I looked at her, trying to hold back the emotions budding in the back of my throat. My eyes stung as my fingers clenched around the book. “This is a Winnie-the-Pooh book,” I said, interrupting her apprehensive ramble, staring at A.A. Milne’s name under my thumbs.
I was amazed at what was in my hand. I was amazed at what she found shoved in the back of a used bookstore in London. This book clearly came from the first few editions printed back in the 1920s. How the hell did she find it?
“Yeah, it’s a first edition,” she said insecurely. “The bookseller confirmed it.”
My heart swelled up like a balloon in my chest. I had no idea how to feel. It felt as if my heart ripped in two all over again at the same time it was being sewn up by this girl who was starting to feel like anything but a hookup to me. I couldn’t believe I spent this whole time with another girl at the same time Reagan was buying me a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh in London. I was so embarrassed by how I couldn’t keep myself from crying. Over a Winnie-the-Pooh book. If she thought Southern Comfort was laughable in the name of rock ’n’ roll, surely crying over a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh would be number one on the list. But a part of me didn’t even care because this was single-handedly the best gift anyone had even given me.
I wish I could have shown my grandpa. He would have loved this and would have treasured it as much as I already did.
“Reagan, this is…”
“You look upset. Shit, maybe it was too much. I’m sorry. I just thought—”
I grabbed her hand to make her shut up, and without even thinking, I let go of her fingers and cupped her warm, soft cheek. I could feel the tension that stiffened her body relax into my palm. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Really?”
“Really. I really love it.” I let go of her face and quickly wiped away the tears hanging on the corner of my eyes. Something connected us in that moment as we studied each other. Whatever was happening, it overpowered me with the strong desire to kiss her.
“I’m really glad you like it,” she said, her eyes holding mine.
I really messed up. This was not what casual hookups bought each other. Holding that book in my hand, any last resistance of having casual feelings for her quickly dissolved, and I could feel myself opening up in a way I never felt before. I felt so warm, and it was only then when I understood what happened with us. She wasn’t a hookup to me anymore. She wasn’t the girl I used for sex or the girl I allowed to use me for sex. I really, really liked her, and when I finally admitted that to myself, those encumbering, uneasy feelings seeped right out of me.
“I love it,” I said. “Seriously. This is…amazing. This is really amazing. You don’t even know how much this means to me.”
“I think I have an idea.”
“I…I really wish I had something to give you.”
She grabbed my hand again and traced invisible circles on my skin with her thumb. “You invited me over for Thanksgiving. It’s enough.”
“It’s not.”
She squeezed my hand tighter. “It is to me. Trust me.”
Right then in that moment, the strong desire to kiss her softly on the forehead overpowered me. A gift like that told me I could probably get away with a kiss too. By the way her eyes held on to mine, I could almost catch a glimpse of how appreciative she was about me inviting her over to my mom’s. I guess we were even.
For now.
Well, with that major shift in mood and more tension forcing us together, Reagan and I joined Mom and Greg in cooking. I tried sneaking in my own moments with Reagan, knowing that her feelings for me were on a significantly larger scale after she bought me that book. Still with that white bow on her head, she worked on the green bean casserole with me. I sautéed the green beans in butter and garlic, and once I placed it in the oven-safe dish, she sprinkled shredded Swiss cheese and smashed cornflakes on top of it. As Mom checked the turkey again, I stole a scoop of mashed potatoes with my finger and plopped a dollop on Reagan’s nose. In return, she snatched a cornflake off the casserole and tossed it in my cleavage as if she was going for a free throw. When I mixed the cranberry sauce in Mom’s new Williams-Sonoma sauce pot, I made Reagan taste it. She opened her mouth, and I shoved the spoon in, purposely trying to get some cranberry sauce on her face. It worked. Just a drop at the corner of her mouth. She backed away, checking to see if any sauce got on her scarf and sweater.
“I hate you,” she said, licking her lips to clean up the mess. “That can stain!”
“Your face is already ruined, so the cranberry sauce isn’t going add that much more damage.”
She laughed and hit my arm. In return, I tapped her butt.
Mom’s fears finally died when Greg took out the turkey, and it was a perfect brown. He sliced the turkey, and we set the table and made sure everyone had their pick of the wine Reagan brought. Mom’s first attempt at her own Thanksgiving was a complete success. She thought she undercooked the turkey, but the three of us assured her that the turkey was perfect and moist. The wine quickly drained the more we ate, swapped stories, and laughed. Mom found the Winnie-the-Pooh book and became just as speechless as I was when she held it. Reagan’s face turned bright red when Mom gushed about how considerate it was and then informed Greg about how important Winnie-the-Pooh was to me and Gramps. She made me flash him my tattoo on my left tricep, and what really got me going was when Reagan slipped her hand into mine under the table while we took ten minutes to talk about Gramps and how much we missed him and Grandma. I think she sensed how I started noticing his absence at the dinner table. I squeezed her hand back, and the feeling of her eased the pain of missing him.
After we grazed, the four of us slouched on the couches in the living room, had our fourth and fifth wines, and swapped worldly adventures. Mom and Greg shared the loveseat, and it was the first time I’d ever seen my mom cuddle with a man. While Reagan and I kept about a foot of space between us, Greg had his arm on the back of the loveseat, and Mom snuggled close enough to him that their legs touched. She rested her hand on his leg, and as he told us stories of his younger years traveling the world, Mom gazed up at him as if he was the most interesting person she’d met in a while. That probably filled me with happiness more than that whole Thanksgiving meal. I was so thankful that my wonderful, selfless, and caring mother found a guy who made her feel all the things she deserved to feel.
I thought Greg was going to be a boring, conservative, elitist business executive from Beverly Hills. But the guy was much more than that. He never talked about his work—or gave any indication that he had money—at all. He talked about his three daughters as if they were his gods and looked at my mom the same way she looked at him. He was funny, dorky, and an all-around good person and a good dad.
“Speaking of my middle daughter,” Greg said as he shifted his attention to Reagan after modestly bragging about his middle daughter studying pre-med at Cal Tech. “She’s a really big fan of yours. Huge fan. You should have seen her trying to buy tickets for your LA show. She almost didn’t get them and started freaking out.”
I smiled, knowing this confession was sponsored by all the wine we’d had.
“Oh, no! She got some, right?” Reagan said, and her pink cheeks and wine-soaked eyes were the cutest.
“Yeah, eventually. The system kept saying they were sold out, but she finally found some on the upper level.”
“The upper level?” Reagan scoffed at that. “Forget that. How about front row and backstage passes?”
Greg’s eyes widened, and Reagan casually sipped her wine as if she’d just offered him a ride home. Backstage passes to a sold-out world tour? No big deal.
“What? Really? You’d do that?” Greg said, probably knowing how many bonus points he was about to get with his daughter.
“I know a few people. A friend of a friend of a friend.”
“I mean, that would be great. She would be so excited—”
“Consider it done
. She deserves a break from pre-med studying. My treat. I’m very happy to do it.”
Greg’s smile stretched ear to ear when he faced Mom. “Well, I think I finished my Christmas shopping now. The best Christmas present to get a twenty-year-old.”
“You’re like Santa Claus,” I whispered to her.
“It’s what I always wanted to be.”
“Want me to get you more wine?”
“I probably shouldn’t. I’m already feeling it, and I have a forty-minute drive home.”
“Spend the night.” She looked at me as if I asked her to run away with me to elope. Even though her surprised stare said what the fuck, Blair, the small curve of her smile said, thank you for finally asking. “I have some clothes I can lend you, and there’s a spare room right next to mine that you don’t have to stay in at all.”
She leaned closer to me and rested a hand on my upper thigh. “I don’t want to stay in the spare room.”
I wanted that hand to slide farther up my leg. I pressed my lips together for a brief moment to suck back the desire that hit my center, and then said, “Good, you can stay in my bed instead. Now, since you’re staying here, can I get you another glass?”
“Only if you’re going to have some too.”
“Obviously.”
As I got off the couch, I grabbed her hand briefly and slowly let my fingers glide off her. Grinning the whole way to the kitchen, I was so thankful that everything was falling back into place. The mindless touching, flirting, deep eye gazing.
Thank you, Winnie-the-Pooh.
Since we still had yet to touch the pinot grigio, I popped open the bottle and poured it into the freshly rinsed wine glasses. This overwhelming sense of contentment ran through me. I felt…whole. It was a feeling that filled me when I was younger with Mom, Grandma, and Gramps during the holidays. It used to be my favorite time of year when my family was still here. But ever since Grandma left us, the holidays became lonelier, and I thought that the first Thanksgiving and Christmas without Gramps and Grandma would be so miserable. Though I still had the urge to ask Gramps if he wanted another Johnnie Walker Blue neat and realized several times there was no Johnnie Walker or Gramps, I felt as whole as one could be. It helped that Mom seemed happy for the first time this year, and it helped that I had Reagan close to my side throughout the whole day.
That was when I found Mom standing next to me. She rested her cheek on her palm with a curious, mischievous smirk etched on her face.
“I see you’re fetching her wine?” she said with a playful twinkle in her dark eyes.
“It’s the least I could do. Did you see that book she got me?”
“I did, and I want to know what you two are about.”
I glanced into the living room and noticed Reagan had scooted into my spot on the couch to get closer to Greg. The two were talking about something, seemingly okay with being alone with each other while my mother dragged the gossip out of me.
“So, something?” Mom said, eyebrows raised, attention right on my face, like a meddling teenager at a sleepover.
“It’s…”
“It’s what? Tell me!”
I faltered. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? How is it complicated? I’ve never seen a girl look at you the way Reagan looks at you.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like you’re everything. And you do it too. You look at her like she’s everything.”
Warmth crawled up my whole body and took over my face. It was a feeling that I’d never experienced before. A feeling that I always ran away from but not anymore. I embraced it. What was going on with me? Was it all the sage I inhaled on tour? Was it all the wine I already drank?
“Your voice even changes when you talk to her,” Mom said. “It gets all high-pitched and goofy. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Seriously, did Mom have her heat on? Like, at seventy-five? My neck started to sweat from just pouring wine into glasses.
“My voice doesn’t change, and you do the same thing with Greg!”
“I know, and it’s great.” She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder to take a peek at Greg and Reagan. Reagan had now moved onto the loveseat with Greg, and he showed her pictures on his phone that I only assumed to be of his three daughters. “I really like him,” Mom continued. “Isn’t he great?”
“He actually is. Consider yourself lucky to find a good person on the internet.”
She faced me again. “And I know you like her, Blair. You can deny it all you want, but she bought you a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh. That told me everything before I could hear both of your voices change or both of you giving each other these looks like you’re completely smitten. I finally get why you broke up with Alanna now. She never made you do that.”
I patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, now you’re getting it.”
“Maybe Reagan’s the one you’ve been saving yourself for.”
“Okay, that sounds really religious and disgusting.”
“What? It’s true. I like to think of your heart as china—”
I made a face. “Like the country?”
“No, like a nice china set. It’s beautiful and valuable, but it’s always locked up and never put to use. You have so much to offer someone if you allowed them to open the door. But I have a feeling you’re keeping that locked up for someone special.”
I raised a skeptical brow. “You’re referring to my heart as china? Like Grandma’s china?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m no poet, Blair, and I know you understand what I’m trying to say; you’re just terrified that I’m saying it. Falling for someone isn’t a scary thing, hon. It’s a beautiful thing, and if you relax and stop running from it, you’ll see how beautiful it could be. Use that good heart of yours. Don’t keep it locked up. That’s all I have to say about that.”
“She’s gonna spend the night.”
“Then it’s a good thing that my room is at the opposite end of the condo, isn’t it?” She squeezed my arm and headed back into the living room, leaving me with heat on my face.
Moms knew everything. I hated it.
Mom, Gramps, Grandma, and I had a family tradition on Thanksgiving evening. We always watched The Polar Express to celebrate the start of the Christmas season. Grandma loved Christmas, and she would bake an assortment of all the best Christmas cookies the night before to eat while we watched the movie, and Gramps made hot chocolate. In the later years after Grandma passed, Gramps and I snuck into the kitchen to add some whiskey to our hot chocolates and snickered to each other because Mom never caught on. I always looked forward to that little secret we shared for those last five years of his life. Now, we didn’t have the cookies, but we had two pies, still tons of wine, and hot chocolate that I spiked with whiskey, an ode to Gramps because I knew he was having the same wherever he was in the universe.
At first, I was wary of getting really comfortable with Reagan on the couch for fear of Mom’s teasing, but I noticed Mom relaxed back into Greg’s chest, and she was way too focused on the movie and Greg to be paying attention to Reagan and me. But about a half hour into the movie, our legs were touching. We looked at each other, then at the blanket that cloaked our legs, and I forced myself to put my arm around her shoulder. She cozied into me, wrapped an arm around my stomach, and rested her head on my shoulder. For the rest of the movie, I inhaled her shampoo and perfume and absentmindedly started rubbing up and down her arms, and her hand found the inside of my thigh.
After the movie, Mom showed Greg to her room, and I did the same with Reagan. While I gave her privacy to change after presenting her with clothes to sleep in, I went downstairs to grab some water. I found Mom outside on the patio, looking out at the twinkling lights from the homes stacked on top of each other in typical Southern California fashion.
“Hey,” I said, creeping outside.
She smiled and gave me a half hug while clutching on to the remains of her pinot grigio with her ot
her hand. “Oh, hi, dear. Are you and Reagan all set up for your big girl sleepover?”
“Are you and Greg?”
“Soon. Just wanted to finish my wine and enjoy the night. He’s catching up with his girls. They’re with their mother in San Francisco.”
I rested my head on her shoulder and let out the longest sigh of my life about the truth I was about to utter. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I have a confession.”
“Okay.”
“Reagan and I…we’ve…well…we’ve been sleeping together.”
Mom’s facial expression made it seem as if I told her that we were engaged. “What? You have? Pause this! I’ll grab the wine—”
“No, you don’t. That’s really it. I mean, it’s kinda been put on hold since she’s been in Europe, but that’s the extent to whatever this is. Just sex.”
“I knew it! I knew it the second she walked in. You were watching her sprinkle cheese with this look of full infatuation in your eyes.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“You don’t sound very happy that it’s just sex.”
“I don’t know if she likes me enough to date me or if she just sees me as a hookup.”
“Well, she’s quite the romantic with her hookups, then, if she’s buying you a first edition Winnie-the-Pooh.”
I shrugged. “She gives me butterflies. Like all the time.”
Confirming it felt so rewarding, like finally breathing after holding my breath for so long.
“Oh, honey,” she said in the most sympathetic Mom tone I’d heard come out of her. Her grip around my shoulders tightened and turned into a full, motherly embrace. She knew me better than I knew myself. She knew that, for whatever reason that was never psychoanalyzed by a therapist, I had trouble admitting my feelings. “I’ve never heard you say that about a girl.”
“Because it’s true. Because Reagan is…well…different. She’s so different.”
I pulled away from the hug and rested my arms against the patio railing, glancing out at the flickering homes up and down the rolling hills of Los Feliz.
Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things Page 15
