41. Anthony
forty-one
anthony
There is no plausible reason for Penelope and I to be decorating this place for Christmas together. I’m spending the holiday with my family, and she mentioned going out of town for her book stuff. In retrospect, I should be making lists and buying paint and cleaning sawdust out of my ears from all of the construction work I had planned to finish during winter break.
Instead, I’m playing house with my very own Christmas elf.
We have a week left of school before break, and we have been spending our nights—after Penelope finishes her requisite work on the second draft of her book—digging the Christmas decorations out of the attic. For once in my life, I’m trying to slow things down.
I could move into my place now. It’s hooked up to electric and plumbing, and is insulated. The walls are up. The roof is on. The floors are ready for actual flooring. It's an empty dollhouse waiting for the odds and ends to come together. I could bring an air mattress for a couple of days while I finish the paint and flooring in the master bedroom. I could start bringing boxes in to keep in my own basement. But something is making me stall, and right now, she is asking me to thread popcorn onto fishing wire to put around our decades old artificial tree. The very same one we spent our first Christmas beneath.
How do you say no to that?
“Anthony!” she chuckles. “Stop eating it!”
I grin like a hamster, my cheeks stuffed with the handful of popcorn I just tossed back.
“You shouldn’t have gotten the good stuff then. You don’t use movie theater butter as a decoration.”
“It was all they had!”
We continue stringing popcorn onto the fishing line when her timid whisper breaks through the crackle of the fireplace.
“So, umm… I got invited to do an author event in New York next weekend.”
“No shit?” I put down my needle and thread, threading my hands through hers instead. It’s something we’ve been doing lately—while we watch TV or while lying in one of our beds talking about our day. Holding hands. It’s becoming a habit I never want to break. “Is that the thing you’re leaving town for?”
She bites her lip and nods, not quite meeting my stare. I lift her chin with my thumb.
“Pen, that’s amazing!”
Her shy smile lights up my world.
“I’ve been asked a few times to do these events, but I’ve never had the courage to step out of my secret little PJ cave. I think I’m finally ready to do it.”
I wrap her in a hug, and her arms come up and around my back. I can’t decide which is better: the security of being in her arms, or the way she’s glowing with confidence.
“So, that being said, I have a question for you.” I pause, and she dips her head, inhaling before meeting my eyes. “Would you like a ticket?”
There’s something to be said about a person depending on you. Putting your trust in someone else. Revealing your innermost thoughts and fears and demons because you know they’ll handle them with care. That’s what Penelope is doing right now. There has never been a greater feeling—not holding her in my arms or being inside her or waking up with her hair on my pillow. Earning back her trust wraps a tight bow around my heart, like the frayed pieces of the explosion I put us through are sealed back together.
“You’re sure?” I ask, praying to God that this isn’t one of the stories I make up in my head before I fall asleep at night.
She nods, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Yes. I want you there. I mean, you did come up with my pen name, after all. It’s the least I can do.”
She quirks a hesitant little teasing smile, and it takes everything in me not to scream the thousands of I love you’s that I’ve kept caged inside for almost two years.
I kiss her instead.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but I can’t help myself. Not with pride and confidence painting her in an angelic glow that I could affix to the top of the tree.
My eyes have hers in a stranglehold, and I watch the wide surprise settle into wonder, finally fluttering into security when she kisses me back. It’s chaste, simple and restrained, but that makes this press of our lips all the more intimate. When I pull back, I flick my eyes open, and hers are still closed, her lips pursed like the moment is frozen in time. I want to photograph her, suspended in time like this. But her eyes flutter open, and I wonder if I should just start recording all of her moments. The blue in her eyes is a tranquil ocean, calm waters for the first time in a long time.
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
She lifts her brow, and my head drops as I huff out a laugh. I swipe my thumb over the little bit of shine on her bottom lip, and it catches her by surprise.
“Yes, boss. I’d love to come and cheer you on from the front row.”
We string more popcorn as she tells me all about the event.
“It’s a small event. A lot of the people that my PR team is reaching out to are media people. The questions will probably be softballs—there will be a moderator from my team asking questions that I’ve pre-approved, and there is an understanding that, though I’m ready to share my identity with the world, I’d like to ease in.”
“Are you going to do more events like this in the future then?”
She nods. “If my schedule allows it.”
She leaves out the unsaid—her teaching job and her reluctance to leave.
“Baby steps,” I say, taking the piece of popcorn in my hand and turning it toward her between my thumb and index finger. She opens her mouth, and I toss it up in the air, chuckling when she catches it and smiles. “See how this event goes. If it’s successful, and it’s something that you want to keep doing to further your career, you cross that bridge when you come to it.”
She nods and finishes chewing the piece of popcorn.
“I figure that if this one goes well, I’ll probably look into a couple of summer dates to promote my next book.”
“When does this one come out?”
“Early April.”
“Spring break?”
“I did that on purpose,” she grins.
“Smart woman.”
“I try,” she winks. “Honestly, all of my releases are scheduled around breaks for a reason—I get time to enjoy my release week without the stresses of school to follow.”
I lick my lips and swallow my question, because we’re having such a nice night and I don’t want to ruin it. The one about what it will take for her to leave teaching altogether and finally pursue the thing she’s brilliant at—but more importantly, the one that makes her happiest.
Instead, I go to refill our hot cocoa to give us both some space. As I’m leaving the kitchen, my eyes catch on the matching invitations stuck behind magnets on our fridge. Aaron and Lucy’s wedding is on Valentine’s Day—his choice. I’m attending as a guest. I didn’t sign for a plus one, mainly because the woman I want on my arm is standing up as a bridesmaid.
“Hey, so, a lighter proposition,” I say, sliding her mug into her awaiting hand.
“Are you going to ask me to marry you and have your babies?” she asks with that same sarcastic brow raise.
I chuckle, taking a sip from my steaming mug.
“Not yet.” Before she can read into that subtext, I continue, “Will you be attending Lucy and Aaron’s wedding in February?”
“You mean the one I’m standing up in? Yeah, I think I might make an appearance.”
“Good,” I nod, licking hot chocolate off my upper lip. “And were you planning on utilizing the dance floor at said wedding?”
“I could probably be persuaded.”
“Excellent. Would you be interested in having a partner?”
“Gosh, I suppose it might be easier to dance to all of those cheesy slow songs if I had someone else to do it with.”
It’s her someone else to do it with that stops the charade for me. We fall into these bits so easily. Making breakfast in the morning. Watching TV after dinner. Lying on opposite pillows while our feet flirt beneath the covers. It’s one of my favorite things to do with her. But even better would be someone else to do life with for all the days I have left. Starting with a dance at Aaron and Lucy’s wedding, and ending as the ground beneath her feet so she can go and live out her dreams.
I nod, watching the cogs in her brain turn behind her sparkling eyes.
“I guess I’ll see you on the dance floor.”