“Yeah.”
“Did I mess things up with you two?”
This makes me laugh. “Fear not. I did that entirely on my own.”
“Do you think you can fix it?”
I chew my lip. “I’m going to give it a try.”
Theo rises from his knees to sit in the chair beside mine. “I don’t really know what happened with you two, but Andrew is super private. So the fact that he was immediately so up front about what was going on was pretty crazy.” He runs his thumbnail along a scratch in the table. “I think that’s what I was probably reacting to yesterday. The familiarity. It made me think you guys had been a thing for a long time.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”
“He was acting settled, you know? So, take that for what it’s worth, but I think if you really have feelings for him, it’s worth fighting a little longer before you give up.”
I look at the time on my phone and realize that if I’m going to grand-gesture this thing, I’d better get started.
“It would be easier to cut off my own arm than get over your brother, so I’m not giving up.” I stand, and then bend to kiss his cheek. “I’ve got some plans up my sleeve. Wish me luck.”
chapter twenty-six
In the first version of this holiday, Andrew wasn’t out in the Boathouse alone at all on Christmas Day. Around this time—almost five in the evening—he was in the kitchen with Zachary and Kennedy, hanging metallic garlands and tissue paper holly, singing Christmas carols in Muppet voice, and making the twins giggle hysterically.
But this time, the kitchen is quiet. Presents are unwrapped and the discarded paper has been stuffed into the recycling bin. There’s no garland on display, no tiny scissors on the table or paper scraps littering the floor. We’ll eat leftovers in about an hour, but for now everyone is using the downtime to nap, read, or sip a cocktail by the fireplace, savoring the last of our time together. Except for me: in Benny’s attic, I get to work.
And then, with my heart in my throat, I take the package Mom helped me complete, and tromp through the fresh snow out to Andrew’s little Fortress of Solitude.
He doesn’t answer when I knock, so I stand uselessly outside for about two minutes—debating with myself what to do, panicking because he’s ignoring me, letting my hysteria rise to a boiling point—before figuring out that maybe I just need to knock louder.
“Come in,” he calls this time. “It’s open.”
I push open the door and step inside.
Andrew’s duffel bag is packed, and the sleeping bags are rolled up and leaning against the far wall. He sits on the bare cot, one leg bent and tucked beneath the other, strumming his guitar.
I’d planned to start with my little prepared speech, but the view of his packed bag throws me. I’m not sure he was even planning to say goodbye. “You’re driving back to Denver tonight?”
“I am, yeah.” He looks up and tries to smile. Even with all the strain between us he doesn’t have it in him to be unkind. “After dinner.”
I flounder, unable to think of a suitable follow-up. “Did you hear about Benny and the cabin?” I inwardly wince, remembering what he said about my savior complex with this place.
“Dad mentioned it to me late last night.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet. “Good news.”
“Yeah.” I’m sinking in quicksand; I have no idea where to go from here.
“I brought you a present,” I say, and he frowns in surprise, watching me cross the room.
“Mae, you don’t have to give me anything.”
“It’s not a Christmas gift,” I explain, and decide to push onward into my prepared speech. “Look, Andrew, I know you’re mad at m—”
“I’m not mad at you,” he says gently. “I’m mad at myself.” He shakes his head, strumming absently as he thinks. “I don’t usually dive into things so immediately, and I’ve just confirmed for myself why.”
I can’t help asking, “Why?”
He looks at me, eyes pained like he knows what he’s going to say is going to hurt. “Because I can spend my whole life getting to know someone and still be wrong about her.”
Wow. That one hits like a punch. But he’s wrong: we’ve spent our lives getting to know each other, sure, but I was more myself with him than I’d ever been before.
“You weren’t wrong about me.” I take another step into the room but stop with about ten feet between us. “I mean, maybe we hit a speed bump right out of the gate, but you weren’t wrong about me. And it was good, Andrew. If it hadn’t been so good, you wouldn’t be so upset right now.”
He holds my gaze for another long moment, and then blinks down, returning to his quiet strumming.
“A few years ago,” I say, “I asked my mom what it was like when she first met my dad, and she basically said that they met in their dorm, and started dating, and from that point on, just fell into this routine of being together.”
He doesn’t reply, but he’s listening, I know. Even though he’s playing his guitar, he’s completely here with me.
“I asked her, ‘You just knew?’ and instead of explaining how it felt like fate or anything remotely romantic, she said, ‘I guess? He was nice and was the first person who encouraged me to paint.’ I know they’re divorced and it’s probably different to look back on it now, but she was talking to me—the product of this marriage—and there was no mention of falling in love or how she couldn’t imagine herself with anyone else. They just happened.”
I wait for him to react to this, but he doesn’t. In the silence, the words to the song he’s absently playing hit me like a warm burst of air.
Don’t know much about history…
And if this one could be with you…
His movements are so absentminded, I can’t tell if he registers what he’s playing.
“I mean, obviously,” I continue, “that was incredibly unsatisfying.” A pause. “As much as none of us want to imagine our parents actually hooking up, we want to think there was at least some fire or passion or something fated.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and fidgets with the tuning pegs some more.
“I know this—us—has gone up in flames,” I say, “but even so, I can’t help but feel like there was a good story there. I’ve wanted this for so long, and you had no idea, and then when you found out, it was like… it clicked something on in you.” I pause, searching for the right words. “What happened between us was really romantic.”
He falters, but after a beat, he adjusts his fingers on the frets and continues.
“And it wasn’t just romantic in theory; it was romantic in reality. Every second with you was perfect.” I shift on my feet. “Picking out our tree, snowflakes in your hair, sledding, the closet—our night here. I got those moments because of a wish I made. A wish! Who actually believes wishes come true? The world is a totally different place than I ever thought it was—I mean, there’s actual magic happening—but that’s not even the hardest thing for me to believe. The most unbelievable part of all of this is that I got to be with you. My dream person.”
Andrew tilts his head back to lean against the wall, eyes closed, and sets his guitar on the cot beside him. He looks tired, and takes a long, deep breath. I can tell he’s not tuning me out. He’s also not just passively hearing me, he’s absorbing every word. It gives me the confidence to push on.
“And even though I wished for it, I worked for it, too. I could have never said a word to you about what was happening to me, or how I’d messed up with Theo.” I hold my chin up. “But I’m proud of myself for telling you. Do I wish I’d explained it better? Sure. But I told you the truth because I wanted to start whatever we have by being honest.
“I was honest about my feelings,” I say. “I was honest about my mistakes. I was honest in my best and worst moments this week.” I take a steadying breath because I’m starting to get choked up. “And if there’s one thing that we did perfectly, it was talking and being transparent and honest
with each other right from the start. Right away, we talked. I can’t think of anyone else in the world I’ve ever felt that comfortable with.”
This gets to him, I can tell. His jaw clenches; his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“There’s something so intimate about sharing things out loud you could never say to another person,” I say. “Letting someone really see you—minus the filters. So, I’m sorry that this whole situation is such a bummer, and I’m sorry if the intensity of my feelings for you made you move faster than maybe you would have otherwise. But I’ve loved you since I knew what love was, and I can’t undo that. I would never wish to take that away. Loving you is all the proof I needed that love can last decades. Maybe even a lifetime, who knows.” Clearing my throat, I add without thinking, “But let’s hope I get over you, because otherwise that would suck for both of us and your future wife.”
I laugh out an awkward ha-ha, but the room goes deathly silent… until I very audibly swallow. I want to be eaten by the floor.
But I can’t stop now. With a rush of bravery, I walk the rest of the way across the room to hand him the gift wrapped in heavy, glossed green paper with a matte red bow. After I finished making it, Mom wrapped it for me, handing it to me with tears in her eyes and a single kiss to the palm of my hand.
“I wanted to give you this,” I say. “It’s called Happiness.”
Finally, he tilts his head back down and opens his eyes, but he doesn’t look at me. He warily studies the wrapped package in my hands. “What is it?”
“Just open it.”
At the confused flicker of his eyes to mine, I add, “It’s a Maelyn Jones original. In an Elise Jones–painted frame. We did it today.”
Tentatively—reverently—he takes it. With fingertips that have touched nearly every inch of my skin, he easily pulls free the silken bow. The rip of the thick paper tears through the room. The gift hasn’t been put in a box, it’s wrapped as-is: a framed drawing, charcoal on paper.
I wonder briefly where Mom found the simple wooden frame to decorate lovingly with brilliantly painted quaking aspen—whether Lisa pulled something old and unsentimental out to make room, or whether Benny helped Mom dig through the attic—but I don’t really have time to dwell on the question, because Andrew sucks in a breath and then becomes an inflatable doll with all of the air sucked out. He’s sweetly deflated.
In my sketch, the figure is easily in his eighties, but clearly Andrew. I worked to capture the warm kindness of his eyes, the wild disobedience of his hair, the playful curve of his mouth. And the woman at his side is very clearly me. I tried to age-soften my cheekbones, to capture the round swell of my bottom lip and the wide depth of my smiling eyes.
We’re sitting on the porch swing of the cabin, side by side, fingers interlaced. My left hand rests on my lap and is decorated with a simple wedding band. Andrew has clearly said something that made me laugh; my mouth is open, head tilted back in glee, and his eyes shine with a delighted, cocky pride. We aren’t hamming it up for anyone; don’t even seem aware there might be someone nearby, capturing this moment.
Who knows what we’ve been through in the past sixty years, but we’re still undeniably happy.
“Mandrew and Maisie,” I tell him quietly, voice thick. “I didn’t have time to do a full painting, but I think I like it like this. This way, it’s only a sketch, just a possibility. Even if it never turns into more, you are the only one who makes me that happy, and I am so grateful for it.”
Leaning forward, I quickly kiss his forehead, and turn to leave before I burst into tears.
I save that for the moment I step outside, alone, into the snow.
* * *
I don’t feel like going back to the cabin. Indoors sounds oddly claustrophobic right now. I’ve had so many big revelations over the past few days that it almost seems like I need some quiet time to digest them, let everything consolidate so I can figure out where to go from here.
The driveway leading away from the cabin is about a quarter mile long and is freshly plowed. My boots crunch over the thin, packed snow, but it’s an unseasonably warm afternoon and I can hear ice melting from tree branches in a lively cacophony of drips and splatters. Out at the main road and suddenly unsheltered from the wind, I zip up my coat and veer left, walking another quarter mile or so to a street that is nearly as familiar as my street back home.
Andrew, Theo, and I used to take this walk all the time when our parents wanted us out of the house. We’d pick up sticks and use them as swords, walking sticks, or magic wands. We’d take turns pointing out which of the cabins we would each buy when we were older and what we would do each day of the week once we were permanent neighbors. We’d cut into the trees and search unsuccessfully for bear dens or hunters’ traps. Over the years some of the houses have sold and been remodeled or even completely renovated. But the small street lacks some of the ostentatious sheen of other parts of ritzy Park City; even the renovated houses kept the sheltered woodland vibe. In the middle of summer, if you squint down the street you can still see the winter wonderland ready to emerge.
Smoke puffs up from chimneys and an overlapping medley of holiday music filters out to the road. At my favorite home on this street—an ivy-covered stone building that feels like a gnome’s house in the woods—I stop, looking up to the wide bay window facing the street from inside. Two shadowed bodies move around in the front room, near the brightly lit Christmas tree. Another is busy in the kitchen. Even out here I smell roasting turkey and the buttery salt of pies cooling, mingled with the sharp clean scent of cold pine trees. If I’d thought to bring my sketchbook with me, I would draw this scene, right here.
If I’m so happy here in the snow, I think, why don’t I live somewhere it snows? It’s a sudden mental realignment, the realization that I don’t need to stay in California, and I don’t have to try to shoehorn my life into the current template. I can move. I can dig around in the tunnels of my thoughts to imagine my dream job. I can figure out who the hell Maelyn Jones really is. I took my shot with Andrew, and it’s out of my hands now, but it doesn’t mean I have to let the other threads of bravery fall away.
* * *
My mood, bright from epiphany, dips as soon as I walk back inside the cabin and realize Andrew’s is not one of the bodies in the living room.
“Hey, guys,” I say.
The boisterous chatter comes to an abrupt stop at my entrance. Miles bolts upright. “Hi, Mae.”
Everyone stares at me expectantly. I was not anticipating my return to be so carefully clocked. “Hi…”
Zachary rolls over facedown onto the rug, giggling.
“What’s up? Do I have a bird’s nest on my head?”
Aaron runs his fingers through his black-hole hair, saying, “No. You don’t,” like I might have been asking seriously.
Finally, Lisa asks, “Did you come in through the mudroom?”
I shake my head. “The front door. Why?”
They continue to stare at me like they’re waiting for me to say something else.
“Okay. Um… is Andrew still out in the Boathouse?”
“He’s—” Kennedy begins at the same time Ricky blurts, “Was it cold outside?”
Blinking in confusion, I give him a drawn out “Yes?”
I look down at my new watch and realize I was gone for nearly two hours and didn’t look to see if Andrew’s car was still in the driveway. I’d ask if he’s here, but I’m not sure I want to know.
I turn awkwardly in place, unsure what to do with myself. “Well, you’re all acting like weirdos, so I’ll be down in the basement for a bit. Let me know when I can help with dinner.”
“You should go upstairs,” Zachary sings into the floor.
“I should?”
Every head in the room bobs in agreement.
I stare at them quizzically for a beat before saying, “Okaaaay. I’ll do that.” At least it gives me an excuse to escape. I shuffle down the hall, rounding the banister to begi
n climbing the stairs, but my foot lands on something and it crunches beneath the sole of my sock. I lift my foot, pick the item off the bottom, and study the silver object.
It’s a flattened peppermint kiss. I’m lost in bewilderment for a breath, but then my eyes focus back on the floor, and I realize there’s another one only a foot away in either direction: one leading upstairs, and one leading back to the kitchen, where I would normally come in from a walk.
Hope glimmers silvery at the edges of my thoughts. I jog up the stairs and follow the trail of candy down the hall and around the corner. It leads directly to Andrew’s bedroom, and stops just outside his closet.
My heart is an absolute maniac in my rib cage as I pull open the door, and Andrew squints into the light.
“That was a monster walk, Maisie. I’ve been waiting to hide for like a half hour.”
I’m nearly too stunned to speak, but apparently not too stunned to burst into tears. “Andrew?”
From the base of the stairs comes a burst of applause and cheers.
“I told you to go upstairs!” Zachary shouts before it sounds like someone claps a hand over his mouth and carries him out of yelling range.
With a raspy laugh, Andrew pulls me forward into the closet.
I wonder if I’m shouting, but my heartbeat is so loud in my ears it’s thunderous. “What’s going on?”
His voice is gentle, and the tiniest bit suggestive: “What does it look like?”
It looks like he’s sweetly lured me here, like he’s staring at my mouth, like he’s about to kiss me. But given my fragile, blown-sugar emotional state, it would probably be a very bad idea to assume anything right now.
“Well.” I bite my lip and look around the small, dim space. Stating the facts seems like a safe place to start. “It looks like you left a trail of my favorite candy so I’d find you in this closet.”
He gives me a bright flash of teeth when he smiles. I feel his hand as it carefully comes over my waist and slides down to my hip, fingers pressing, coaxing me closer. “Any idea why?”