I’m not feeling up to it, I texted.
Bullshit. Get back here. Or give me your address.
I imagined them lugging all that shit I’d bought through the rain. For me.
Another text came in. You went through all that trouble with the food. Come back.
Another. We didn’t want to spoil it but since you’re being an asshole, we got you a space heater. You’ll be warm. I promise.
I closed my eyes, tears stinging.
Raincheck, I texted. Because…actual rain.
Not funny. Then, Please come, H.
Merry Christmas, Miller, I wrote, my vision blurring.
My phone lit up with his number. I hit decline. He called again. Decline.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered and turned my phone off.
I was just about to take off my dripping coat when a knock came at my door.
River…
It was Beatriz, bundled in a raincoat and scarf over her head. Her warm smile morphed into a stricken expression at the sight of me.
“Mr. Holden? What happened to you?” she asked in Portuguese.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I took a walk.”
“In this storm?”
“A bad idea, looking backward. What are you doing here? Eu pensei…” My Portuguese failed me. “I thought you were with your family?”
“I am. We made biscoitos.” She hefted a basket covered in red cloth.
“For me?”
“Sim.” She pressed the basket in my arms, her face twisted in concern. Lemony-orange scents wafted from the cookies on warm currents. “Are you alone today, Mr. Holden?”
“No,” I whispered and cleared my throat. “No, my friends are coming over. I just got off the phone with them, actually. I should get ready. Take a shower and warm up.”
The cold was making my jaw tremble, and Beatriz’s brown eyes widened in alarm.
“Bim, bim, go. Warm up or you’ll be sick. Your friends…they are coming?”
“Any minute now.”
“Okay, good. That is good.”
“Thank you for the biscoitos, Beatriz. Muito obrigado.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Holden.” Her hand came up and touched my jaw. “Feliz Natal, doce menino.”
Merry Christmas, sweet boy.
She left and I shut the door behind her, then sagged against it, willing back tears.