Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“I know this is meant for girls, but I wanted you to have something that references how we met. And you love Christmas, so I thought… you might enjoy this, at least sometimes,” Cesar says, staring down at the box. “I wasn’t really in a position to get you something better while we traveled, but if you hate it, you can pick something else.”
I snort and stroke his face, holding out my other hand so he can put it on for me. “Dumbass. I love it.”
His eyes dart up to meet mine. “That… yeah, that makes me happy,” he says and fastens the bracelet around my wrist. It’s cool to the touch, but not for long, because when he presses his face to my hand, all I can feel is warmth.
“I’ve got a little something for you too. Wait.” I twist out of his grasp so I can reach my backpack.
“Is this it?” Cesar asks and gives my ass a little slap.
“No! Just wait.”
I finally get back to him with the little parcel, no bigger than my hand, wrapped in one of the newspapers we had at the cabin.
“I wasn’t exactly able to buy anything, so I made you a little something.”
Cesar accepts my gift with open hands and, after confirming it’s okay to unwrap it already, peels back the packaging. I worked on it when he was out doing things around the house. It’s a papier mâché bauble I painted red, attached a string for hanging, and decorated with some stars in Sharpie. In an oval I cut out of paper I painted in our initials and the year.
I swallow as I stare at it, realizing it not only doesn’t look like much, but is also extremely cheesy. “It was something my parents did before my mom died. They made a bauble for every year together and hung it on the Christmas tree.”
Cesar turns my gift in his hands. It’s so very quiet I can hear the increasingly frantic beating of my own heart. I’m about to fill the silence when my man opens his mouth and speaks in a dull, strained voice. “I’m sorry you lost them.”
“I couldn’t help my mom. At least I got to avenge my dad. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I wish I could have done more for him. In the end, there’s no changing the past.” But I do see a future when I see the bauble in Cesar’s hands. One in which we hang this ugly thing on our tree, in our house.
“This is...” He inhales, shaking his head as his gaze swipes up my face. “The best gift I’ve ever gotten. You’re so talented.”
I know him well enough by now to see that he’s not saying everything he wants to but I don’t want to press when the mood is so nice. He must just be thinking about all those shitty Christmases in Sullivan’s service. “Hardly, but my crafting materials were limited.” I give him one more kiss. “Do we want to start driving or get some sleep here?”
He pulls me close, burying his nose in my hair. “Let’s go. We should take the first ship sailing to Alaska.”
The tiniest knot twists in my stomach. I’m no mind reader, but something is off.
Chapter 20
Cesar
It’s the best Christmas Day of my entire life. I shouldn’t be feeling so distraught, yet here I am, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I wait for our food. The restaurant is busy with people who, like me, don’t crave a traditional gathering with glazed ham as the main dish, but I try to focus on something unrelated to the fact that the skin in the middle of my chest is borderline itchy for no good reason. I know for a fact I did not get any rash either, because Eli and I have recently showered at a truck stop, which means it’s all in my head, just because of the tattoo I ought to have before I board the ship.
I know why I’m increasingly obsessive about it, of course, but I’m not crazy and know nothing’s gonna happen if I retire without that final tattoo picked by Sullivan.
The fountain cascading through an artificial landscape somewhere in a fantasy version of ancient China keeps whispering to me, and I try to focus on its melody rather than on the clatter of dishes, the loud conversations—
“Sir, your food,” the waiter says, presenting me with the paper bag smelling of General Tso’s chicken, pepper steak, and fried wontons.
I thank him, leave a tip, and exit the restaurant, stepping out into the cold. It’s just past midday, and as I cross the street, heading for the spot where we parked, I take note of the distant drum of festive music. I’ve gotten us a place on a ship heading for Anchorage first thing in the morning, but we still have to wait almost twenty hours until boarding, and the quiet area around the city park seemed like the safest bet to stay away from cameras that might capture Eli’s face during the brief times he removes the fabric mask.