It soothes something behind my sternum, hearing him say it.
“I’ll let you go,” I say.
“You can stay, if you want.”
“Okay.”
We talk as I get ready for bed, brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas. He tells me about getting to ride a horse on the ranch today and making hot chocolate with Clara after dinner last night. He asks me what a six-year-old girl would want for Christmas. I ask if he’s picked where he will go after New Year’s and he tells me he still hasn’t decided.
Hours have passed when my eyes start to droop, staring at the peel-and-stick stars on the ceiling of my Airstream. My heart feels lighter, and the tension in my body has unspooled into something languid.
“Tell me the stories about the stars,” I say. My voice slurs a little, drunk with tiredness.
“What story?” he asks. He got ready for bed, too, about an hour ago, and I had to stop myself from picturing him spread out beneath the sheets, warm skin against cool fabric.
“Any of them. You told me about Cassiopeia, Pegasus, and Andromeda.”
“You remember.” He sounds surprised but pleased.
“Mmhmm.”
“Okay,” he says, and he’s quiet a moment. “Do you know the story of Taurus?”
I shake my head in the dark, even though he can’t see it. “No.”
His voice is hypnotic. “Zeus fell in love with a princess. I can’t remember her name right now, but he turned himself into a white bull to try to win her affection.”
“Men either do too much or too little,” I say with a yawn, and smile when he laughs, warm and husky.
“When she climbed on his back, he ran to the sea and swam them to Crete, then placed Taurus in the sky to commemorate it.”
“Why do you like that one?”
He laughs again. “When I was a kid, I think I thought it was cool and romantic. But it’s stupid now that I’m older. You can’t just run off with the person you love.”
“No,” I agree, another yawn overtaking me. “Tell me another one.”
I fall asleep to the sound of his voice, telling me stories of the stars.
IspendChristmasdayat Evan’s house, watching Clara open presents and eating Kate’s homemade cookies. I even talk Evan into letting me cook a side for lunch—a recipe for roasted vegetables that Stevie taught me—and they turn out surprisingly edible. It still feels like Mom should be here, in this house she only got to spend one Christmas in, but I don’t feel as wrecked as I thought I would.
Evan, Kate, and Clara went to her grave yesterday, to take her a bouquet of pine leaves, eucalyptus, and holly berries, the same kind she would splurge on at the florist each holiday season. They invited me, but I haven’t been yet, and I didn’t want my first time to be with other people, even if they are family.
I’m going to go today when I leave their house, and just the thought has my stomach pinching. I don't want to go back to that cemetery, the last place I saw her. I don’t want to go back now, knowing her presence won’t be there, that it will feel just as empty as the funeral. I don’t want to go look at her gravestone.
I want to hear her voice. I want to tell her that I think I’m in love, and I don’t know what to do about it. I want her to meet Stevie and tell me that she loves her too.
Evan catches me in the kitchen, cleaning up the dishes from lunch. He shakes his head. “You really don’t need to do that. We never do any house chores on Christmas. We wake up the day after to a nasty house and spend the whole day cleaning, but it’s worth it to have a day off.”
“Well,” I say, loading the last dish in the dishwasher. “Now you won’t have to.”
“You don’t have to go today if you don’t want to,” he says, knowing eyes fixed on me.
I pull the plug from the sink, letting the gurgling water fill the silence so I can gather my thoughts. When it gets quiet again, I say, “I know, but I want to.”
He lifts a brow. “Do you?”
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah, I do.” The dish towel twists in my hands. “I’m tired of avoiding her—Mom.”
