a little girl, and then I’d have to defend his honor. I hope I’m never called to do that because I’m not so sure I would.
A lone guy with heavily tattooed arms in a sleeveless shirt strolls past us. Nic appraises him with his eyes, then turns and walks backward. “Wow, do you see those biceps? Damn, break me off a piece of that.” He gives an exaggerated shiver.
Really? Seriously?
“Um,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me up short. “Let’s go check out Hot Topic. I want to look for a beanie. I think I’d look good in one.”
Right. I’d put money on the odds that Sleeveless in December just stepped into Hot Topic himself. I realize I don’t care one way or the other.
“You go,” I tell him. “I’m going to get us some sodas. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
“No soda. It’s bad for your skin. Get water, and make sure it’s not just filtered tap water.”
I take the escalator down to the first level. There’s a Great American Cookies kiosk in the main thoroughfare just below Hot Topic. I’ll get Nic his water, but I’m having a soda.
Waiting in line is Mindy, a drum major second to Luke and one of the shortest girls I know, and Anna, a senior tuba player. They both wrap me in a big hug when I get in line behind them. We’re band; we’re family.
“Is Nic here with you?” Mindy asks.
“He’s upstairs.”
“I’m sorry about your dad, Robert,” Anna says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.
I don’t know what to do with the pity I see in their eyes. It’s misplaced at best, and unwanted at worst. I smile wanly at her and mumble a thanks. She lets go of my hand, and she and Mindy pick up their conversation as I focus on the crowds breaking around the kiosk.
Across from us, a group of girls gather outside of Build-A-Bear, each clutching a cardboard bear house while a mom counts heads.
It’s not until they move off toward the food court that I see him standing at the counter, holding a little girl on his hip. He smiles at the attendant, this girl from my math class, then signs the credit card receipt she places in front of him.
I feel my heart kick up the beat.
“So what are you doing for the holiday, Robert?”
“Huh?” Reluctantly, I look back at Mindy. “Oh, we’re just staying home.”
She seems to realize the flaw in her question and gets quiet. I glance back toward Build-A-Bear just as Mr. McNelis, holding both his daughter and the bear house now, emerges from the store and steps into the crowd. I watch him go.
When I get back upstairs, I sit on a bench outside of Hot Topic and wait for Nic. I think about texting Mr. Mac, just saying, Hi. Saw you at the mall. But I don’t. Fifteen minutes and half a soda later, I’m still waiting for Nic. I check out the store, but he’s not there.
Where are you?
Jamba Juice.
I find him sitting at a table with three of the cheerleaders. I’m sure I know their names, but I’m so irritated with Nic I can’t recall them.
“Here’s your water,” I say, smacking it down on the table.
One of the girls giggles. He turns in his seat and frowns at the soda in my hand.
“I’m leaving.” I turn and drop my soda in a trash bin, then head toward the nearest exit. I am so done with this. Nic catches up with me just as I step through the automatic door.
“Wait, Robert. Wait-wait-wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Would you just wait? Jesus, I drove, remember?”
“So I’ll walk home. It’s five miles. I’m sure I’ll survive.” I turn to go, but he tightens his grip.
“Why are you acting like this? You’re upset about your dad—I get that—but you don’t have to take it out on me.”
“I’m not upset about my dad. It’s you . . . and your stupid bottle of water . . . and your Sleeveless in December guy . . . and your girls.”
“Oh, now you’re just being dramatic.”
The absurdity of the statement makes me laugh.
“And what are you talking about, Sleeveless in December guy? Are you talking about that guy who passed us upstairs? Oh my God. I was just looking. You can be so jealous sometimes.”
My laughter dies in my throat. “You don’t know anything about me,” I say, then pull my arm free.
But he latches back on to me, with both hands this time.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Come back in. I’ll buy you another soda, and a pretzel if you want.” He pouts and runs his hand up and down my arm like he did when we first started dating, when he wanted me to go somewhere I didn’t want to go or wear something I didn’t want to wear. I resist the urge to flinch. “You’re my guy. It’ll just be me and you the rest of the day. Okay? Just me and you. Nobody else. We’ll go to the bookstore and you can browse all you want. I’ll even buy you a book for Christmas.”
“I don’t want a book. I don’t want a present.”
“Then we’ll just browse . . . together.”
Later I find myself wishing he’d just let me go.
Andrew
I don’t know who’s sleepier when we get home, Kiki or me. I put on The Lion King and curl up with her on the couch. A strand of dark hair falls across her face. I brush it away with my fingers as she clutches the dog more tightly to her chest. I drift off thinking this is heaven, or the closest I’m likely to ever get to heaven. Something about that thought leaves a sad imprint on my heart.
Chapter 5
Robert
This is Dad’s last Christmas. It’s the elephant in the room. It’s the reason Aunt Whitney has pulled out all the stops—piles of presents, fresh garland wrapped around the banister and over the doorways, holiday music piped throughout the house, evergreen candles, a fire in the fireplace, and an animated Santa rocking in a chair next to it. And pies. Lots of pies.
The day is a throwback to Dad’s childhood, an annual ritual he has refused to let go of despite the awkward strain it puts on Mom and me.
Still, I have to admit, it’s all very pretty, and the house smells great. But no one thought to help us get Dad there.
He doesn’t travel well, or easily.
Getting him from the bed to the wheelchair was bad. Getting him through the front door and over the threshold with his oxygen tank was worse. I was still in their bedroom gathering up Dad’s pills when I heard Mom cry out: “I’m doing the best I can.”
When I got to the living room, Mom, flushed and on the verge of tears, had tilted the chair back and was digging in to ram him through the door and over the threshold with brute force. Aunt Whitney always pulled him through backward. Reason enough, I suppose, for Mom to take the more direct approach.
Shit. “Wait-wait-wait. Mom.” I sprinted over. “You’re going to pitch him to the concrete if you’re not careful. There’s a three-inch drop to the sidewalk.”
She shot me a look that said, Don’t tempt me.
I pulled the wheelchair back enough to get through the doorway, then grabbed the frame in front and lifted it. Together we got him through and down the drop to the sidewalk without incident. Dad winced when the wheels landed, but he didn’t say anything. I thought that was wise.
At Aunt Whitney’s, we did it all again in reverse.
“You’re here,” Olivia exclaims when