Page 55 of Exchanged

I knock an entire grove of snow-covered trees onto the floor, pieces crumbling apart and scattering under the table. “We’re not—” I splutter. “He’s not—”

“He’s not … what?” she asks innocently. “Into you? Because you both seem pretty intent on undressing each other with your eyes.”

“It’s really not like that,” I say, ducking under the table to grab the pieces I dropped.

I resurface to find her watching me and not the puzzle. “Is it ‘really not like that’ because you aren’t into that fine-ass gentleman sitting over there adorably reading a book to your cousin? Or because you haven’t made a move?”

I steal a glance at Garrett. He does look amazing, wearing a white cable-knit sweater that, despite its bulk, hugs his frame perfectly. He reminds me of someone out of an ad for expensive cologne. And his scent would definitely be a cologne.

Unfortunately, Gloria catches me. “He’s not going to quench you, thirsty boy,” she says, “unless you take a drink.”

I tell her. I tell her about him coming out to me in the Caving Grounds, about the way he looks at me sometimes, about him grabbing my wrist and almost kissing me and then acting like he didn’t remember it.

“So,” I conclude, “I thought he might be into me, too, but he clearly isn’t. Or at least he doesn’t want anything to happen.”

“You can’t know that,” she tells me. “Not until you make a move.”

“I did—”

“Bringing up something he did while drunk doesn’t count as making a move. You gotta grow a pair and tell him how you feel. Or show him.”

“Show him?”

“You know, initiate casual physical touch. Be emotionally vulnerable. Make some suggestive eye contact.” She puckers her lips. “You got that one down already.”

Later, at Christmas Eve dinner, Garrett sits next to me in our dining room glowing with the warmth of candles, as my family passes around steaming platters of spaghetti with clams, lasagna, Lake Superior trout, homemade ice cream, and struffoli. I allow my foot to rest against his, and he doesn’t pull away.

Casual physical touch: check.

Halfway through dessert, I feel something brush up against my leg. Then Remy is climbing into Garrett’s lap, having abandoned his own seat and crawled under the table to his new favorite person.

“What’s up, little man?” Garrett asks, balancing him on his knee with one hand and cupping his ice cream bowl in the other.

“You and Enzo are holding feet.” Remy giggles.

The table gets quiet enough for everyone to overhear this astute observation. I feel curious glances flash toward us, and across the table Gloria makes a graphic gesture with her hands. I try to think of something to say, then decide it might be easiest to knock over Aunt Julia’s wineglass instead.

But I don’t need to because Garrett eyes Remy seriously. “I think I’m actually holding your feet.”

And then he sets the ice cream down and tickles the bottoms of Remy’s feet. Remy’s squealing laughter drowns out the embarrassing moment, and everyone returns to their dessert except Gloria, who gives me an exaggerated wink.

Garrett doesn’t move his foot.

After dinner, just as everyone begins clearing dishes, Garrett gets our attention. “I was thinking,” he says, pulling out his camera, “that maybe I could take a family photo for y’all. If you want.”

We never take photos of all of us, and the ones we do take never turn out well. Somebody is always out of the frame or blinking or hidden behind someone else.

“Yes,” Aunt Liz says, setting down a stack of plates and looking at him like he just gave her the gift she’d been waiting for all year. “We’d love that.”

It takes us several minutes of jostling to get everyone settled in front of the fireplace in the living room. And then, just as Garrett moves into place to take the photo, Aunt Liz asks, “Don’t you need a tripod or something?”

“No,” he says, “I usually just—”

“Then how will you be in the picture?” Emma interrupts.

He looks at us and we look at him, and I can tell he’s struck by how obvious it was to the rest of us that he would be included in our family photo, that he’s considered family.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll just—” He breaks off and carefully begins stacking books on the coffee table to form a makeshift platform for his camera. “It won’t be as good,” he tells us, bending to look through the viewfinder. “The angle isn’t great…”