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“Here you go, lovebirds.” She puts the plates in front of us and straightens. “Anything else you need?”
“We’re fine, I think,” Pax says.
“You are.” Gina points at me. “He needs someone like you to draw him out of his shell. And to feed him.”
She wanders away muttering about skinny men and breakfast.
We start laughing again, and it feels good. Like everything with Pax.
She grabs her fork, stab
s a pancake and plops it on to my plate, biting her lip in concentration. I retaliate by serving her a hash brown. She gives me bacon. I give her syrup.
“Gina says you need feeding,” she announces after the first bites, and before I can protest, she starts feeding me bits of hash brown.
“I’ll feed you something else.”
“You think I’m scared of your big fat bacon?” She scoffs. “I’ll raise you my egg in a hole.”
By now I’m laughing so hard I have to stop eating or choke to death. It’s all stupid, but it’s so hilarious right now—maybe because for a while I’ve forgotten the outside world and its harsh demands, all the things I have to do and the path that may lead me to a dead end I may not come out of again.
***
“I like dogs better than cats,” I tell her much later, as we walk down the street, her arm linked with mine. Christmas decorations sparkle on every lamp post and in every shop front window. “They’re more loyal. Although Dex is special.”
“You love that furball.”
“Yeah.”
“What about Christmas? Do you like it?”
“No. I don’t.” The lights flash and blink and somehow they don’t annoy me as much as other years, but still.
“Why not?” She’s come to a stop, and I stop, too. “How can you not love Christmas?”
“I just don’t.”
“But all the presents. And the sweets. And ice-skating. And vacation time!”
I smile at her, because she looks so damn happy giving me her reasons. “I could learn to like Christmas if you get so excited about it every time.”
“I do! I love it.” Her smile falls. “Well, it used to be real special when I was little. With my parents. But I still like it. Why would you hate it?”
“I don’t hate it.” I swallow hard, because that’s not one hundred percent true. “Okay, I do hate it a little.” I don’t wanna talk about this, but she’s waiting, her eyes wide with curiosity, and I want her to know me better, no matter what tomorrow brings. “It’s just that growing up Christmas sucked. It was when everyone got shiny new things, and I didn’t. When in the group home you’d get a random gift some charity bought for you and it’s usually socks, or underwear, or gloves, and it’s fine, it’s fucking fine and you desperately need those things, but it’s not what you really want.”
We’re in the middle of the sidewalk, and I want to kick or punch something, my stomach clenching with the memories.
Because what you really wanted was a home, and a family, and something silly, a toy or a gadget, like the ones other kids had whenever you walked out onto the street. What you really wanted was a dream of a happy life, without older kids beating you up for fun or tired social workers ignoring you when you cried.
Dammit.
“Come here,” she says, and she puts her arms around me, pulls me close until she’s pressed to my body and her head is on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
I say nothing. Can’t speak, my breath caught in my lungs. There was one Christmas with my foster mom, before she got sick, when she bought me the cell phone I wanted, and she hugged me and told me she loved me, and fuck, I can barely remember the phone.
But I remember the hug. I’ll never forget it. It was as tight and warm and wonderful as the one Pax is giving me now.
I let my foster mom go, watched her get lowered into the ground in a shiny coffin, but Pax... Pax is here, and how can I let her go?
