Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TATUM
Igot exactly…zero hours of sleep last night.
Not good for my slow-building exhaustion from driving for seven days, but I just couldn’t do it.
And believe me, I tried. I tossed and turned all night trying to find the sleep my body craved, but it never came.
My body just craved her more. After that kiss, every part of my body craved her.
I didn’t even know you could crave someone like that.
But after our kiss, my mind was spinning like I’d been drinking too much.
Her lips on mine ignited me inside, cracked me like a glowstick that would take time to lose its glow.
My fingers were buzzing for hours from grabbing onto her like I was afraid to let go.
Even thinking about it now as I laid staring up at the ceiling in the early morning sun that trickled through the curtains, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
God, she tasted so sweet.
How could I ever taste anything else the same again?
But even as alive as I feel inside, I’m still worried sick. Literally. My stomach is churning as the thought flickers in my mind. What if she wakes up this morning, after having a night to sleep on it, and regrets the whole thing?
What if she decides that it was all a mistake?
No, no, no.
Flinging off the covers, I get out of bed in a hurry, rushing to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my glasses.
I don’t have Christmas attire since I’ve never really…
celebrated it before? But I did bring a red sweater, and that would have to do.
As I throw it on, I simultaneously walk through the room, trying to find my socks, almost losing my balance as I accidentally run into the bedpost.
It’s like my brain thinks that if I move faster, it’ll give her less time to dwell on whether or not I’m good enough to be kissing.
Maybe she’s thinking the same thing, because when I swing the door open to hurry out into the hallway next, she flings hers open, too.
We both stand in our doorways, staring at each other, and that’s when I notice the hesitancy on her features.
My eyes study her for a moment before I take in her outfit: a cute red and white pajama set with candy canes and snowflakes scattered across the fabric.
My lips twitch with the ghost of a smile at that.
“Merry Christmas,” I say softly, still standing in the doorway with my chest heaving like I’d just ran a marathon.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispers.
Even her voice sounds hesitant.
Please, no. Please don’t change your mind about me. Not you.
“Tate, I think we should talk.”
Please.
My eyebrows knit together deeply as she makes her way across the hall toward me, pushing around me as she steps into my room.
I’m hesitant to turn around and face her because I don’t want this to happen, I don’t want her to tell me what I think she’s going to tell me, but I turn anyway.
Stepping back into the room, I watch feebly as she closes the door for me, pressing her back up against it as she struggles to make eye contact with me.
That’s usually my thing.
“Last night…” She trails off, rubbing her arms as she hugs herself. “It was a mistake.”
No, please.
That stings.
I get little flashes of tiny me, shutting myself in my room after the hundredth time of my mother telling me she didn’t have time to play with me. Didn’t want to play with me. That no one would ever want to play with me because I was weird.
Why can’t you just be normal, Tate?
I’d heard that question so many times, it was imprinted in my brain.
“Right,” I rasp, but it falters.
“We shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t…” She groans in frustration. “You shouldn’t want to kiss me, Tate.”
But I do.
“Why not?”
“Because,” she urges, finally looking up at me, and I see her eyes watering, “I’m… You deserve a nice girl. A normal girl. A girl like you. I’m…”
“You are nice,” I say faintly.
“I’m damaged goods, Tatum. I’m the last person you should like.”
She’s not rejecting me because of me; she’s rejecting me because of how she feels about herself.
How that…guy made her feel about herself.
And somehow, that feels worse. I’d rather it be because of me.
I’d rather it be my fault because I don’t want her ever to feel like she’s subpar.
Not good enough. She’s more than enough. She’s perfect.
I frown. “Maeve…”
She bites her lip, but her chin still trembles, and it’s like a punch to my gut.
“You’re not damaged,” I whisper.
“I have so much baggage, I don’t know what to even do with it,” she croaks. “I’m not… I’m too much.”
“And I don’t have baggage?” I counter without meaning to. My frustration is bubbling over into my words, and I wish I could immediately take it back.
I don’t want to be frustrated, but I am. She doesn’t realize just how alike we really are, but that’s not her fault. It’s mine. It’s not like I’ve spilled my guts to her about all of my emotional baggage… Trauma. How could she know both of us were hurt deeply in ways that were irreparable?
Her eyebrows furrow as a single stray tear falls down her cheek.
Crap. Shit. No.
My words are gentle as I speak, because I definitely don’t want to make her cry. I don’t want to upset her at all. “Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t have baggage. Mine just looks a little different than yours.”
Her head drops almost to her chest, and she squeezes herself tighter before lifting her arm to wipe her face with her sleeve.
“You haven’t once asked me how I feel.”
“How do you feel?” she asks weakly, lifting her head to look at me. Except she doesn’t look upset as much as she looks surprised now.
I’m surprised at myself, too.
“I feel like…people doing bad things to you is not a reflection of your character. You are nice. You are normal. Your emotions m-may feel like too much, but that doesn’t mean you are.”
Her shoulders sag at that. “He tore me down. He shattered me. I’ve been trying so hard to put myself back together again, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be who I used to be. I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix myself again.”
“I don’t know that version of you,” I tell her, taking a step toward her, “but I do know you now, and I don’t see anything wrong with that girl. I…like that girl.”
With a small sniffle, she sighs heavily, her arms dropping to her sides.
For a second, it looks like she wants to argue further with me, refuse to accept my words, but instead, she gives up and takes a small step toward me.
Then another. And another. Until she’s pushing up on her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around my neck in a tight hug.
I don’t hesitate to wrap mine around her waist, burying my face in the crook of her neck and breathing her in. She fits so perfectly in my arms, molded against me like a missing puzzle piece.
“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak,” she mumbles in my ear.
I laugh softly, relaxing when I hear her laugh, too.
“Thank you,” she whispers after a moment, still hugging me.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
We hug for a few more moments, my thumbs sliding back and forth on her back as I continue to hold her, our chests heaving breaths in the same in-sync rhythm. She pulls back after a few more beats, gazing up at me with a tiny grin.
“Today might be crazy,” she says. “Will that be okay?”
“Of course.” I nod.
She cocks her head up at me, looking at me thoughtfully. “If you get overwhelmed or need a break, just give me a look.”
I understand why she thinks that her big, intimidating family will be too much for me on Christmas, because her brothers did try to exert that protectiveness over her last night at dinner, but I’m happy to be spending it with other people for once.
I want to see what Christmas is like when you’re a family.
Not just the stuff on TV and in movies, I want to see the real thing.
“What kind of look?” I ask, raising a brow faintly down at her.
She hums in thought. “Just stare at me for, like, ten seconds. I’ll know something is up, for sure. You never do that.”
“Ten seconds,” I laugh, “got it.”
When we go downstairs, I’m frozen on the bottom step for a moment, taking in the scene before me.
The Christmas tree is all lit up, surrounded by presents that are wrapped in Grinch wrapping paper with little red bows, and there’s faint Christmas music playing from the TV.
I can smell hot chocolate in the air, and as her family comes into view, I can see that they all have different sets of pajamas on. Santa Claus, Rudolph, you name it.
Maeve gives me a tiny nudge, pulling me from my trance.
“You okay?” she whispers.
I blink. “You’re all…wearing Christmas PJs.”
She smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, it’s kind of a thing we do every year.”
So this is what Christmas is supposed to look like.
“I-I didn’t bring any Christmas pajamas.”
She puts her hand on my arm, squeezing before she leans in toward my ear. “Don’t worry. My mom got you some as a present, but,” she presses her fingers to her lips, “don’t tell her I told you. Act surprised.”
She doesn’t give me any time to respond before she’s tugging me off the last step and into the foyer, then toward the living room, where everyone is sitting with their mugs of hot chocolate, still waking up.
I’m soaking in the tree when Maeve throws a blanket over me, and Annalise comes from the kitchen with two red mugs in her hands.
“Here we go,” she says, approaching us. “Two fresh mugs of hot cocoa.”
“Thank you.” I shoot her an appreciative smile as I take one of the mugs.
“Thanks, Mom,” Maeve says, leaning up to kiss her mother on the cheek before accepting her mug. “Merry Christmas.”
I watch as Maeve’s dad takes a seat next to the tree, gathering a couple presents and passing them around the room.
A neatly wrapped box gets placed onto my lap, and even though I know what it is, for some reason, I have this overwhelming urge to cry.
I smile through it, opening it up as everyone else opens theirs, but I’m holding my breath.
Beckoning the sob to stay in my chest, to subside.
Everything is so cozy and festive and warm. I’ve never gotten a Christmas present before, ever. My mom never even knew what day it was long enough to celebrate holidays or birthdays.
Just as Maeve had told me, inside the wrapping paper is a box containing a Christmas pajama set that matches the ones that her dad and brothers are wearing.
“Merry Christmas, Tatum,” Annalise tells me from her spot on the couch.
“Thank you,” I manage to get out, clearing my throat as I stare at the clothes in my hands.
My phone starts to buzz in my pocket, pulling me from all the welcomed chaos around me, so I fish it out to check the screen when my limbs go rigid.
Jennifer. I haven't seen that name in years, and it makes my heart stutter inside my chest, but in a way that sends a wave of nausea through me. She never calls. When she does, it’s because she wants something from me.
I don’t know why I still have her number saved.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know how long I’m staring at the screen, but eventually it goes dark as her call goes to voicemail.
The noise around me quiets, and I realize it’s because my heart pounding loudly took its place.
I feel something on my arm, pulling me from my daze as I look down to see Maeve’s hand grasping me.
Lifting my head, I’m met with her dark eyes.
“Are you okay?”
I blink. Am I okay? I don’t even have time to think about that question as my phone buzzes again, my eyes glancing back down at the screen. It’s her. Again. Maeve’s eyes must follow, too, because she gives me a small tug.
“Who’s Jennifer?”
I swallow thickly. “My mother.”
She gapes up at me.
“Are you going to answer?” she whispers.
I don’t answer for a while, just watching my screen again as I wait for her name to disappear. After a few seconds, it goes to voicemail for the second time. Whatever she wants, she must want it badly to call me twice in a row.
“Tate.” She squeezes my arm.
“It’s okay,” I say, putting my phone away.
I don’t have anything to say to her, anyway.