by Angel Lawson
“It’s called volunteering,” Xavier says obnoxiously. “Nice people do it because they like helping others. People like you and me do it in an attempt to clean up our karma.” He shoves his hands in his jacket, rolling his eyes. “Look, my grandma comes to this community center. She signed me up. And then I signed you up.”
I nod, swiping a cookie from the cotton-snow-covered snack table. I grumble, “I guess I could use a little karma repairing.”
Xavier snorts and leads us over to a table manned by a woman in a festive red smock. He gives her our names, and her beady eyes closely assess us.
“You two look like strong, strapping fellows. How about helping with the tree lot out back? They’ll need assistance getting trees tied onto the top of cars.”
“Great,” Xavier says, handing me a name tag.
“You seriously want me to spend the afternoon throwing trees on the top of cars?” I aggressively slap the sticker on my chest, flat across the PP on my letter jacket.
Xavier elbows me. “I want you to chill out, relax, and just focus on something other than your personal drama for once.” His eyes dart around the room before leading me out the back door.
I guess it could be worse. We could have to wear one of those elf costumes. And ever since that day I tried going to the Adams house, my shoulder is feeling a lot better. Apparently, Brayden still has a lot of contacts from his varsity football days. He took me straight to an office that specializes in sports injuries. After a fucking painful massage, and an assessment where they determined at least half my problem was from holding in too much stress, he took me back to Hollis’ with sheets of instructions. It’s not one-hundred-percent—I suspect this is going to be one of those things I’ll need to patient about—but the freedom I feel just being able to lift something like a Christmas tree is a potent thing.
An hour later, I have to admit that Xavier and Hollis are right. I needed to take a shower and get out of the house. Strapping down trees all day turns out to be a stupidly satisfying experience. It feels good to work again, to feel the pull and burn of my muscles, to do something solid and tangible with my body again. And watching those little kids' eyes light up when they see their tree tied to the top of the car is surprisingly cool, too.
“Guys,” the coordinator of the tree lot says, “there’s a couple of girls two rows over who need help.”
“I’ve got it,” Xavier says, patting the hood of the car we’re just finishing with.
I’ve tied down two trees before I realize he still hasn’t come back. I wander down the rows and hear his voice, alongside a girl’s, one over. I should’ve known. This fucker bailed on his own karmic project to flirt, leaving me to do all the work. I start around the corner when someone grabs me by the arm, pulling me back.
“Watch it—” I say, but swallow the rest as my eyes fall on the face of the person tightly gripping my arm. It’s the face that’s haunted my dreams for the last few weeks. “Oh. Hey.”
She looks amazing. She’s wearing a bright red hat pulled low over her ears, despite it not being cold enough here to merit one, as if it was done for the mere novelty of it. Her cheeks are pink, and her lips have a bit of a shine, like she’s wearing Chapstick. She looks better than the last time I saw her, lacking the dark circles beneath her eyes and the stark deadness within them.
She gazes up at me, those long eyelashes of hers blinking. She blurts, “You have a beard.”
I slowly raise my hand to my chin, stroking it idly. “Yeah, uh… I just—”
Her gaze jumps to the side, her hand squeezing my forearm. “Shhh! Don’t interrupt them.”
I glance around the corner to catch sight of Xavier and the girl he’s talking to. She’s cute, with long blonde hair and bright green eyes. She tilts her face toward Xavier’s and grins. His own face lights up with a bright smile in response.
“Who—” I start but stop myself. It hits me like a ton of bricks. I look down at Gwendolyn. “Is that Skylar?”
“Yes.” She takes another quick fire glance at them before using her grip on my arm to drag me a row over. Finally, she releases me, explaining, “Just give them a minute to talk?”
I stare at her. “You’re okay with them talking?”
Her smile is small and rueful. “They need some time to work things out. It’s not really my business.” Her gaze flicks down to my name tag, and then the work gloves. “You’re working here?”
“Volunteering,” I correct her, eyes rolling. “Or, more accurately, it’s really volun-tolding. I got tricked.” I rock back on my heels, pretending with all my might that I’m not sweating under my jacket. “It’s not so bad.”
“Huh.” She tugs at her winter hat. “I would’ve thought community service. You know, for kicking Heston’s ass.” One of her perfect eyebrows vanishes under the edge of the hat. “I guess I owe you a thanks for that.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say, but then decide to take a chance. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, actually. Do you think—”
“Not now,” she says quietly as Xavier walks around the corner, lugging a tree on his back. “Hey!” she says to him, a touch too brightly. Her eyes dart between her sister and Xavier. “Look who I ran into. It’s like a class reunion.”
“Oh! Hi, Hamilton.” Skylar gives me a reluctant grin—although it’s nowhere near as bright as the one she gives Xavier.
I manage a weak wave. “Hi.”
Xavier senses the tension and claps his hands together, turning toward the check out. “Come on, I’ll get this tied down for you.”
“Great,” Skylar says and they both walk off.
I look back at Gwendolyn, but she speaks before I get a chance. “I hear you’re staying with your sister.”
I huff out a feeble laugh. “Xavier is such a gossip.”
“He really is.” Her expression turns concerned. “And you quit swim? And you didn’t turn in your college applications?”
I shrug, looking away. “That’s more or less accurate.”
She punches me in the arm. “Ow! What the hell, Adams!” Despite the fact that she didn’t even hit the arm with the bad shoulder, I growl, “You and Brayden seriously need to get DNA tested.”
She ignores this, eyes flashing as she throws her hands up. “Why did you give all of it up? I handed it to you, dumbass. All you had to do was coast.”
I rub my arm dramatically. It doesn’t really hurt, or if it does, I can’t tell over the feeling of my heart banging a wild percussion in my chest. I confess, “I guess after you left, I realized it’s not as fun with no one there to compete with. What’s the point if I’m not kicking your metaphorical ass?”
I see a spark in her eye—that competitive spirit that’s always drawn me in. Something passes between us, and it’s familiar, heated, and just as strong as it ever was.
“Gwen? You ready?” Skylar calls.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” she calls back. She starts off but I grab her arm, tugging her back. She blinks at me. “What?”
“I really do want to talk,” I say, begging her with my eyes.
“Well,” she says, holding my gaze, “if that’s something you really want, then you’ll have to figure out how to make it happen.”
Her response surprises me, jolts me, and I drop her arm.
She walks toward the car, hopping in the driver’s seat. Skylar gets in next to her, the tree tied securely on top. Xavier walks back to my side, waving as their doors close.
“What did she say?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth.
“I think she just issued me a challenge.”
“Oh yeah?” His gaze flits briefly to me. “You going to take it?”
I nod, watching the car pull out of the parking lot. “Since when have I said no to a challenge?”
30
Gwen
The days before Christmas pass quickly, filled with shopping, baking, and all of our family traditions. They’re also filled with something unexpected. Little gifts begi
n showing up for me on the front step. They’re wrapped shoddily—too much tape, jaggedly cut paper—like it was either done by a child or someone who has never wrapped a gift in their entire life.
Someone with delicate hands.
The first day is a T-shirt, personalized to ‘Monkey Bar President’, and it’s randomly cryptic enough that it takes me a few solid hours to work up a good suspicion regarding who it’s from, and what it’s a reference to.
The second day is a box of Eggos, which erased all my doubt as to who was sending them.
The third day, a pizza arrives, and it’s feta and artichoke, prompting a lot of questions from my family.
“Care to share who this secret admirer is?” Mom asks as I take a bite, making it impossible to reply.
“Is it Tyson?” Michaela wonders, propping her chin on her fists. “I like him.”
“I like him, too. I also like his girlfriend,” I reply, not wanting my sister to run with a new rumor.
“Well, who else could it be?” she asks, picking off a piece of feta. “You don’t know anyone else.”
Micha stays conspicuously silent about it all, while Brayden just sends me significant looks. They both must know. I’m pretty sure I know how Micha feels about it, given his whole forgiveness lecture, but Brayden’s a bit of a mystery. Granted, that alone is saying a lot. A few days prior, he’d gone with me to the store to find a joint gift for Dad, and had brought Hamilton up. It was jarring, to say the least, especially when he turned to me and said, “I don’t know if he’s a good person, and you definitely deserve better. But that guy is a complete fucking mess over you, Gwen. You need to hear him out. Woman up and let him tell his side. You both need it.”
When he told me about Hamilton coming over to see me, I was stunned speechless. When he told me that Hamilton had nothing to do with what happened to Micha, I realized that he didn’t even need to. Deep down, I suppose I already suspected—already knew that Hamilton was better than that, even at his worst. Then Brayden confessed that he’d taken Hamilton to have that damn shoulder finally looked at. What is going on here?
It’s not a blessing, but it isn’t not a blessing, either. I get the feeling Brayden has absolved Hamilton for the crimes he had no part in, and feels the rest could be forgiven, for someone who really wanted it, really earned it.
Other than the gifts, I haven’t heard a word from Hamilton. That’s not unusual, but these new tactics definitely are. Before, when he wanted something, he either took it or hounded me into giving it to him. This is something way different. This is a marathon, not a sprint, and Hamilton Bates has always been a sprinter.
Something has changed.
On Christmas Eve, I make increasingly pathetic excuses to go outside and check the porch. I pretend I’m looking for a UPS package. I need to get something out of the car. I need to put a card in the mailbox, despite knowing the mail won’t even run tomorrow. But each time I go out there, the front step is annoyingly void of any gifts, and I begin to worry that the game is over.
This upsets me more than I’d like.
Maybe those three things are all he knows about me? Maybe that’s all there is. Maybe our relationship is hollow and predicated on nothing more than years of competitive angst toward each other. All the same, maybe he’s just been waiting for me to respond in some way? How would I go about doing that? Where would I leave the presents? I don’t even know where his sister lives.
There are no rules here. Hamilton and I are in the wilderness.
I try not to let it get me down, instead determined to focus on my family for the remainder of the day. Every Christmas Eve since the dawn of mankind, my mom has made a big pot of her incredible potato soup, and for the last couple years, Skylar and Michaela have made fresh bread to go with it. Brayden and my dad spend each year making bets on the football game, and Micha adds another move to the rather ambitious Christmas dance routine he’s been building on since he was six. We already have way too many desserts, and we gather around to watch classic Christmas movies in our matching pajamas, which is another Adams tradition. It started as a way to get the twins to settle down and go to bed, but now that everyone is older, it’s just something we have to do every year.
We’re in the middle of A Year Without Santa Claus when there’s a knock on the front door. Dad’s in the kitchen getting more cookies, and a few minutes later he calls, “Gwen, can you come in here?”
“Sure,” I reply, gathering my dishes. I walk into the room, but stop abruptly, nearly dropping the china to the floor.
Hamilton Bates is in my kitchen.
“I’ll take those,” Dad says, gently removing the dishes from my hands. “And give you two some privacy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hamilton says. My first thought is to mentally acknowledge that he still hasn’t shaved that beard. My second thought is ‘good’. It makes him alarmingly attractive. Which is not to say that he wasn’t already alarmingly attractive, but this makes him look more rugged, less pretty.
His eyes sweep over my red pajamas.
“Um,” I look around, face heating, “let’s go in the living room.”
The living room is a formal space off the front of the house. It’s currently housing the tree we got from the lot, which has been horrendously draped in so much tinsel and glitter that even Micha had said, “This may be a bit much.” There’s a low fire going in the fireplace, more for the festive ambiance than anything else. This is the only time of the year it ever sees any use. This, plus the lights on the tree, cast the room in a warm, twinkling glow. The stockings hanging from the mantle, and most of the tree’s ornaments are handmade. This is something that I probably would have been embarrassed for Hamilton to see in the past, but I’m not anymore. He can see the real me—my real family. Glittery ornaments, badly sewn stockings, and all.
“I like your pajamas,” he says, lips lifting in a smile.
“Mom has this thing about matching PJs.” I tug at the hem of my shirt and try not to cringe. There’s a dancing reindeer on the front. It’s not exactly my first choice of things I want Hamilton to see me in at this moment.
The warmth of the lights reflects in his eyes as he watches me. “They’re cute.”
My stomach flip-flops and I lace my fingers together, pressing my fists into my belly like a stern warning. Behave. “I like your beard.”
His hand comes up to rub his chin, and it’s quiet enough that I can hear the soft rasp of it against his fingertips. “Yeah?”
“It’s sexy.” The compliment slips out before I can stop myself. I close my eyes in mortification, but Hamilton just grins.
He gestures at me. “To be fair, I wanted to say your pajamas looked sexy, too, but I was restraining myself.”
I snort a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure the prancing reindeer are really doing it for you.”
“It’s not the reindeer that make it sexy,” he says, his dark gaze holding mine.
That flicker of heat that always ebbs between us sparks to life. I stutter out, “Thank you for the gifts. I probably should have texted you or—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You told me to figure out what I want, and first and foremost, I want to apologize for everything. All the bad shit. I had this... this thought, right? That it was too many things to list.” His mouth curves into a wry smirk. “But then that just made it seem like a challenge.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick square of paper. As he’s unfolding the pages, he says, “Now, my memory is aces, but I’ll confess to bribing Emory with tickets to my dad’s box seats for the Falcons if he helped me remember some of the older stuff. You know how he is.”
He clears his throat, eyes jumping to mine as he reads, “When we had that district-wide ‘talented and gifted’ luncheon in fourth grade, I ate the entire apple pie from the dessert cart, and then I told everyone that you did it.” He pauses, adding, “I feel like I already paid my karmic debt with that one, because I was sick the whole night, but—” He takes a pen from
his pocket, crossing it out.
“Number two,” he continues. “That same week, at recess, I more or less organized a very strong opposition to your position at the monkey bars. If you’ll recall, it got excessively heated.”
I’ve had my hand over my mouth, fighting a smile, but at this, I pipe in, “It’s true. Fourth graders take monkey bars politics very seriously.”
He nods in agreement, crossing it out. “Number three. Two weeks later—or it could have been after spring break, I’m not sure—that time I stepped on your doll’s hair so you couldn’t pick it up. You were—”
“Hamilton.” I reach out, gingerly taking the papers between two fingers and sliding them out of his hand. “This isn’t necessary.”
He frowns as he watches me take the papers away, reluctantly tucking the pen back into his pocket. He nods. “You can read it later, I guess.”
“I don’t need to read it,” I insist, folding the pages back into their thick square. “I forgive you.”
His frown deepens and he looks away. “It can’t be that simple, Gwen.”
“Sure it can,” I argue, shrugging. I hold up the square of paper, waiting for him to meet my gaze, and then I chuck it into the fire. “See?”
His eyes follow it, face gone slack as we both watch the pages burn. “I—” His mouth works around something silent and complicated enough that his eyes go wide. “I didn’t even get to the real shit yet.”
“This is the real shit.” When he meets my gaze, I let out a gusty sigh. “I’m done living in the past, Hamilton. It’s exhausting.”
He’s silent for a few long moments, just staring back at me, and I can’t tell what’s going through his head, but those eyes—the ones that are always schooled into cool distance—brim with life.
“I—” he starts, but stops, running his hand through his hair before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a small package wrapped in red and green paper and hands it over. “Here.”
I take the gift. It’s heavy and wrapped just as haphazardly as the others, and he gestures with a nod for me to open it. My heart hammers as I slide a finger under the tape and pull away the paper. From the back, I see that it’s a silver frame. I turn it over and my chest constricts.
