark wood tones and the masculine decor of the house. It’s cleaner than I expected a house of college boys to be.
When he doesn’t say anything, I fill the silence.
“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything.
I’ll respect your privacy, Jamie. But I know what my dad told me, and I just need you to know that you aren’t alone.
I care about you, whether you accept it or not.
You were my best friend first, before anything else.
And no amount of time or distance is going to change the fact that you are important to me. ”
“Maya,” he begins, setting down his fork. “I appreciate you coming over here, and I know this is weird. I made it weird. I’ve strung you along somehow without meaning to…”
I can hear in his tone that he’s going to continue with something I don’t want to hear—another excuse I don’t want to listen to.
Standing, I cross over to his side of the table, and brazenly climb into his lap, straddling his hips with my thighs. My hands trails over his bare shoulders as every muscle in his large body tenses.
His hands find my waist—whether it’s because he can’t keep himself from touching me or because he doesn’t want me to fall, I’m not sure.
“You aren’t stringing me along, Jamie. In fact, you’re doing the opposite.
You’re only torturing yourself. But you don’t have to be afraid.
You’ve suffered more than anyone should have to, and you deserve to just let go.
Your mom would hate this—hate the way you’re punishing yourself when the world has punished you enough. ”
Jamie’s hands are firm but gentle as he tries to push me away. “You don’t understand, Maya.”
I resist his push, not letting him deflect any longer. “So help me understand. Why do you insist on denying yourself good things in life?”
As if on cue, I see the defensiveness rise behind his gaze, and he shoves a little harder. When I don’t relent, he stands, picking me up with him, then sets my feet on the floor and begins pacing the kitchen.
“And what? You’re good for me? All my problems in life will go away if you’re my girlfriend?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!
” I retort. I soften my voice, knowing this conversation could easily turn into another argument like the library if I’m not careful.
“Your mom is gone, and I hate that you were sent into a home full of pain. But it can be over now, Jamie. You don’t have to hurt yourself, on top of it all. ”
I slowly walk up to him, backing him against the counter and standing between his parted feet.
My hands tangle around his neck, over his broad shoulders as I hold his gaze.
“You don’t have to do everything by yourself anymore.
You don’t have to be alone. There are people in this world who love you.
” I let the words hang in the air between us, waiting.
His eyes shut and he lets his forehead fall to my chest, as if he can keep me from seeing the war waging inside his mind.
Slowly, he pulls me closer to his body in a crushing embrace.
I let my fingers curl into his hair, trying to ground him in the moment.
“I promise you, it’s okay. She would want you to be happy. ”
And suddenly the dam breaks, and Jamie—cool, collected, strong, stoic Jameson Booker—is sobbing in my arms. Every ounce of pent up grief, anger, and pain pours out as he grips my shirt like a lifeline.
A tear of my own falls into his hair; a tear shed for that hurt little boy who had no one to save him.
When his shoulders stop shaking and his breathing evens out, Jamie raises his bloodshot eyes up to meet mine. I wipe my thumbs over his cheekbones, drying his face. “It’s going to be okay,” I whisper.
“Can you stay?” he asks quietly, and I nod.
“For a little while, yeah.”
Jamie intertwines his fingers with mine, pulling me with him to the couch.
Unlike in the locker room shower, his touch doesn’t turn sexual.
Then, he was using me to blow off steam. But now, I think he’s finally considering that this is what he wants, and he holds me like I’m going to disappear if he lets go.
We cuddle on his couch for hours, dozing on and off as I lay on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart in time with my own.
Eventually, I have to leave for Christmas at my grandma’s, and he watches me walk to my car with a look of contemplation on his face I’ve never seen before.