Deck the Halls

by Donna Alward

  “But you didn’t do those things.”

  “Oh, I did. But it didn’t go the way it was supposed to.” He sighed and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa. “I tried, Amy. God, I tried. I came home and looked up Jennie. We did have all kinds of sex, until she clued in that it wasn’t love I was looking for but escape. Step one—I blew up that relationship. Oh, and I drank a lot of beer and watched sunsets. And sunrises, and the sun at any time of day, unless it was cloudy, and I drank then, too. And I did take the bike trip, but only got as far as Concord. It seemed pretty pointless so I ditched the bike. Ditched everything. Lived in a shitty old dive until my money ran out and I was kicked out. I tried a few jobs but nothing stuck. I kept missing days and I’d get fired, over and over again. A year after I got home and I was on the street, drifting from town to town.”

  Amy was quiet for a long time. George waited for her to say something and yet she didn’t. He looked over at her and tried to figure out the look on her face, but he couldn’t read that, either. “What is it? Just say whatever you’re thinking. It can’t possibly be worse than anything I’ve said to myself over the years.”

  Her brows pulled together. “I just don’t know how to ask this.”

  “Ask what?”

  Her gaze touched his and her lips worked a bit before she finally said, “If it was so hopeless, why did you stay? Why didn’t you . . . did you . . . I mean, something kept you going from day to day.”

  “You’re asking if I thought about suicide, and why didn’t I do it?”

  She nodded, but he could tell by the worry in her eyes that she was afraid of his answer.

  “I thought about it at first. And then I thought that would be taking the easy way out. For a long time I thought I was meant to suffer. After a while I stopped feeling that so sharply, you know? But then . . . homelessness is just a hard cycle to get out of, even when you start wanting to. Getting your life back seems like such an uphill climb it feels like it’s impossible to take the first step. Laurel treated me like a human being instead of a thing that needed to be dealt with or given charity. I started to stand taller and feel like a man again. And for the most part I do. But days like today, when I relive what I’ve done . . . it’s hard, Amy. It’s fucking hard not to go back to feeling like that failure who let everyone down.”

  She lifted her hand and placed it on his cheek. He leaned into the touch, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’d been without real human contact for so long that he couldn’t resist. “You’re not a failure,” she whispered, sliding closer. “You’re not. You’re the walking wounded, George, and you were the one who was let down when you came home. You should have had supports in place. You should have had family to turn to . . . God, I wish you’d come to us. I wish it hadn’t taken fifteen years for me to tell you that it’s okay and that . . . I don’t forgive you because there’s nothing to forgive.”

  He didn’t realize he’d started to cry until she pulled him close and put his head on her shoulder. His lip wobbled and his chest cramped so hard it hurt to breathe, and the sobs came out harsh and ugly and painfully. He cried for the friend he’d lost and the years he’d lost and the benediction he’d just received, and when it was over, he realized her arms were wrapped around him and her fingers were stroking his hair as a mother would a small child. He’d never had that in his life, not really. He didn’t remember his parents, or even when he’d been put into “the system.” As a foster kid he’d had more mothers than he’d had grade school teachers. He’d just get used to a place and then he’d have to leave, all his belongings in a single bag, on to another family. He’d had his heart broken so many times that as a teenager he’d made sure he didn’t stay in one situation too long so he couldn’t get attached. He’d run away or been too much trouble. He’d certainly never felt the unconditional acceptance he did in this moment.

  He still didn’t feel as if he deserved it.

  “You’ve been waiting a long time for that, haven’t you?” she asked softly.

  He pushed out of her arms, even though they felt so good. “Yeah.” His voice was rough and unsteady.

  “George, I don’t know what kind of support you have in place now, but you’ve got to talk to someone and get the right treatment.”

  He snorted a little, then briskly wiped his eyes and rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, right. Going through all that red tape? It’s ridiculous.”

  “Then let me help you navigate it.” She smiled at him. “I’m in HR. Policies, forms, and red tape are my specialty.”

  “I can’t do that. Don’t worry about me. I’m getting by. And I’m getting things together . . .”

  She rubbed his knee. “You deserve more than to just ‘get by.’ A few years ago, a woman in our office was raped. She was a mess for a long time, but then she did some therapy to help her get through the PTSD. It was so helpful, you know? We can find a qualified therapist for you.”

  He let out a breath, feeling more than a little raw. “Can we talk about it another time? It’s been an intense night already.”

  “Of course.” Her fingers squeezed his knee. “I just want you to know that Ian would want this for you. He’d want you to be whole, and happy. So do I. You’re not alone anymore, George. You have friends here, and a job you like, and you have family, too.”

  He wasn’t sure her magnanimity would extend to her parents; they’d lost their son, too. But at the same time, he wanted to accept what she was offering so much. Learning to reach out for help, for friendship, had been so hard. He was still learning how to be that person again. To be able to not only accept friendship, but to give it in return.

  And then he looked at her, her eyes red and slightly swollen from crying, her lips full and red, and knew that he’d never wanted just friendship from Amy. Not since the first time he’d clapped eyes on her back in Brooklyn. She’d been his best friend’s sister and off limits then. She should still be now. Instead she’d snuck right past all his barriers. He wouldn’t kiss her; Lord, he wasn’t in any position to do such a thing, but he wanted to. Despite how weak he’d felt tonight, confessing what had happened, crying on her shoulder, for God’s sake . . . despite that weakness, right now he felt more of a man than he had in over a decade.

  Chapter Six

  Amy shrugged on her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck. “Have you got everything?” George asked, and she nodded. Her lids were heavy, both from the crying and the fact that it was one a.m. and they’d spent the whole evening talking. First about Ian; once George had let out the truth, it seemed as if a dam had opened up and the good memories of their times together on deployment came rushing out. She’d laughed at some of the stories, tucking them away in her heart, the little pieces of her brother that she had missed over the years. They’d done the dishes together, him washing, her drying, and then shared a hug when George got a little misty again over a particular memory of Thanksgiving in the desert.

  But now it was late, and she wasn’t sure where to go from here. There’d been a moment, when George had looked into her eyes, that something had happened, a tenuous, invisible connection between them that frightened her. He’d always been attractive, but now he was a bit weathered from time and experience and damned if she didn’t find it sexy. At the same time, he was so damaged. Even considering anything happening between them would be a mistake.

  She knew better than most that going into a relationship trying to fix someone was a recipe for disaster.

  She should leave. Go back to Brooklyn, spend the holiday in her brownstone and with her parents, and . . .

  And do the same damned thing she did every year. It sounded disgustingly dull and a bit sad.

  She looked up at George, who was holding out the salad bowl. “Thank you for dinner.”

  “Thank you, for everything,” she said softly. Her gaze lit on the plain Christmas tree in the corner. Thought about George trying to celebrate the holiday alone, and knew exactly how he felt. It wasn’t that she was a Grin
ch or a Scrooge and hated the holiday; she didn’t. But sometimes decorating for one, showing up at all the gatherings alone . . . and having only her own presents under the tree was depressing.

  He had his hand on the doorknob when she looked up into his face. “Do you want to go for a walk tomorrow night?”

  He hesitated. “A walk?”

  She nodded. They had to do something other than eat if they were going to spend some time together, but she didn’t want to suggest anything elaborate that could be misconstrued as a date. “I was just thinking that we could walk around Darling and see all the different Christmas lights. And if you wanted, we could put some decorations on your tree.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the tree. “Oh. Yeah, I was going to get around to that . . .”

  She smiled a little. “I put my artificial one up on December first, but I can’t really enjoy it while I’m in Darling, can I? And I can’t really put one up in the rental. I was kind of hoping there’d be one already.” Even though the holiday often felt lonely, it felt worse to ignore it altogether. “If I’m going to visit, I might as well make the most of it. I heard there’s a big tree at the town hall.”

  “There is. And there are lights through the Green as well, and around the bridge. If the weather agrees, that might be nice.”

  “Do you want to meet somewhere?”

  “I’ll pick you up. We can park at the lot off Bridge Street, walk over to town hall, and then back along Main to the Green.” He grinned, and she loved seeing his eyes light up. “If we take my truck, we can maybe pick up a few decorations. If you still feel up to decorating.”

  He looked so pleased she knew she’d make sure they dressed up his tree in style.

  She tucked the casserole dish and bowl under her arm and put her hand on his wrist. “George, thank you for telling me what happened. And for more than that . . . for sharing all those memories. There were so many parts of his life that we didn’t get to see or share. Tonight I felt close to him again.”

  “Me, too.”

  She nodded, her throat tight. “You know, the grief isn’t the same after so many years, but the questions . . . they were a real loose end.” She smiled a little. “You gave me a wonderful Christmas gift tonight. Now I’d better go so you can get some sleep. Work comes early for you, I’m guessing.”

  She was surprised when he grabbed his apartment keys and walked her to her car. A dusk-to-dawn street lamp created a disc of light toward the end of the small parking lot, but the night was silent and still. Their feet made crunching noises in the snow as they crossed to her car, and her breath puffed out in a white cloud in front of them. He took her keys and unlocked her door, the hinges squeaking in the quiet. He handed her the keys.

  “Good night, Amy,” he murmured, his hands resting on the top of her car door.

  “Good night.”

  He shut the door behind her, and she put the key in the ignition and started the engine. She let it warm for about thirty seconds, until she got self-conscious of the fact that he was standing at the front door to his building, without a jacket, making sure she got out of the parking lot okay.

  When she drove away she looked in her rear view mirror and saw he’d gone inside. Then she let out a breath and tried not to overthink what was happening—to her, to George, and to the two of them together. They were just friends. That’s all they could be. The closeness she’d felt tonight had simply been a reaction to their emotional discussion, nothing more.

  It couldn’t be more.

  * * *

  George rushed home and showered after work, washing away the dirt and pitch from working with the branches and trees all day. He dressed in clean jeans and a button down shirt, ran his hand through his hair and wondered if it was time for a cut again, and let out a big breath.

  This was not a date. Hell, the idea of dating was crazy, wasn’t it? He and Amy were connected by Ian, and George was just going to show her around town. It wasn’t like he had such a surplus of friends that he could justify turning a friendly face away. But it was more than that, too. It was how she’d smiled at him, held his hand, let him cry. They weren’t just connected through Ian’s memory . . . they were connected through shared grief.

  Damn. Crying. At one time he would have been embarrassed as hell to let anyone see his tears, but last night had been different. He’d felt . . . safe. And today he felt different. Lighter. More at peace with himself and the world around him.

  Maybe confession was good for the soul. Maybe forgiveness lifted the burden on his heart. Whatever it was, he stared in the mirror in the bathroom and realized that tonight was yet another step on the journey toward normalcy: a walk in the snow with a pretty woman. He was going to celebrate that.

  It was dark when he pulled into her driveway and got out of the truck. Nerves bounced around in his stomach as he made his way up the cobbled walk to the front door. He knocked and stood back, feeling sick to his stomach.

  All those feelings fled when she opened the door. He couldn’t think much of anything except how beautiful she was. She wore a cream-colored jacket and a fluffy pink scarf that highlighted the roses in her cheeks. Her hair was tucked beneath a matching hat, the dark waves of it just visible around her collar. But what really struck him was that she seemed genuinely happy to see him, and excited for their outing. He found himself smiling back at her.

  “You ready?” he asked, though he didn’t expect an answer.

  “Let me grab my purse,” she replied, and disappeared for a moment. She came back with a cream-and-pink shoulder bag. “Now I’m ready. I even charged up my phone so I can take some pictures.”

  She locked the door behind her, and by the time she reached the truck he had the door open for her. Was he imagining things, or did the pink in her cheeks deepen as he shut the door? He pushed away the feeling that this was somehow all too surreal and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Brace yourself. It’s a whole minute and a half to the parking lot.”

  She laughed a bit and still buckled her seatbelt. The truck was a little too loud; he hadn’t paid enough attention to the exhaust when he bought it. And it was an older model, with a few rips and tears in the interior. Her little sedan was much newer and in perfect shape, but tonight he didn’t care. He had his own wheels and he could drive a pretty woman to town for a date.

  Whoa. He pulled into the parking lot and reminded himself this was definitely not a date.

  And reminded himself again when he jogged around the front of the truck to open her door, only to find she’d already got out and was putting her bag over her shoulder.

  “Let’s go to the town hall first,” he suggested. They used the sidewalk on the regular traffic bridge to cross Fisher Creek, then turned left toward town hall. The evening was cool and cloudy, with no stars, but the odd errant snowflake drifted down, adding to the festive feel without being a nuisance for pictures or walking. When they got to the town hall, Amy pulled out her phone and took a picture of the towering tree, lit with hundreds of colorful bulbs.

  George stared at it too, and felt a contentedness spread through him. “You know, it’s not Rockefeller Center, but it’s pretty, don’t you think?”

  “I do. The whole town is really great, George. Friendly and warm. I can see why you like living here.”

  They moved past town hall and the adjacent emergency services building, then ambled toward Main Street and the businesses there. “You know, I wondered if I should stay here, or go somewhere that people didn’t know my . . . well, background is probably the best way to put it. But with my job, and the few friends I’ve made, I really didn’t want to go anywhere else. One new start seemed like enough to tackle.”

  They passed the church and stopped for a moment to admire the Nativity scene, lit by spotlights. “Oh, this is lovely.” She sighed. “You know, we used to go to midnight mass every Christmas Eve. Mom used to dress us up, too, in special clothes for all the Sundays in advent. God, how Ian hated putting on a tie, even the l
ittle clip-on ones when he was a boy. There was always a crèche inside, but never room for a really pretty scene like this. The church was right on the street and parking all around it. This is restful, don’t you think?”

  Her remembrance reached in and wrapped around his heart a bit. It wasn’t hard to imagine Ian as a boy, all dark hair and sparkly eyes full of mischief. More than that, she’d unwittingly drawn a picture of a family and a childhood that he’d always longed for and never had. “It’s beautiful,” he replied, and looked over at her. “I’d like to come here for a service sometime.” He didn’t mention that twice a month the church women provided a hot meal for those in need. He’d eaten his share of homemade soups, stews, and baked beans in the small hall at the back of the building.

  They walked further on Main, remarking at the decorations on display at businesses and residences alike. She tugged him into the General Store and pulled him to the holiday corner where a small selection of decorations were kept. She picked up a flat box containing thirty little wooden ornaments. “This is cute, don’t you think?”

  “They’re not bad.”

  “You don’t strike me as the shiny glass ball type.”

  She looked so excited he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was actually exactly that type. He couldn’t explain why, except that he’d had one Christmas as a boy that had been wonderful. He’d been six, maybe seven, and there’d been three other foster kids in the family. But the tree had been beautiful, and he’d got a toboggan from Santa. He hadn’t minded that he’d had to share, and hadn’t minded that the rest of his presents had been underwear and socks and jeans and T-shirts instead of all the latest toys on TV. He’d spent two whole months tugging that sled back up the hill before zooming down again. Before he’d had another switch to a new foster home.