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She’s at the forefront of my mind when I reach home and step into the garage, where I drop the gloves in the garbage can before turning my attention to the stack of boxes in the corner that haven’t been touched since I packed them up. The sight of her handwriting along the sides stirs something in me that I’ve fought to avoid revisiting.
Christmas decorations. I finally have a reason to go through the memories I fought hard to avoid. Noelle is worth it. Her happiness is worth it.
Eventually, I find the strands of multicolored C9s like the ones she draped along the Santa sleigh. After plugging them in to make sure they still work, I take them outside and close the garage door.
My hope is to get this done before Noelle notices the damage Jake caused. She hasn’t bothered me since I threw her out of the house, and I don’t blame her. I’d be afraid of myself, too, if I was her. She has more than enough reason to be.
“I should have known I’d fuck it up,” I whisper, and I don’t know if it’s myself or my dead wife I’m talking to as I unplug the two halves of the cut lights. “You were the only thing keeping me together. I thought she could fill that hole you left.”
As if in response, the front door creaks open. “What are you doing out here?”
Fuck. “I thought I would replace this busted string of lights on the sleigh.” I force myself to look up from the lights and find her wearing a guarded expression and another of her corny Christmas sweaters.
“Where did you find lights this close to Christmas?” Noelle asks, eyeing the string I’m holding.
“I took them from my own stash.” She raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I do possess Christmas decorations.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s not your responsibility.”
“Yes, it is.”
“So you are the one who has been ruining everything?”
“No, that’s not how I meant it. Just let me do a nice thing, all right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” On second thought, I add, “You won’t have to worry about it anymore. You won’t have to worry about Jake Miller in general.”
She winces but doesn’t look surprised. “He asked me out a few times, but I turned him down.” She draws her arms tighter around her shivering body. “So it was him?”
“Like I said, he won’t do it again.”
“What, did you kill him?” She scoffs—but stops when I continue gazing at her with no reaction. “You didn’t, did you?” she whispers.
“No. He’s still alive.” Though he probably wishes he wasn’t.
“Well, thank you, I guess. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. I only wanted to get to know you better, but I get it if you don’t want me to.”
“It isn’t that.”
“Then what is it? Why won’t you let me in?”
She’s fucking killing me. Doesn’t she see it? Every word is torture, tearing its way out of me, ripping my soul to shreds. It’s only for her sake that I push through.
“Because… I’ve never had a lot of friends, to begin with, but this is the hardest time of year for me. You know by now I was married. Christine. She… died last year.”
The last thing I want is pity, which is why the wounded sound she makes sets my teeth on edge. “Oh, Luka. I’m so sorry.”
“She was like you. Christmas was what she lived for. I couldn’t bring myself to…”
“You don’t have to say anything.” Because she has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met except for my late wife, she practically flies off the front porch and throws her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I pushed and was too nosy.”
“Here. You shouldn’t even be out here without a coat on.” I wrap mine around both of us rather than pushing her away because pushing her away isn’t what I want to do. Not when it’s so much better being close to her. The noise in my head and my disgust with the entire world, all fade to unimportance when she’s close to me. I can forget the past for a little while.
That’s her gift. That’s the gift she’s given me.
“You don’t have to apologize, either,” I murmur, inhaling the scent of her hair. It loosens up more of the tightness in my chest. She’s like living, breathing magic. It’s almost enough to make me believe I can exist as part of her world the way I’ve wanted to all along.
“I don’t?” The question is muffled against my chest.
“You make me want to open up.” When she lifts her head, brows raised, I add, “Not that I have to like it. Most of the time, I hate it.”
