Page 58 of A Love Like Christmas Time
From the corner of my eye, I watch her stare out of the window as if the gazebo in the town square has all the answers. Her grim expression reflects in the glass.
Slowly, she lowers her arm when the call ends, eyes staring into nothingness outside with a blank expression.
I know that look. That hollowness, that empty stare. It has barely been three days since Emilia came to the café, and I spent an entire evening in the same state.
I imagined what it could have been like if my dad had invited her over when she called. What I missed out on because he never told me she tried to get in touch. What I’ve been missing out on.
A family. A sister.
Then the questions. Would I have been a good brother? Could I be now?
Can I overcome the pain and allow my mother and sister into my life?
The evening didn’t give me any answers. Neither did the book on postpartum depression. It might help me understand why she left, but that doesn’t change the fact that she hurt me. She caused so much pain for me. And my dad. No matter how distanced he became, he didn’t deserve being left without a word either.
Lauren snakes her arms around herself. Fuck it. The coffees can wait.
“Is everything okay?” I walk over to her. My heart beats into my throat, hands clammy, an anxious coldness ripples through my chest as I reach for her hand. “What’s going on? Is it an emergency?”
“Everything is okay,” she mumbles, softly shaking her head, eyes still staring into nothingness. “No emergency. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah, because that has about the same effect as telling a pissed-off person to calm down.” I put my hands on her slim shoulders and carefully turn her to me, trying to catch her eyes with mine. “Talk to me, Lauren.”
“It’s nothing.”
She rubs her palm over her face and lets out a deep sigh, finally snapping back to me.
“Oh,” I say, letting go of her and taking a step back, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “I thought we were past the point of lying to each other.” She gulps, eyes darting anywhere but to me.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s okay.” I shrug, sharp disappointment making my stomach drop, and turn around to walk back to the kitchen. “Then say so. Don’t lie to me, Lauren.”
“It wasn’t alie,” she insists softly, following me and leaning against my kitchen island.
“Don’t ‘selective truth’ me either.” I place the coffee mug in front of her. “Talking helps. So does rage baking. Make your pick.”
And then I wait.
Her eyebrows scrunch up as she puts her hands around the mug, slowly turning it in circles as emotions are fighting a war in her head. Finally, she lets out a deep sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose.
“It’s just… my family. My dad, to be precise.” She lets go of her mug to rub the back of her neck. “I mean, he’s my dad and I love him, but whenever we talk, it leads to dumb thoughts.”
“Don’t call your thoughts dumb,” I scold her.
She’s twisting a strand of her hair around her finger, playing with it as she glances at me.
“But theyaredumb thoughts.” When her eyes meet mine again, they’re burning with anger. “And I know they’re dumb, but I can’t stop thinking them. And then I feel stupid for obsessing over them, all while knowing in my heart they’re bullshit.”
“Your thoughts aren’t dumb.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she says coldly and rolls her eyes. “I think alotof thoughts, Caleb. It’s okay that some of them are dumb.”
“Lauren, look at me.” I wait until her eyes shift to me. “Try me.”
“Caleb…” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Tell me,” I encourage her gently, then step closer until she needs to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. I hold her gaze, watching her fight an inner battle, rage against vulnerability, until her shoulders sag and she averts her eyes.
