He’s silent for a few long moments, just staring back at me, and I can’t tell what’s going through his head, but those eyes—the ones that are always schooled into cool distance—brim with life.
“I—” he starts, but stops, running his hand through his hair before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a small package wrapped in red and green paper and hands it over. “Here.”
I take the gift. It’s heavy and wrapped just as haphazardly as the others, and he gestures with a nod for me to open it. My heart hammers as I slide a finger under the tape and pull away the paper. From the back, I see that it’s a silver frame. I turn it over and my chest constricts.
“Where did you get this?” I ask, wide eyes drinking in the picture.
He shrugs, burying his hands into his pockets. “I’ve always had it.”
It’s a photo similar to the one I have upstairs—a snapshot in time of the two of us. We’re wearing matching team suits. His hair is wet, plastered over his forehead. Mine’s in narrow, dripping pigtails. Neither of us are looking at the camera, but instead smiling at one another. We’re both displaying the champion medals that hang heavily around our necks.
“I want—” He exhales and shuffles closer, voice dropping as his gray eyes lock with mine. “I want you in my life, Gwendolyn. If all I can ever be to you is a friend, then I’ll take that. It’s selfish of me, but you hold me accountable. You challenge me. You make me better. You make everything better.”
His words rock me, leaving me trembling and breathless. These are the words of the man who cared for me when I was sick, who stood by me with the swim team, who defended me to Heston, over and over again. I don’t wonder anymore which version of Hamilton is the real one, because the way he’s looking at me right now—hopeful and impatient and terrified—could never be anything less than real.
I flex my fingers around the frame, inspecting the photo. These two kids were fearless and ready to tackle anything that life had to throw at them. I’m not sure where they lost their way.
But I think I may know how they find their way back.
“You’re not the only one figuring out what you need,” I confess, meeting his gaze. “I don’t need Preston Prep, or the swim team, or to be valedictorian. But I know the kind of person you can be, and that guy? I don’t want to lose him.” I give him a watery smile. “Because he’s funny and clever, and he made me feel special and cared for. And maybe also because he needs a little tending to himself, and I like that he can do that—listen and question and grow. People take for granted how hard that is to do. But not me.” I glance down at the photo, then back at his face. “Not anymore. So now it’s my turn to apologize. I jumped to conclusions and made assumptions that day at school. I knew being with you was going to be hard and I bailed without giving you a chance to explain.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t, okay? It’s alright.”
I nod, pressing the frame to my stomach, feeling the knot in my chest unwind.
He wets his lips, shuffling forward once more. “Now that we’ve agreed we’re all sorry and forgiven and everything, where do we go from here?”
I want to kiss him—so bad. I threw those papers into the fire so we could start fresh, and it’s almost embarrassing how much I want everything we missed. I want the dates and the fumbling, and a new first kiss—one that isn’t the product of anger and resentment and doesn’t end in shame. I want it all.
I walk to the mantle, move a paper mâché snowman a few inches to the left, and place the frame there. “Want to come hang out?” I ask, turning to him with a cautious smile. “We’re watching cheesy movies and there’s, like,” I roll my eyes, “a gazillion cookies.”
His gaze skitters to the entry, expression heavy with anxiety. “With your family?”
I nod. “We’re kind of a package deal.”
It’s a stretch for Hamilton to not only accept me, but the rest of the Adams family, too. I think of all the hateful, cruel things he’s said in the past. If he really wants this, wants me, this is his moment to prove it.
He exhales shakily, but moves forward, slipping his warm hand into mine. “I think I’d like that.” His gaze cuts uncertainly to me. “If you think I’d even be welcome, that is.”
I laugh, squeezing his hand. “We’re talking about my family, Bates. We love nothing more than a good stray.”
He smiles and it lights up his face. I start toward the den, but he yanks me back, crashing me into his chest. His eyes are warm but intense, darting between my eyes and my mouth. I know that look. God, I’ve missed it. He takes my face in his hands and spends a torturously long moment gazing into my eyes, thumbs brushing my cheeks. We meet in the middle, lips brushing against one another, and it’s everything I want from a new first kiss—sweet and gentle and warm and Hamilton.
Thirty minutes.
That’s the length of time Hamilton, my family, and I sit in a tense, awkward silence. Mom and Dad are on the couch, while Hamilton and I share a loveseat. Brayden is slouched in the armchair, and Micha is on the floor, painting Michaela’s nails over the coffee table. Skylar is sprawled out in front of the TV, cramming popcorn into her mouth.
Hamilton feels so tense beside me that I grab his hand and squeeze in what I hope is a reassuring manner. If anything, it seems to make it worse, his gaze darting nervously to my mom and dad, to Brayden. When his jump to mine, the question in them screamingly obvious, I just smile, lifting a shoulder in a shrug.
Naturally, it’s Micha who breaks the ice.
“Can I paint your nails?” he asks, staring at Hamilton with an expectant look.
Hamilton looks around, eventually realizing that Micha is talking to him. “Me?”
Micha nods.
“Well, that depends,” he says, eyebrows knitting together. “Do I get to choose the color?”