“So what does that mean, then?” I ask. “This being ‘unregrettable’.”
Something flares in my chest before I can stop it. That annoying little spark of hope, showing up uninvited. I shouldn’t let it stay. Darcy’s made it clear. She’s not looking for anything real. Not with me. Probably not with anyone. And I thought I was clear too, but ever since I met her, everything has become blurry.
And that doesn’t stop the part of me that wants her to say something. Something that sounds like “maybe,” like “not yet”, like “almost”. Something that would make it okay for this to mean more to me.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, then goes quiet. Her eyes catch mine, and something in them softens. “Look, I don’t—I can’t do anything serious,” she says.
My throat goes dry. But I just nod, like it’s nothing.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. And damn, I should’ve majored in theater, because it rolls off my tongue, so smooth, so sure, like I wasn’t just out here wishing on some goddamn star that Darcy Cole might change her mind for me, might be feeling what I’ve been feeling too. I almost believe it myself.
“I wasn’t suggesting that. I mean, I can’t either. I don’t have time.”
It’s almost the truth, but it feels so far from it. Because if I had the choice, I’d spend all my time with Darcy. And yet, that’s part of the problem.
Her head bobs, but something flickers in her eyes when I say it. For a second, I almost mistake it for disappointment. Almost. But I pull myself back.
“Yeah, no, I knew that,” she says, turning her head away. She stares up at the ceiling.
I stare at her.
We sit there silently for a bit, as we always do. I usually enjoy the silences. These little stretches of nothing but breaths and heartbeats. But this one isn’t as magnetizing as the ones before. It’s not pulling us closer. And all I want to do is break it. To tell her the truth.
I know if I do, she’ll just pull away. So I hold my breath and stare at the ceiling too.
“Are you staying in Seattle for winter break?” she asks after a minute. I shake my head against the sheets.
“Nah, I’m going back to the valley,” I answer.
“Oh.” In my peripheral, I see her tilt her head to look at me again. My heart pounds against my ribcage, and I swallow before turning to look at her too. Our noses touch.
“I should go,” I whisper.
I watch the lump in her throat bounce as she swallows. “Yeah.”
But I don’t. Instead, I lay there until Darcy drifts to sleep, and I sneak out of the room just past midnight, wishing I had a reason to stay longer.
Twenty Nine
Darcy
My mom’s never been great with crying. My dad’s the soft one. He gets misty during raw dog food commercials, but my mom grew up in a bootstraps kind of household, where feelings were things you dealt with silently, or not at all. So, watching the face she’s making right now?Hilarious.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” Cleo sniffles, her eyes glassy and overflowing. She’s holding up the pajama set my parents just gave her, identical to the one I just opened. Including the size, which means hers will be comically long. But Cleo doesn’t even seem to notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
The golden threads weaved throughout the plaid fabric glow in the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree behind her. When she stretches the shirt out, to see the full style of it, her arm grazes a branch, sending a wave of fresh pine in my direction.
Cleo doesn’t really talk about her family much. They’re all the way in Chicago, and her relationship with them… it’s complicated. So when she didn’t have plans for Christmas, and since I live and breathe for this holiday, I invited her to spend it with us. We do Christmas on Christmas Eve. I don’t really know why. It’s just how it’s always been.
My mom watches Cleo cry like she’s got the plague. Her brows furrow.
“It’s…Ross,” she says confusedly, gesturing at the pajamas. My dad whips his head toward her, eyes wide. In the reflection of them, I can see the flames from the fireplace, and I have to stifle a laugh, because it’s the scariest I have ever seen my father. And it’s not scary at all.
“Paula,” he hisses.
“Sorry!” she blurts, then immediately leans forward to pat Cleo on the back awkwardly. She looks like she thinks she might catch something if she lingers too long. “It was the least we could do. You’ve been such a good friend to Darcy.”
Cleo just sobs harder, clutching the pajamas. I keep patting her back, biting down on a smile. I love her. I love Christmas. I love this ridiculous, slightly dysfunctional moment.
