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“You mean you’ve eaten meals together?”
“Yes. Otherwise, she and her daughter only eat Hot Pockets, so I’ve had them over a time or two.”
“That does help with community relations.”
I nod. “I thought so. I thought we’d perhaps even become . . . friends. On Sunday, I invited her over for cocoa.” I stop and meet Leigh’s eyes. “I make excellent hot cocoa.”
“I’ll need to verify that for myself.”
“Very well,” I say.
“Henry. I’m kidding.”
“Oh. Right.” Why is it hard to tell when Leigh is joking when it’s so easy to figure out with Paige? Especially when I’m more used to Leigh, frankly. Odd. “Anyway, I don’t like Christmas.” At Leigh’s confused expression, I add, “These things are connected.”
She nods. “Continue.”
“My neighbor knows this. And she asked me why. I’d become comfortable with her, so I told her. She seemed to be taking it rather hard. Hiding her face, shaking.”
“Is your reason rooted in a trauma?” Leigh asks, her forehead furrowed.
“No. Just something sad.” One of her eyebrows goes up, but she nods for me to go on. “Anyway, she excused herself to use my restroom, and through the vents, I could hear her laughing. She wasn’t upset at all. She laughed for several minutes before she came out.”
I think about it again, the sound of her muted laughter drifting toward me. It hollows out my chest again, and I feel like my heart is beating too loudly.
“How did you feel about that?” Leigh asks.
I haven’t been to a therapist before, but this is what they all sound like in movies. “I wasn’t asking for therapy.” I try to make my tone as courteous as possible. “I’m more interested in whether my return action was warranted.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that?” she says.
Despite that sounding suspiciously like another therapy prompt, I comply. “I cut off contact.”
“Ah.”
I don’t like that “ah.” It sounds full of understanding, but how much could she possibly understand from the little I told her?
“Did she apologize?” Leigh asks.
“Yes. And she left a note with another apology. And . . .”
She nods in a sign to go on.
“Her daughter is trying to win me over to Christmas. Or was. Leaving gifts and things on my doorstep with cards and notes. But perhaps I’ve gotten through to them since I didn’t see anything yesterday or this morning.”
“But you looked for it,” Leigh says. It’s not a question. She thinks for a moment. “Your reason for disliking Christmas . . . you don’t need to share specifics, but is it something that people would generally find sad?”
“I suppose.”
She falls quiet for a moment. “Your neighbor, does she laugh a lot in general?”
“She jokes a lot.” She’s certainly made me laugh even when I wasn’t in the mood to.
“But does shelaugha lot?”
I think about it. “No, not really. She smiles a lot, but I’ve only heard her outright laugh a few times.”
“Have you ever heard her laugh that hard before?”
