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As much as I loved my family, there was no way I could tell them that I’d systematically murdered several of the men they’d once brushed shoulders with. No matter how horrendous their crimes might have been to deserve killing.
But Bellamy knew.
And Bellamy accepted.
And Bellamy understood.
There was something unexpectedly freeing about being understood. Even with all of your faults and your ugliness and your baggage.
Incredibly, I got that understanding from the absolute last man on Earth that made any sense. A guy who grew up with every privilege I didn’t even know existed, who never knew what empty cupboards and an empty belly felt like, who always had presents under the tree at Christmas, and didn’t have to be sad because Santa didn’t think they were a good kid.
“What are you thinking about that is giving you that look?” Bellamy asked.
Before him, I’d always thought I was hard to read, that I had a poker face that could fool even the best pro. Apparently, I’d been wrong about that all my life as well
“Christmas,” I admitted.
“Christmas?” he asked. “What about Christmas?”
“About how I used to think Santa didn’t think I was a good kid, and that’s why I never got anything under the tree. I mean, we never had a tree. But you know what I mean.”
“What was it that you wanted most as a kid at Christmas?” he asked.
“Oh, that depended on the year. I remember really wanting Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots, a Tamagotchi, an Easy Bake Oven…”
“I can’t picture the last one,” Bellamy said, shaking his head.
“In my defense, I didn’t fully understand the concept of it at the time. I just knew that cookies came out of it. So, naturally, I wanted it,” I said, smiling even though my heart hurt a little for that girl I used to be.
“What made your mind go there?” Bellamy asked, eyes soft. He gave me that soft look a lot lately. And my emotionally stunted ass had no idea what it was supposed to mean.
“I was just thinking about how different our upbringings were. And Christmas came into my mind,” I told him, shrugging.
“Does your family celebrate?” he asked.
“My aunt and uncle are more agnostic than anything. I think Nasir was the one who wanted a tree and the traditions when he was a kid, so they do a little bit of a celebration, but it isn’t like, you know, what I used to watch in movies or TV as a kid. Snowed in at someone’s New England Victorian home and everyone puts up the tree and sings carols and drinks, opens presents bright and early Christmas morning, then cooks this massive meal. Actually, last Christmas, I think we ordered in Chinese. Which is fine. I like Chinese,” I said, but there was a little bit of longing in my voice.
Because whether I’d let myself analyze it or not, I truly did want to experience that kind of over-the-top, movie-worthy Christmas. Just once.
“What do you do?” I asked, wanting to get out of my own head, not loving that my mood was going south by the second. “For Christmas,” I clarified.
“Depends on the year. I don’t have any close family left. So I will sometimes bounce around to my co-workers’ houses. Usually with something loud and ostentatious for the kids that makes their parents hate me just a little bit more,” he said, smirking devilishly. “Or then some years I travel.”
“Why? Why would you travel on Christmas? Alone?”
To that, he exhaled hard, his gaze sliding away, looking off across the lake instead of at me. “Sometimes, being an outsider to someone else’s family joy can be depressing,” he admitted.
“I’m sure they don’t see you as an outsider,” I insisted, having the strange, overwhelming urge to reach out to him. And, for once, I didn’t fight it. I walked up behind him, wrapping my arms around his stomach, and pressing my head to his back.
Affection didn’t come easily to me. Emotional or physical. A school counselor at one of the fancy places my aunt and uncle sent me to once told me that it was from what she called ‘touch starvation,’ from growing up without anyone ever embracing me or comforting me. Apparently, some people became obsessed with and sought touch because of it. But the even more fucked up people, like me, avoided it at all costs.
Sure, Bellamy and I had spent a lot of time touching since we’d burrowed into the woods, but he’d always been the one to initiate it.
This was a first for me.
And, I thought, that was pretty significant.
“Probably not,” Bellamy agreed, not pulling away, just letting me give him some comfort. “But it feels that way. So sometimes it is easier to travel. Alone. To some country where Christmas isn’t as big of a thing. I can almost get through the season without even really knowing it is happening.”
