“Sure,” I reply, gathering my dishes. I walk into the room, but stop abruptly, nearly dropping the china to the floor.
Hamilton Bates is in my kitchen.
“I’ll take those,” Dad says, gently removing the dishes from my hands. “And give you two some privacy.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hamilton says. My first thought is to mentally acknowledge that he still hasn’t shaved that beard. My second thought is ‘good’. It makes him alarmingly attractive. Which is not to say that he wasn’t already alarmingly attractive, but this makes him look more rugged, less pretty.
His eyes sweep over my red pajamas.
“Um,” I look around, face heating, “let’s go in the living room.”
The living room is a formal space off the front of the house. It’s currently housing the tree we got from the lot, which has been horrendously draped in so much tinsel and glitter that even Micha had said, “This may be a bit much.” There’s a low fire going in the fireplace, more for the festive ambiance than anything else. This is the only time of the year it ever sees any use. This, plus the lights on the tree, cast the room in a warm, twinkling glow. The stockings hanging from the mantle, and most of the tree’s ornaments are handmade. This is something that I probably would have been embarrassed for Hamilton to see in the past, but I’m not anymore. He can see the real me—my real family. Glittery ornaments, badly sewn stockings, and all.
“I like your pajamas,” he says, lips lifting in a smile.
“Mom has this thing about matching PJs.” I tug at the hem of my shirt and try not to cringe. There’s a dancing reindeer on the front. It’s not exactly my first choice of things I want Hamilton to see me in at this moment.
The warmth of the lights reflects in his eyes as he watches me. “They’re cute.”
My stomach flip-flops and I lace my fingers together, pressing my fists into my belly like a stern warning. Behave. “I like your beard.”
His hand comes up to rub his chin, and it’s quiet enough that I can hear the soft rasp of it against his fingertips. “Yeah?”
“It’s sexy.” The compliment slips out before I can stop myself. I close my eyes in mortification, but Hamilton just grins.
He gestures at me. “To be fair, I wanted to say your pajamas looked sexy, too, but I was restraining myself.”
I snort a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure the prancing reindeer are really doing it for you.”
“It’s not the reindeer that make it sexy,” he says, his dark gaze holding mine.
That flicker of heat that always ebbs between us sparks to life. I stutter out, “Thank you for the gifts. I probably should have texted you or—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You told me to figure out what I want, and first and foremost, I want to apologize for everything. All the bad shit. I had this... this thought, right? That it was too many things to list.” His mouth curves into a wry smirk. “But then that just made it seem like a challenge.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick square of paper. As he’s unfolding the pages, he says, “Now, my memory is aces, but I’ll confess to bribing Emory with tickets to my dad’s box seats for the Falcons if he helped me remember some of the older stuff. You know how he is.”
He clears his throat, eyes jumping to mine as he reads, “When we had that district-wide ‘talented and gifted’ luncheon in fourth grade, I ate the entire apple pie from the dessert cart, and then I told everyone that you did it.” He pauses, adding, “I feel like I already paid my karmic debt with that one, because I was sick the whole night, but—” He takes a pen from
his pocket, crossing it out.
“Number two,” he continues. “That same week, at recess, I more or less organized a very strong opposition to your position at the monkey bars. If you’ll recall, it got excessively heated.”
I’ve had my hand over my mouth, fighting a smile, but at this, I pipe in, “It’s true. Fourth graders take monkey bars politics very seriously.”
He nods in agreement, crossing it out. “Number three. Two weeks later—or it could have been after spring break, I’m not sure—that time I stepped on your doll’s hair so you couldn’t pick it up. You were—”
“Hamilton.” I reach out, gingerly taking the papers between two fingers and sliding them out of his hand. “This isn’t necessary.”
He frowns as he watches me take the papers away, reluctantly tucking the pen back into his pocket. He nods. “You can read it later, I guess.”
“I don’t need to read it,” I insist, folding the pages back into their thick square. “I forgive you.”
His frown deepens and he looks away. “It can’t be that simple, Gwen.”
“Sure it can,” I argue, shrugging. I hold up the square of paper, waiting for him to meet my gaze, and then I chuck it into the fire. “See?”
His eyes follow it, face gone slack as we both watch the pages burn. “I—” His mouth works around something silent and complicated enough that his eyes go wide. “I didn’t even get to the real shit yet.”
“This is the real shit.” When he meets my gaze, I let out a gusty sigh. “I’m done living in the past, Hamilton. It’s exhausting.”