Page 66 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
“I know you can’t promise me anything,” Molly says as she looks at our linked hands. “And I know this doesn’t mean anything is going to happen. I just…” Her voice is small as she goes on, “I just want to make the most of the time I have left with you. Before all this is over.”
“I understand,” I say after a beat, squeezing her hand. It fits perfectly inside mine, but that’s not surprising.Perfectlyis the only way our bodies could possibly fit together—of that, I’m convinced.
“I guess…do you think we should keep our distance for a while after I’ve gone?”
I hate that she’s come to the same conclusion I have.
“It might be best,” I say, wrenching the words from my tongue. “Just for a month or two, to see how we really feel away from all the life-and-death situations.”
“My work study starts in early February,” she says, and I catch her peeking over at me before she looks away again. “Not here on St. Thomas but close enough. We could meet up in February. Or we don’t have to meet if we don’t want to,” she adds quickly. “We could—”
“Yeah,” I cut her off. “Let’s do that. Let’s meet when you come back.” I don’t know how I’ll feel when that time comes, but if it’s anything like now, I’ll definitely want to see her.
She nods. I nod. And that’s that. I know that’s the one and only time we’re going to talk about what will happen; neither of us want to dwell on it.
We resume our walk, and I keep her hand tightly in mine the whole time, smoothing vague circles over her knuckle with my thumb. The pads of my fingers are a little rough, a little calloused, but everything about her is soft, and I love it. She’s a mass of contradictions that all come together to create the most intoxicating woman—energetic but gentle, soft but loud, selfless but hungry for life.
And suddenly holding her hand isn’t nearly enough. So I untangle our fingers before wrapping my arm around her shoulder and pulling her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as we continue to walk. Her arm snakes around my waist, her grip on me just as tight as mine is on her.
We would be the annoying couple that both sat on the same side of the table at a restaurant. And we would laugh about being those people, but we would do it anyway.
We don’t speak again until we arrive back at my little house. I talked to her parents yesterday while she was still coming to, and they’ll arrive at about eleven; that means we’ve got about two hours left. So as soon as we get inside, I steer her straight to the loveseat.
“Sit,” I say, pressing gently on her shoulders. “I’ll get your Christmas present.”
“I have to get yours too,” she says, shrugging my hand off. “Just remember it’s not wrapped at all. Normally I would wrap it up and put a cute bow on top. So you’ll have to use your imagination and pretend all that stuff is there.”
I gesture to our Christmas cactus, which is stationed unceremoniously against the wall across from the loveseat. Both her present and mine are tucked around the base of the flowerpot, each of them wrapped in their plastic shopping bags. “I’ll grab both of them and bring them over,” I say. “Get comfortable.”
She concedes, plopping onto the couch and watching as I retrieve our gifts.
“I wish I were wearing my Christmas sweater,” she says, looking ruefully down at her Virgin Islands t-shirt and shorts. Then she glances up at me, her eyes running down my body. “Do you have any Christmas clothes?”
I give a snort of laughter, which makes her smile.
“No,” she says, answering her own question. “Of course you don’t.”
“Not so much as a Christmas sock,” I say. I return to the loveseat and pass her the bag with her present in it, taking a seat on the floor next to the couch.
“I’m not surprised,” she says, still grinning. Then she points to the bag in my hand. “Open it!”
“Right,” I say. It’s some sort of book, I think, based on the shape and the feel. But when I pull it out of the plastic bag, I’m surprised to find that I wasn’t quite correct.
“I know you’re probably not a journaler,” she says, looking hesitantly at the notebook I’m holding. It’s simple and black, no frills or adornments, and very much my style if I were to pick out a journal on my own. “I figured you weren’t,” she goes on. “But you’re so isolated and closed off that I thought…I don’t know.” She shrugs, and a delicate pink blush stains her freckled cheeks as her eyes dart up to me and then back down to her hands again. “I thought it might be good for you to express yourself somehow. Write down what emotions you feel or what you wish you could talk to people about or something. You can use it for anything, though—make to-do lists or grocery lists or sketch the people you see when you people-watch. It can just be a pad of paper if you—”
“Molly,” I cut her off gently. “It’s perfect. And you’re right; it would be good for me.” She’s correct in her assumption that I’ve never used a journal before, and yet I know that I’ve just changed. The second she bought this for me, I became a journal user. I’ll use every single page, even if it takes me years. “So people just write what emotions they feel?”
She smiles at me, a relieved, happy smile that sends warmth through my veins. “Sure. Or the things they wish they could say. Anything.”
I nod, tucking those instructions away for the future. “Here,” I say, passing her the plastic bag that has her gift inside. “Open yours.”
It’s stupid how nervous I am as she pulls the little box out. I shouldn’t be. But I want her to like it, and I want her to remember everything that’s happened in a good way rather than a bad way.
She looks at the box, one of those gold, sparkly cardboard boxes that jewelry always comes in, and then turns her curious eyes to me. I just jerk my chin at the box, silently telling her to open it.
“Oh,” she says softly when she pulls the lid off. A smile spreads across her lips as she gazes fondly down at the contents—a delicate silver necklace with a tiny fish charm, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “He’s so cute.”
I clear my throat, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “You like fish,” I say—like an idiot.
