I want to wipe those tears away; I want to pull her in my arms and tell her that I’ll give her a baby. I’ll make her a mother. I’ll give her everything she wants.
But I don’t tell her any of that. I have no right to make promises to a woman who isn’t mine. No way do I want to rip Evie away from the life she has made for herself.
And dammit, I know I was cold and detached on the drive, but what the fuck could I do? I could never ask her to give up everything for me.
We pull up to her driveway, I see a house that I was not expecting. “This is it, right here,” she says pointing.
In her driveway, I turn off the truck. I’m about to say something that resembles a goodbye when she asks me to stay.
“Before you go, you want to come inside, use the bathroom or have something to drink?”
I nod slowly, grateful to have a reason to stay. I don’t want to leave her yet.
I don’t want to leave her ever.
“Sounds nice.” I start unloading the wreaths and set them on her front porch.
Her house is a little cottage. Tiny, really. Gingerbread trim, a white rocker out front. Garlands hung across the porch, and twinkling Christmas lights everywhere, covering every square inch of her molding.
“I bet it’s gonna be freezing in here,” she tells me, unlocking the front door, and swinging it open.
“Let’s keep the wreaths on the porch since I’ll be delivering them anyways.”
“Make sense,” I tell her and I set the ones in my hand down. Once I’ve unloaded them all, I head inside. She’s cranked up the thermostat and turned on lights.
My house is minimalist, but this home is just that. A home.
She has a Christmas tree covered with handmade ornaments, wrapped gifts underneath the tree. On her mantelpiece, there are stockings hung, a Nutcracker collection on display. She has red and green pillows on the couch -- a fluffy pink couch -- a couch that screams Evie.
I follow her into the kitchen that has open shelving and is full of platters and plates, glassware and mixing bowls. It’s not messy, it’s just full. Full of life.
Her dining room is turned into an office, housing a big computer desk and around it is mason jars filled with markers and pens, catalogs, and craft supplies. She has a shadowbox where I’m sure she takes lots of her photographs and cork boards filled with clippings of color swatches and fabrics, inspirational quotes and decor ideas.
“Your house is...” I start.
“A lot different than yours?” She laughs. “Part of me has been dying for you to see my place, another part has been terrified.”
“There’s no reason be terrified. Your place looks like you. Colorful and beautiful and happy.”
“And that’s how you would describe me?”
“Well, I would’ve described you as happy until we drove down the mountain. Damn, Evie.” I shake my head, leaning on the countertop in the kitchen. “After that call with your sister, I swear to God I thought you were gonna burst into tears.”
She waves her hand, brushing me off, and turns on the burner where the kettle is resting. She grabs mugs from the cupboard and adds tea bags to each. “Oh, that was just me being stupid. I’m so happy for her. She’s such a good mom. I mean, we don’t do things the same way, but she is a good mom. And she’s super lucky.”
“I can picture you as a mom, Evie.”
She stops what she’s doing and I know I’m teetering on the edge of treacherous territory. Talking about a woman and motherhood could be a rocky combination. But I want to go there with Evie. I know my time is running out.
“You would make a really good mother, Evie. You would probably helicopter the kid, but in a good way. You’d be all in. Probably get a sewing machine and make all the kids’ clothes, and they’d have the best birthday cakes. A big theme every year.”
“Stop it, Everett,” she says softly. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“I’m not intending to make you sad. I just want you to know... That you are incredible.”
“Incredible?” Evie shakes her head, taking the whistling kettle from the stove and filling the mugs. “Thank you, Everett. I think you’re incredible as well.” She smiles that tight smile again, the one that is not her at all, and it pains me that somehow in this conversation I’ve made her retreat again. That was not my plan.
“I didn’t mean anything,” I start.
She holds her hand. “I know you didn’t mean anything. I think that’s the point. Or the problem.”
She drinks her tea so damn fast, I know for a fact that she’s burning her throat. And her tongue. And her lips. I can’t take barely a sip, mine’s so hot. And the whole time she’s walking in circles around her house, unable to even stand next to me for another minute.
I’m scared to say anything because I don’t want to tick her off anymore.
I go into her bathroom to take a piss and grin at what I see. It’s covered in everything that is Evie. Makeup brushes, perfume bottles, and hairspray.
Everything about this bathroom should make my skin crawl, I’m a man who lives on his own, keeps my world compact and in control.
But being in Evie’s space does just the opposite. It makes me crave sinking into Evie’s life completely and never letting her go.
I’m ready to man up and tell her that, when I see that she’s already at the front door, her gloves on, ready to usher me out. As if she can’t get me out of here fast enough.
“Okay then, Everett,” she says in a blur. “Thanks for everything and I guess that’s it.” She claps her hands together and turns away. Not even meeting my eyes.
“Evie, it doesn’t have to be like this,” I start.
“No,” she says waving me away and picking up a wreath from the porch. “It isn’t like anything, I’m just busy, and I have a lot to do. Remember, you saw all those text messages. I’ve got lots going on. So... Anyways, thanks for the help with the wreaths and the drive home and everything.” She starts to go, but then seems to think better of it and reaches around me to give me the quickest, most awkward hug I’ve ever received in my life.
“So I’m just gonna start delivering these now, and like I said, thank you for everything.”
Before I can stop her, she’s making a beeline down her driveway. She’s knocking on her neighbor’s door and exclaiming her Merry Christmas.
I shake my head, kick the snow. Then I jump in my truck.
I’ve gotta fix this fucking mess.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m not going to cry.
I’m not going to cry.
I swear to God; I’m not going to cry.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell Mrs. Cleaver, the neighbor who lives eight doors down, and the recipient of my final wreath. “Here is your gift!”
Her grandchildren are running around in their footie pajamas. Her grown children drinking coffee around the fireplace.
Perfect.
A perfect Christmas morning.
For a perfect little life.
I give her a quick hug before turning to leave. I can’t see another house like this. A dozen houses of Christmas morning perfection are plenty.