“Even better.” His intense expression belied his light words.
“Um, okay. Why did your face just get all serious?”
He pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs. “Because. You told me less than two hours ago you didn’t think I was truly ready to be with you. I know we talked through it, but I think I have another way to reassure you.”
“Other than doling out mind-blowing orgasms?”
He chuckled. “Let’s say it’s complementary to that.”
“Alright,” I agreed, curious. “Let’s do something Christmas-y.”
An hour later, Will turned his carinto an industrial neighborhood south of downtown. Warehouses and nondescript office buildings made up most of the area, lifeless other than a few lonely strands of holiday lights. He pulled up next to a three-story concrete building with steel letters in front that read “Custodial Solutions.” I wondered what any of this had to do with Christmas, or Will for that matter, as he came around to open my door.
“It’s over here,” he said, pointing at a wall next to the neighboring parking lot.
Dried brown grass crunched beneath our shoes as we walked in that direction. Graffiti and square blocks of gray paint covered most of the wall’s surface, although there were several worn attempts at actual art.
Will gestured to an extremely faded section. “Can you make out what this one is?” he asked.
I studied the piece he’d indicated. A few chunks of concrete had chipped off along the top, yet it remained relatively intact, the tags nearby touching but not overlapping or distorting it.
“I guess it looks like the Grinch,” I said, hovering my hand above my brow to block out the wintery sunlight. “Or, actually, three Grinches. Making some, um, interesting hand gestures.”
“It’s mine,” Will spoke matter-of-factly. “I was working on this the night of my accident.”
He took out his phone and held it up. “I come every December and take a picture. I’m always a little shocked it’s still here and that no one has painted over it.” He gave a self-deprecating little chortle. “Maybe next year my luck will run out.”
“I don’t think it’s too much of a mystery,” I said, inspecting the wall. “This is a work of art, done by an obviously talented artist. Sometimes people just respect that. Like they would if it was a commissioned work.”
He huffed playfully. “Can you imagine the city commissioning a painting of the Grinch flipping the bird?”
“You never know.” I smiled. “And the ending piece is—that’s ‘I love you,’ right? In sign language? Maybe it would be cool because you ended it on a hopeful note. Like, at first the Grinch is being a dick, but then he ends it with ‘I love you.’ And that’s kind of what Christmas is about, isn’t it? His story. Being inspired by the season to be the best version of yourself.” I gestured to the final Grinch, less faded than the other two.
A strangled noise came from him. He looked as though he’d been struck.
“Will? Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” he rasped out, shaking away his expression. “It’s just… I’m always amazed at how thoroughly you get me. I guess I should stop being surprised by it at this point.”
I grinned again. “You’re saying I correctly interpreted your artistic intention?”
“Nail on the head.”
I pointed at the phone he still held. “Why do you take the picture?”
He paused, tracing the first Grinch with two fingers. “Because I don’t want to forget. It reminds me—even though that Christmas eleven years ago was total shit, I made it through, just like this painting.”
I nodded in understanding. “In some ways, it’s like we can track the stages of our lives by how we remember the holidays. And by the objects that remind us.”
“This mural is always the Christmas I had my accident.”
“It’s the Christmas yousurvivedyour accident,” I countered. “And I’m sure other things make you think of the good Christmases, too.”
Will chuckled. “Sure. When I was six, I got this massive Ninja Turtle setup I totally wasn’t expecting. My parents aren’t muchfor pranks, but they had me believing I’d only be getting books that year. It’s still in a box at their house.”
“Marley is Christmas-crazy, so she puts up mountains of decorations and photos. They help me remember the good stuff—presents, matching pajamas, baking, letters to Santa, going to all the Coleman Creek events. Still, there’s no getting away from thinking about the Christmas after my dad died or the first year my mom was too sick to come out of her bedroom and look at the tree.”
Will exhaled quietly, eyeing the faded wall. “But even those Christmases that were a little sad, you wouldn’t want to forget them, would you?”
