Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I pull up to Chloe’s house, my hands shaking slightly as I gather the food and flowers. The porch light is on, casting a warm glow over the front steps. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, before ringing the doorbell.
Chloe opens the door, her smile bright and welcoming. “Hey, you’re early! Come on in.” She’s wearing a soft-looking sweater and leggings, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looks beautiful, and my heart aches with the weight of my secrets.
“I, uh, brought you these,” I say, thrusting the poinsettia toward her awkwardly.
Her eyes light up. “Oh, how festive! Thanks, that’s so sweet.” She takes the poinsettia, her fingers brushing mine for a moment. “Let me put this down and we can dig into that food. I’m starving!”
I follow her into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter.
“Nice place,” I say. That’s what someone who’s never been in the house would say, right? I’m trying to play it cool, and to be normal, but I feel anything but.
“Thanks. It was my parents’ and then it became . . . thanks.”
As she fusses with the poinsettia, I start unpacking the containers of food. The familiar routine feels surreal, knowing what I’m about to do.
“So, what movie did you want to watch?” Chloe asks, her back to me as she arranges the plant.
Okay, I’ll tell her after dinner and the movie. No sense in ruining the entire night.
I hesitate, my hands pausing over the containers of fried rice and kung pao chicken. “I didn’t actually pick one out yet. I thought maybe we could choose together? Only rule is it has to be Christmas. No Scrooge allowed, remember.” I give her a smile and it feels good to release some of my built-up tension.
Chloe turns around, a playful smirk on her face. “No Scrooge, huh? Well, that rules out Die Hard then.”
I chuckle, grateful for the moment of lightness. “Come on, that’s totally a Christmas movie!”
“Agree to disagree,” she says, reaching for the plates in the cupboard. “How about It’s a Wonderful Life? Classic, heartwarming, and definitely Christmassy.”
“Sounds perfect,” I reply, my voice a little too enthusiastic. I’m trying so hard to act normal, to push down the anxiety bubbling in my chest.
We settle on the couch with our plates piled high with food. Chloe starts the movie, and for a while, I lose myself in the familiar story. Jimmy Stewart’s earnest face fills the screen, his character’s struggles echoing my own inner turmoil.
As George Bailey contemplates ending his life, I feel a lump form in my throat. How many times have I stood on the edge, metaphorically speaking, wondering if my actions were justified? If the path I’ve chosen was the right one?
Chloe must sense my discomfort because she reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You okay? You seem a little . . . off tonight.”
I swallow hard, knowing this is my chance. The moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. “I’m fine. Just . . . missing my mom, I guess.”
Fucking coward. Tell her!
“I know. I miss my parents too.” She mutes the TV, turning to face me fully. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Working,” I half lie, half tell the truth. I am working Christmas Day and night, so that’s not completely a lie. “I try to work one of the firefighters’ shift who has kids so they can be home for at least some of the holiday. Even though I’m technically off as Christmas doesn’t fall on my shift, I feel it’s only right.”
Chloe’s eyes soften with sympathy. “That’s really sweet of you.”
I shrug. “I hope to be paid back someday when I have my own young kids.”
We turn our attention back to the movie, but I can barely focus on the screen.
“This is nice,” she says. “I can’t believe the Scrooge in me is admitting this fact. But I’m actually enjoying this.”
I nod, trying to smile, but my chest feels tight. The weight of my secrets is crushing me, making it hard to breathe. I can’t keep this up any longer. I have to tell her.
“Thank you,” she adds. “My holidays have been pretty shitty for a while, and well . . . this year feels different. I’m determined to not have another bad one. So thanks for helping me with that.”
Guilt floods in. She has no idea how much I’ve been involved in her life, how I’ve watched over her through those “shitty” holidays. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to say.
But she just got done telling me she wants a good holiday and is on the path of having one. I don’t want to be the reason of fucking that up for her. Not when she actually is smiling and seeming genuinely happy for once. I decide to hold off on my confession, at least for tonight. Maybe it will be my New Years resolution to tell her.