“Show-off,” Hart huffs predictably, nudging me with his foot, which has me grinning.
“Did I stumble upon a weakness of AlexanderThe GreatHart?” I muse.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Ah, right, first names. Just Alex then.”
“It’sXander,” he corrects me with a dark growl, and I’m suddenly reminded of yesterday. An unexpected shiver chases down my spine at the memory of how he rolled on top of me so easily, his hips pressed against my own. I shake my head to get rid of the mental image.
“Why are you so intense about the nickname?” I ask as I start beating the eggs.
Hart stays quiet for a beat, gnawing on his lower lip as he watches me work. “There’s too many Alexes,” he provides with a sigh. “There were three in the foster home I stayed in after my parents died.”
I want to fucking kick myself for accidentally circling us back to this topic.
“So you…” I begin, but trail off when I pour the eggs into the now preheated pan, right on top of the melting butter.
“So I felt the need to set myself apart. Be the polka-dotted puppy in a brown litter.”
He grins crookedly, but my heart sinks at the horrible thought of children waiting to be picked up like puppies at a dog pound before Christmas.
“Did you want to get adopted?” I ask, after realizing I know nothing of his origins. One would assume it’s the ultimate goal, but the longer I ponder it, the more horrified the thought of continuing life with absolute strangers leaves me.
“From what I remember, no, not at first. It was more like…what everyone expected I would want?” Hart clears his throat. His blue eyes are trained on where my hands are pushing the egg mixture around with a spatula.
“When I went to stay with my mothers, it took me a long while to understand that it was okay to allow myself to love them as parents. That by doing so, I wasn’t somehow cheating on my birth parents.”
My breath comes out in short little bursts, and I pluck at my shirt. This is not a talk I imagined I would have with Hart this morning. Or ever. Somehow, I can’t get over what he said about needing to set himself apart. To stand out and please.
“I will need an entirely new nickname for you then,” I tell him after a long moment of silence. The first batch of scrambled eggs is distributed on the plates, and I have settled Hart with a cutting board and some bell peppers.
“Why can’t you just use the nickname I already have?” he asks with a groan, and I smirk.
“Because everyone calls you that—and I like to be a special polka-dotted bitch, too.”
Xander, December 26th
With the tentative peace established between myself and Nicko, the winter holidays fly past.
We take out Coach for more walks, dragging Nate along with us, though he stays at the back of the group, interacting with the dog as little as possible. I can’t relate there, and throw as many sticks as Coach likes, run with him through the snow, and try to buy his attention away from Nicko with treats.
Twice more we clear the driveway, although there’s no more snowball fights, as it starts to get colder and the snow freezes overnight. We actually have to work hard to make it safe for Mr. and Mrs. Van der Hoff to drive to work.
All too soon it’s Christmas Day. We spend the morning like a typical American family, exchanging gifts.
I have a bottle of wine for Mr. and Mrs. Van der Hoff, along with Vermont maple fudge. Nate gets a new book, and his brother gets a small bundle as well. In turn I get an eBook reader from my best friend. The expensive present makes me squirm.
Nicko’s present to me is an envelope. I half expect it to be one of those gift cards that play endless music as soon as they’reopened. I throw him a short glance, but he’s absorbed in teasing Nate about already burying his nose in his new book.
I open the envelope. It really is a card, but it doesn’t make any noises. There’s no note, only the subscription code for theNew York TimesGames. Which means unlimited Wordles for an entire year!
It’s unexpectedly thoughtful, and I feel like the boxers with the Rebels’ logo and the pack of sweets I got him can’t hold up. I almost say that out loud, but then think better of it.
Once the excitement over the gifts has died down, we all settle more or less quietly on the couch. Nate and I finish the daily Wordle, then we marvel at all the new games my subscription opens up to me. We end up doing crosswords until it’s time for dinner.
I feel odd, sitting amongst another family, celebrating with them. I don’t know if the topic is more prominent in my head because of the conversation with Nicko the other morning, but I have a hard time not comparing this to when I was younger and still newly adopted.
I’m glad when I can excuse myself from the table to take my plate and sit at the desk in the guest room. The screen of my laptop stays empty for a few moments before the call connects.
