“This is really pretty,” Drew says. “I kind of love snow.”
“Spoken like someone who grew up without it,” I say. “It’s beautiful right now, but tomorrow, when it’s all packed down and brown and covering your car, it kind of sucks.”
He brushes a snowflake off my face. “That’s fine. I’ll take it, if it means I get to walk through the park with you right now when it looks like this.”
I don’t know how to respond to his comment, so instead I try a classic Drew Danforth tactic and ask a question. “Hey, that thing you do when people are taking your photo, when you fall down?”
“Pratfalling.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah. When did you learn to do that?”
He laughs. “In junior high. Pretty impressive, right?”
“It’s actually a little—”
I scream as Drew drops to the ground, looking for all the world like his feet go over his head.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He pops back up and brushes the snow off of his coat. “I’m fine. Don’t worry—I’m a professional.”
“Oh, my God.” I smack him on the arm. “You scared me! Why do you even do that?”
He smiles as we start walking again. “Kind of a long story, but believe it or not, I wasn’t always this perfect specimen of manhood.”
He gestures to himself, and I can tell he’s kidding, but . . . well.
“In junior high, I was awkward in just about every way a kid can be awkward, and it wasn’t like kids bullied me, necessarily, but they definitely made fun of me on a regular basis and made me hate going to school.”
“I think that’s the definition of bullying.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, nothing I could do would make them stop laughing at me, so I thought, what if I was making them laugh? Like, what if I was so weird and so goofy that they thought I was hilarious and laughed with me?”
“And that worked?” I ask, incredulous.
“Were you or were you not amazed by my ability to pratfall back there?”
“Amazed. Terrified. Same difference.”
Drew shrugs. “Now that kids at school are bothering Ryan, I keep telling him to make it a joke. That all of this doesn’t matter in the long run. But the thing is, it’s kind of hard to tell a kid that what they’re experiencing won’t always be happening, because it’s all they know. But maybe when he grows up one of his bullies will send him a Twitter DM to try to get tickets to his movie premiere, and he’ll get to be like, ‘No way, loser.’”
“Is . . . that a personal example?”
“Maybe.”
We exit the park, and I don’t even have to tell him which way to turn to get to my house, since he’s been there twice already. “You’re pretty close to your family, huh?”
He nods. “Very close. Perhaps too close. My grandparents on my mom’s side are still around and on that side alone I have six aunts and uncles and I don’t even know how many cousins, and it all makes for very loud, chaotic Christmas dinners where my aunt Robin ends up getting drunk and attempting to start a sing-a-long of Christmas carols she swears are real but we’re pretty sure she just made up.”
I smile, but on the inside my heart is breaking because I want that. I want that so bad. This past Christmas, Uncle Don and I ate a wonderful beef brisket that he made, along with a bunch of sides and pumpkin, pecan, and chocolate silk pies. We opened presents by the tree and then ended the night by watching Love Actually by the fire (which was a little awkward because of that porn scene, but it was fine). And it’s not like we didn’t have a good time, but I can’t pretend there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t want, say, five to twenty more people there. I wanted a bunch of stockings and kids yelling and so many dishes to wash that I sighed while looking at them and thinking about all the work it would be.
“Do you want to have a big family of your own some day?” I ask, even though this is a very personal question that isn’t any of my business. “With a lot of kids and a golden retriever?”
“Yep,” he says, no hesitation. “I want to have a million kids, give or take a few, and have my own huge holiday dinner. But no to the golden retriever. I want a rescue greyhound named Charlie.”
“That’s very specific,” I say with a smile.
We’re at my door now. Drew stays on the sidewalk as I walk up the steps, and I know he’s not going to ask to come in. I look down at him standing there, looking up at me, his hands in the pockets of his coat and the snow turning his hair white, and I don’t want this to be goodbye. I don’t want this to be how it ends. I don’t know if this is the love story or the montage, but I don’t care right now, because all I can think about is families and Christmas and a rescue greyhound named Charlie.
“Drew,” I ask. “Do you want to come inside?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Yeah, so . . . I actually don’t know how to do this.”
Drew volunteered to build a fire as soon as we took off our coats, but after staring at the fireplace he stands up.
“I thought if I just, like, looked at it for a while the secrets of the fireplace would reveal themselves to me.”
“Turns out that’s not how fire works,” I say, brushing past him. “And there aren’t really any secrets. I mean, cavemen figured this stuff out.”
“Sheesh. What a burn,” Drew says.
“Hmmm.” I look over my shoulder at him. “Not sure if you can use the term ‘burn’ since you can’t start a fire.”
Drew clutches at his heart. “Damn. You’re ruthless.”
As I get the fire going, Drew asks, “Where did you learn to do this?”
“In Ohio, where it gets cold, because I’m one of two people in a very old, very drafty house.” After a couple of minutes, the fire crackles away and I turn around to face Drew, who’s sitting on the couch.
“Do you . . . want to watch a movie?” Drew asks, then grimaces. “Wow. I swear I wasn’t asking you to Netflix and chill. I just . . .”
I laugh. “That’s okay. I mean . . . yeah, I would love to. Do you want some wine?”
He practically slumps over in relief. “That would be great.”
In the pantry, I pull out my phone and text Chloe. “Emergency. Drew Danforth is currently in my home.”
She texts back immediately. “OMG. WHAT. HOW. Please tell me you’re naked right now.”
“It’s not like that,” I respond. “Drew walked me home and now we’re going to watch a movie. Also, I have never and will never text you while I’m naked.”
“Netflix and chill. I see,” she responds, and wow, I wish that phrase had never become part of the cultural lexicon.
I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses and head back into the living room, where Drew is scrolling through channels. He looks so at home on the old couch with the remote in his hand that my chest expands with a yearning I can’t even define.
“So listen,” he says. “I know I said I wanted to watch a movie, but there’s a Chopped marathon on. Which isn’t that surprising, since Chopped is always on, but still.”