When he doesn’t say anything, I look at him and find him watching me and the puppy with an expression I’ve never witnessed on his face before. The look holds me captive, and I’m stuck staring into his dark gray eyes. I saw several different emotions in those eyes in the time the kids and I were here, but never the look they hold now. Something’s different in their depths. Something that both scares me and sends shivers all over my body.
“I think you may be right,” he says quietly.
Feeling a warm tongue on my chin, I break our stare, give my head a shake, then look back down at the puppy again.
“You wanna play with your brothers and sisters for a few minutes before we go?”
I bend and set the pup down on the floor and her siblings rush over to check her out, as if she could possibly be different than she was a few minutes ago. I opt to watch them for a few minutes versus looking back at Alexander. Seeing him again has left me a flustered mess, and I need a moment to compose myself.
When I do lift my head, it’s to find him still looking at me. I caught him doing that several times during our stay here, but he normally looked away when my eyes met his. He isn’t this time, and I wonder why. What’s changed about him?
Suddenly feeling the need to talk, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“What are you doing for Christmas tomorrow?”
He blinks, taken aback by my question, then turns away, but before he does, a look of pain so fierce washes over his face it nearly has me stumbling back.
“Nothing,” he grunts.
Forging ahead, I say, “Why don’t you come with me and the kids out to Mrs. Myers’ house? She’s actually my friend’s grandmother, and I know she’d love to have you there as well.”
Instead of answering, he walks over to the stove and a thick cloud of steam floats from the pot as he lifts the lid. Grabbing a big metal spoon from the counter, he starts stirring the contents. All I can do is stand there and watch his tense back. I want to go to him and offer whatever comfort I can, but I know he won’t be receptive. If it wasn’t his stiff form that screamed to stay away, then the clenched fist resting on the counter certainly would.
I’m just about to apologize—for what, I have no idea—when he lifts the spoon from the pot and some of the hot liquid spills onto his scarred hand.
“Shit,” he curses.
Even from several feet away, I feel his pain from the scalding liquid.
Without thought, I rush over to him, grab his forearm, and drag him over to the sink. I turn the water to cold and stuff his hand under the stream. The skin, already marred by burns, is turning an angry red. I keep my head down and make sure his hand stays in the water.
“I’m sorry,” I say, barely loud enough for him to hear me.
“For what?” His question comes out gruff, and I wonder if it’s from the pain of being burned or the pain he felt before. “You didn’t do anything.”
I look up to find his gaze locked on me once again. The pain is still there, but there’s also curiosity.
“For whatever reason my question brought on your pain.”
His eyes flicker away for a brief moment before coming back to me.
“I don’t do well at Christmas,” he comments quietly.
I hold his eyes for a moment, then dip my head back down to look at his hand. “I understand.” I don’t really understand, but I get the sense it has something to do with his wife and little girl, so in a way, I guess I do. This will be the kids’ and my third Christmas without Will. With each holiday that passes, the pain of not having him with us comes back tenfold. There will always be that heartache, no matter how much time goes by, but there’s something about the holidays that brings it to the forefront and makes it fresh again.
I look back down and see the
redness of the fresh burn and the shiny taut skin of the old. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I run my finger over the tight flesh, making sure to avoid the new burn, and am surprised at how smooth it feels. I trail my finger past his wrist and slowly make my way up his arm, feeling the slight dips and rises of the scarring. The hair follicles must have been damaged because his arm is hair-free. When I reach the edge of his rolled-up sleeve, I turn his arm over. The same damage appears on this side as well.
An ache forms in my chest, right where my heart sits, at the pain this man has gone through. Both physically, but especially mentally. And I know there’s no way for him to escape it. Every time he looks in the mirror, every time he uses his hands, he’s reminded of that pain.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I force them away. Me crying for him is the last thing he needs, and I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate it.
Suddenly realizing I’ve overstepped my bounds by touching him, I pull my hand away and reach for the towel on the counter. Gently, I tap the towel against the red skin.
“Does it hurt?”
His voice is deep when he answers. “No. Some of the nerves in my hand are damaged, so I don’t feel everything I should.”