He turned, his eyes filled to the brim.
I blinked at him, not sure what to make of the level of sorrow on his face. “My dad’s gone too.”
“I know.” He sniffed again.
We stared at each other for a minute before he shook his head and ran off into the shadows between the houses.
I took off after him, pushing aside the bushes he’d managed to disappear behind. He was leaning against the siding, face turned up, warm breath clouds mixing into the soft glow of the lights lining the roof.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
He nodded. Blinking fast. Wiping at his face.
I walked over to him and pulled the creation I’d made out of my pocket. A Christmas card. Just for him. “Here.”
He held out his hand but didn’t look down, still trying to catch his breath.
I opened it and read aloud. “Dear Marcus, I’m glad you’re my friend. I will always be your friend too. That way we can always have Christmas together. Jill.”
His breathing eased.
“See?” I closed the card and placed it in his still-outstretched hand. “Even if they leave, we don’t have to.”
His fist tightened around the card. “We can stay.”
“Yup.”
He looked down, reading my face. “Me and you.”
The butterflies in my stomach sprang into action. “Yes.”
His eyes filled again, and his head dropped to his chest. Without a second thought I reached out and hugged him. I hugged him and pretended he wasn’t crying, because somehow I knew that’s what he wanted. I hugged him and stared up at the Christmas lights, letting the colors blend and bleed together through the tears.
Almost tears.
Because I wasn’t crying either.
Chapter 3
Three Years Later
I peeked out from behind the curtains, scanning the crowd of parents’ faces.
“Is he here?” Marc stood a few feet away, his red bow tie as awry as his face.
“I’m still looking.” My mom waved with a big smile, and I waved back.
Beside her, Marc’s mom sat with a sullen look, an empty seat on her other side. I knew that look. My mom used to have it all the time.
Before she stopped expecting the disappointment.
I looked back to Marc. “I don’t think he’s coming. Your mom’s face is all twisty.”
“She might look like that if he’s coming.”
True. The curtain bobbled as I pushed it back again to look out. Marc’s mom was motioning someone into the previously saved seat. The gray-haired woman with a knitting bag was definitely not Marc’s dad.
I turned to him with a slow shake of my head. He dropped his, scuffing his heel against the stage. “I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t come. It’s so stupid.”
“I’m sorry I made you do this.”
“You didn’t.”
I did.
It was selfish of me. He hated being in front of crowds. But I’d wanted my best friend there during the rehearsals, the recital. It was our last year together wading through the middle school waters. Next year, on a new campus? Who knew what would happen. High school loomed with a wicked mix of anticipation and fear, and I was afraid I’d lose him in a crowd of new faces. So, I’d made him sing with me. For weeks. When his dad had called for the first time in months, and he’d told him about the performance, Marc had almost burst with excitement. His dad had mentioned wanting to see it. He was coming home. For him.
But now . . .
The music began to play, and Mrs. Fletcher ushered us into the line feeding onto the stage risers. Marc and I filed along the back row, shuffling into place with the other students. I gave him a smile, smoothed the red velvet folds of my dress, and squinted past the stage light glare to where I’d spotted my mom earlier.
A gasp escaped my lips. My throat squeezed shut just as the music began to play.
I’d been so focused on finding Marc’s dad in the audience, I hadn’t noticed . . . mine.
His hair had more gray, but it was his face and my eyes that stared back.
Why was he here? I looked to my mom. She sat beside him, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The twisty face that had long gone now revisited with a vengeance.
I tried to mouth the words to the songs, tried to play along, but I had no voice. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marc’s head bobbing back and forth as he volleyed between staring down my dad and nudging me to perform. He knew I had my eye on the lead in the spring musical, but if I couldn’t pull off the Christmas concert as a choir member, Mrs. Fletcher would never cast me.
My solo was next, and I still hadn’t uttered a note. My heart pounded, but then, in an act usually reserved for comforting moments of solitude between houses and shrubbery, he reached down and his hand clasped mine. I didn’t know if the audience could see it beyond the rows of kids in front of us, but I didn’t care. His touch was steady. His touch was home. And everything I needed to remember who and where I was.
The spotlight beamed as the other students stopped singing and the chords built up to my verse. I closed my eyes, took a breath . . . and sang. Strong and clear and true. Marc’s warm hand my only link back to reality.
Until I opened my eyes.
The final note had barely escaped from my lips when I noticed.
He was gone.
My dad.
He was just . . . gone.
My mother sat empty-faced, empty-handed.
And the only consolation I had . . . was that I wasn’t.
Marc didn’t let go. Not when the lights faded. Not when the other students poured off the stage to their parents. We stood together as his mom chased mine down the aisle, tissues in hand.
He squeezed my fingers. “Want some tea?”
“Yeah.” I tried to answer, unsure if a sound had even come out.
He must’ve heard it because he pulled me backstage and down the hall to the cafeteria.
“We’re not supposed to be in here.” My protest was weak as I followed him through the kitchen door.
“I don’t care.”
“But—”
He rubbed my back. “I’ll leave a quarter for the tea, okay?”
My palm felt cool, empty, now that he’d released my hand.
I watched as he fixed a cup of tea. Microwaved water, but it would work. “You’re not having any?”
“Oh. Sure.” He quickly fixed himself a cup too.
We made our way back into the dining hall and over to the Christmas tree lighting the corner of the room. It was tired, worn, like how my heart felt, and somehow that comforted me. The tea soothed my throat, my chest. Marc set his aside and scooted beneath the branches.
I laughed. “What are you doing?”
He waved me over. “Come here.”
I slid in beside him and looked up.
“It’s beautiful, right?” He let out a breath.
“Yeah.” And it was. Tired or not. It still glowed.
His hand brushed mine, and he clasped it again.
“Another Christmas together,” he whispered.
I swallowed. “Yup.” My thumb rubbed along his, just once. “Thank you for being there tonight.”