41. Chapter Forty-One
Percy
Winter Break, Sophomore Year
I walk into the Hawthorne House from closing the Camerie a little before midnight, cold all the way to the bone, and Penelope’s at the kitchen table in one of my hoodies with her sketchbook open and a pencil going.
“There’s soup,” she says, smiling at me. “It’s probably cold by now.”
The house is dead quiet around her. Everybody drove home for break a week ago — the guys, the whole town — and I stayed, because there’s nowhere for me to go.
I picked up every shift at the restaurant I could get.
She stayed too. So, it’s just us and two empty places.
We’ve been moving between her apartment and this house for a week like we live in both of them.
I walk up to her and kiss her forehead while she hides whatever she’s drawing. Seeing her with the hood up and hair down, I tip her back and kiss her neck.
“Percy,” she calls out, gripping onto my shoulders. “Don’t –– stop.”
“Don’t stop?” I tease. “Okay.”
I bite down on her neck and lick until I reach her ear. She’s slipping off the chair, so I pick her up and sit her on the counter.
She’s wearing a smirk when I pull back.
“What?” I ask, searching her face for an answer.
She wraps her arms around me and murmurs, “You’re so strong.”
I look at her lips. “Yeah?”
She nods.
I pick her up off the counter, and she yelps my name, holding onto me tightly.
“My drawing!”
“It can wait,” I say, walking up the stairs with her.
“I have a deadline,” she says, pulling back to look at me.
“I want you,” I say as I reach the top of the stairs and walk down the hall.
“You have me,” she says, and then she grabs the back of my neck and kisses me.
I kick my bedroom door closed behind us and sit on my bed with her in my lap. Her tongue enters my mouth as I rub her body.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks in between kisses.
“Very,” I whisper.
She pulls back. “That’s not what I mean.”
I look at her lips.
“The soup’s going cold. I cooked it for you.”
I brush her hair out of her face and nod. “Okay.”
She gets off me, and I deflate. “Come on.”
We walk downstairs hand in hand. I make a bowl of soup while she hugs me from behind. I sit at my spot at the table and pull her onto my lap.
“It’s good.”
“I know,” she smiles.
The room falls silent to my slurping.
“What’re your plans for Christmas?” she asks.
I look at her.
She swallows. “I was hoping you weren’t working.”
I shake my head. “They’re closed on Christmas.”
She rubs her fingertips up and down the back of my neck. “Okay.” She rests her head on my shoulder and whispers, “So, we can spend it together?”
I kiss her once and then twice. “Yes.” I kiss her again. Of course.
Christmas morning, I wake up at Hawthorne with her in my arms. She’s snuggled against my chest with her leg over mine. We left the curtains open because it started snowing last night, and right now, there’s snow coming down. I run my fingers through her hair gently.
There’s a small Christmas tree downstairs from Walmart. We put it up two days ago together. The guys didn’t want to buy a real tree this year because last year it was a pain to get rid of. We left it up for far too long, and all the needles fell off.
She joked that Santa Claus isn’t coming, but I snuck out of the room early this morning to put her gift under our little tree.
She stirs, moaning a sweet sound.
I kiss her. “Good morning, Penelope. Merry Christmas.”
She hums. “Merry Christmas, Percy.” Then she blinks her eyes open and smiles. “It’s Christmas!”
“It’s snowing.” I point at the window.
She sits up and adjusts the shirt she’s sleeping in. My Camden Wolves tee. “And it’s snowing?” She huffs, falling onto me. She presses her cheek against my chest, and I run my fingers down her spine.
“Want coffee?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. Really hot coffee.”
I wrap my blanket around her shoulders. “Come on.”
We walk down the stairs, and she stops midway. “I told you not to get me anything.”
I glance at the Christmas tree. “That?” I question, shaking my head. “That’s not from me. It’s from Santa.”
She rolls her eyes, walking down each step dramatically. I look up at her, and she can’t hide the excitement on her face.
“What did you get me, huh?” she whispers into my neck. “Santa Claus.”
I pick her up and walk her to the couch.
I sit her down and grab the gift from under the tree.
I watch her eyes light up. Warmth pools to my face as I hand it over.
I’ve never done this before. I have never bought a gift for anyone, never stood in a store, trying to think of the right gift, and I don’t know if I got it right.
Handing it over makes me nervous. I could’ve completely fucked this up or did alright. I don’t know which, and I’m nervous.
“Merry Christmas, Penelope,” I say, handing it over.
She takes it with a flushed face. “I didn’t get you anything.”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about that. Open it.”
She looks at it. I tried my hardest to wrap it neatly, but I’ve never wrapped a gift in my entire life, so it looks like a two-year-old did it.
She opens it.
It’s a set of pencils. Not the cheap ones — the brand she uses, the exact hardnesses she reaches for, because I’ve watched her draw, and I know she goes 2B for the soft stuff and 4H for the fine lines.
I know she uses the 2B down to a nub and rations it because a full set feels like too much to spend on herself.
It cost me four shifts. It’s the most I could do, it’s not much, and I watch her face the whole time she’s unwrapping it.
She goes very still. She looks at the set, and then at me, and something moves across her face.
“You know which ones I use.”
I breathe, “Yeah.”
“Percy.” Her voice does something. “Nobody — how do you know which ones I use?”
“I watch you.”
She doesn’t say anything for a second as she looks deep into my eyes. Then she puts the pencils down, like they’re worth more than they are, and she leans across and kisses me. I think I got it right, and after she kisses me again, I think maybe it isn’t about the pencils.
“Do you like them?” I ask.
She nods against my lips. “I don’t think I’ll ever use them because they’re from you.”
I caress her face, looking at her smile.
She rolls her eyes. “I wanted to wait, but I can’t. I have a gift for you.”
“Oh?”
She nods. “Wait here.”
She takes off up the stairs, skipping the steps two at a time like she’s excited. When she comes back, she has a piece of paper in her hands.
My heart constricts as I watch her. I’ve never been given a Christmas gift from a friend before.
Not a friend that means as much as she does to me.
She has it turned down, so it looks like a blank piece of paper as she holds it out to me.
I grab it and hold it for a second. I don’t want to look at it, and I don’t know why.
“Turn it around,” she encourages.
I look down and flip it over.
It’s a drawing… of us.
She drew us together.
She drew me in the doorway in my hoodie, standing in the middle of the Hawthorne House kitchen, and she drew herself, leaning against the counter.
The house looks precise. It’s exact. The dishes, the cabinet.
The terrible backsplash. I look at the way she drew herself.
Her proportions are right, and the height difference between us looks right. I didn’t know she could draw people.
I swallow and don’t say anything as I stare at it.
I can’t fathom how she could capture this moment so perfectly. This winter break has changed me in ways I didn’t know, and it’s like she knew it.
And what hits me the hardest is that I’ve never been in a picture.
Not on anyone’s wall, not one in a phone that didn’t get destroyed, not one anywhere –– and here I am for the first time, hand-drawn, on purpose.
She even has my hands right. She looked at me long enough to get it right. My posture, my expression, my width.
I look at it too long. I know I’m looking too long. I can’t stop.
This is the best gift I’ve ever received.
I’m going to have this when I’ve got nothing else.
“Thank you,” I say. I realize I’ve said those two words that have been so hard for me to put together, but it’s not enough for what I actually feel. It’s the wrong size for what it is, but it’s the only thing I’ve got.
She’s watching me, and I think she catches some of it, but she doesn’t say anything as she moves in against my side and looks at the drawing with me. I hold it careful at the edges and keep staring at it.
We don’t say anything for a long time.
The snow keeps coming down past the window. The Christmas lights are on. The house is dead quiet, the way it only gets this one week a year, and for once, the quiet isn’t empty. I have her.
I never want this to end.
She turns her face up off my chest and looks at me. Her hand comes up to my jaw, turning me from the paper to her, and she kisses me with open eyes, watching me. She’s soft and careful, like she knows I’m cracked open and she’s being gentle with me.
I set the drawing down. On the coffee table, out of the way where nothing can happen to it, and she waits while I do it. Then I turn back to her.
She takes my face in both of her hands as she kisses me sweetly. I reach under the shirt she’s wearing, running my cold fingers up her body. She inhales, gasping, so I stop. I take it off instead and let it drop on the floor. Then I stop and just look at her.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
I grab her hand and bring it to my lips. “Better than okay.” I kiss the back of her hand and kiss up her arm. “I love––” I kiss her arm, “I love the drawing, Penelope.”
“I’m happy you like it,” she replies.
I bite down on her forearm. “I love it.”
Her eyes flick down to my lips. I pull my shirt off and dive in to kiss her.
I want to feel her against me. I’m careful about it.
I know her now — where she likes my hands, the sound she makes when I get it right, the way her breath catches.
I take my time with her, savoring everything about her.
The whole thing is quiet. We watch each other.
I shove my pants down to free my cock while she pulls her pajama shorts down.
I slowly rock into her, watching her moan under me.
I take her left breast into my mouth, using my tongue to make her moan.
She grabs onto my hair and gently pulls.
I work my mouth on her other breast. I thrust into her over and over again, watching as each one makes her blush.
She grabs my hand and presses my fingers against her clit.
I rub circles and watch her gasp for air.
She says my name low, once, and it goes all the way through me.
This isn’t like the other times. She orgasms on me, and she’s clenching around me. I come at the same time, meeting her hips over and over. I press my forehead against hers and stare into her eyes. She runs her hands to the back of my neck.
“This is my favorite Christmas,” she breathes.
I kiss her open mouth. “It’s mine, too.”
I stay inside her for a long minute, not wanting it to end.
The guys come back in six days. I know that.
Once they’re back, it’s second semester of the school year, the town fills back up, reality is coming.
But not today. Today it’s snowing, the Christmas lights are on, and she’s warm against me.
I pull the blanket over us both, and I don’t think about the six days. I just hold her.