Heart Thaw (9 page)

“Simple is so fucking boring,” he moans, and his fingers slide along the low waist of my jeans, and hook under the fabric. “You know, what I just said? About you not looking at me like that?”

“Yeah?”

“It just came out. But I didn’t mean it, Sadie. I never want you to stop looking at me like that.”

My fingers knead the tight muscles at the back of his neck, and even though my memories and logical stupid brain are telling me that this is
Trent Toriello
, Georgia’s kid brother, something gut-deep and bone-strong knows that he’s grown into so much more than anyone’s anything.

That if he’s anyone’s, he’s mine, all mine.

“Then why did you say it?”

My fingers slide into his thick, soft hair.

“Something about you throws me completely off center. It makes me crazy. For once, I wanted to be the one who called the shots with you, so I said it and thought…I don’t really know. I guess I thought you’d get all teary-eyed and beg me for help.” I pull back, my mouth a perfect circle of surprise and his smile brings out the one long, sharp dimple in his right cheek. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re tough as hell. Is it so bad that I wanted to pretend, just for a minute, that you might need to lean on me a little?”

My mouth opens to tell him that I’m strong, solid, ready to face anything head-on, without flinching. That I’m an amazing problem-solver, and if I need help, it’s not going to be from him. But the words choke in my throat, and his smile collapses, a sandcastle in a tsunami wave.

“Sadie?” His hands come up on either side of my face. They’re rough and hard-skinned from all the chemicals and paint he messes with. “Don’t cry,” he begs.

I let him guide my head to his chest. Under my ear, his soft, sweet words rumble and murmur incoherently. His hand moves over my hair, pressing it flat, and he sometimes covers my ear completely, blocking out every single sound except the drumbeat of his heart. I nestle against the soft cotton of his old t-shirt.

“I thought this is what you wanted? Look, I’m all damsel-in-distress.” I wipe my finger under my eyes and give a damp laugh.

“Funny how it works when you wish for something and get it. Isn’t there a saying about that?” He grips my shoulders and pushes me away, examining my tear-streaked face. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Of course.” I turn out of his arms, face the sink, and start running the water. “Sorry. Mini-meltdown, I guess. I didn’t mean to snot all over your shirt.”

He comes to my side, dishrag in hand, but the smile he volleys back is pinched.

“No worries.”

While we wash, the only sound is the running water and the gentle clack of my mom’s over-decorated table settings, which Trent handles like they’re royal china. I’m about to tell him where things go, but he maneuvers around my kitchen with an easy, intimate familiarity.

Of course.

He’s been hanging out in here since he was eating babyfood. In fact, I think there’s a picture of him sitting in my old white highchair.

“You ready to go out there?”

His voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and when I look at his face, it’s so familiar, but also alien.

Isn’t this the face I remember smeared with soldier facepaint on Halloween? Pressed to the living room window late on the morning of every snow day? Covered with zits and adorned with one of those ridiculous fuzzy beginner moustaches at Georgia’s house on prom night?

It is.

But it’s also the face that makes my heart punch against my ribs in an effort to leap out and into his arms.

I want…I want...I want…

It’s steady as a metronome, and, for the first time in my life, I know exactly what I want, but I have no intention of going after it.

That would be stupid on so many levels.

I’ve never been willfully stupid before. But, suddenly, I want to embrace my inner stupid.

Chapter Six

Mom, Georgia, and Ella snuggle on the couch together, watching Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen dance around the stage, singing about the complications of being sisters. A tiny pang hits low in my throat. Ella’s arm snuggles Georgia as they giggle through the song.

An unfair sense of betrayal slithers through me, and two screaming facts make me feel even more crushed with guilt.

The first is that I’m a filthy snot for entertaining jealousy over the fact that my newly pregnant best friend, who recently lost her boyfriend
and
her mother, finds some comfort with my little sister, who I haven’t been paying much attention to anyway.

The second is that
I
would have been snuggled on the couch for this scene if I hadn’t been pressing up against Georgia’s little brother in the kitchen, leading him on when I know full well what a catastrophe we would be as a couple.

If that’s something he even wants. Which I doubt.

I curl on the loveseat and expect Trent to take the recliner, but he plops down next to me, and puts his arm along the back of the cushions.

“She was anorexic, you know.” He juts his chin at the screen.

Danny Kaye just stated his preference for brown eyes, and the camera pans to the impossibly thin Vera Ellen. The information makes perfect sense. Her legs look like two broomsticks, and even Ella could wrap her tiny hands around the woman’s waist. I immediately wonder if her stomach was clawing itself with hunger during this scene.

“I hate knowing that. It takes some of the magic away.”

My frown unravels when I feel the rough pad of his thumb on the soft skin of my upper arm. His thumb makes slow circles as his voice drops.

“That
is
the magic. That they’re real humans doing this amazing, intricate, happy thing while they deal with their everyday shit.”

“But I like to think she’s as happy in real life as she looks onscreen.” Now I wonder about Rosemary, Bing, Danny. What were they going through behind the scenes? “The point of this movie is to make people forget their anxieties and just soak in what they put on the screen.”

Trent turns so our bodies spoon closer and tighter.

“I think that’s one angle. I mean, I think that’s what the bare-bones viewer gets out of it. But for you and me, for people who
get
art, we understand that the real beauty is the fact that this isn’t just a dance or a script. These are living people putting their hearts and souls out there. Maybe she was about to faint from hunger, but look how gorgeous and passionate that dance is. The beauty of what she’s doing is, I think,
more
amazing when you know a little bit about her pain.”

Danny Kaye dances, light and lithe, twirling her in his arms, then sending her to the center of the dance floor to glide like a nymph, a muse, something unreal.

But, now that I have Trent’s information about her, she’s become painfully real.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to just show her pain through her art?” My feet twitch along with Vera’s. Trent’s heart thumps harder under my shoulder. “Isn’t she a phony for doing a Christmas musical?”

One of his hands slides behind my back and moves up and down along my spine. I close my eyes, bite my lip against the perfect pressure of it.

“There’s nothing phony about feeling sad while your art shows happiness. Art isn’t therapy. You don’t have to put exactly what you feel on other peoples’ shoulders. Sometimes you’re just using whatever raw energy you have to make something beautiful. Like that.”

His eyes are back on the screen, and I know that he’s watching the end of the dance, but my eyes are glued to his face. Every time I talk to him, I get a different version of Trent, and I fall a little more in love with each fascinating new dimension.

My back snaps straight up at the thought of the word
love
.

Love
!

I mean, ‘I admire him more.’ I mean, ‘He’s a better friend.’

No love.

Love’s out of our realm of possibility. Not as anything more than what a sister would feel for a brother anyway. That’s the only way I could use ‘love’ and think of Trent.

His hand falls off my skin, and his features go to blank. For the rest of the movie, we sit exactly the way we were before minus a few inches between our bodies, but it’s like the loveseat expanded by a couple of feet. We don’t whisper art philosophies, and we don’t touch, secretly and quietly in the dim glow of the living room’s warm Christmas tree.

Mom stretches when the credits finally roll.

“Okay, babies. I have to turn in so Santa doesn’t catch me up.”

“Mom!” Ella whines, pulling our mother, still clad in red high heels, off the couch and onto her feet. “Aren’t we going to do random caroling?”

“Sorry, pumpkin. Mama’s too old this year. You kids go, though. Be careful. And wear a hat or earmuffs or something so your damn ears don’t get frostbite.”

She touches the bikini-clad frog ornament, her eyes misty, and pops sticky kisses on our cheeks before she heads upstairs.

Ella reaches out and replicates the design mom’s fingers ran over the frog ornament.

“Mom’s never been too tired for random caroling before.”

I scowl at her, but she never looks my way. Georgia lets out a yawn so big, it has to be fake.

“Maybe it’s a mama thing, because I’m feeling like some sleep, too.”

“You too…” Ella starts, but this time she sees my scowl and clamps her big mouth shut. “Sorry. You better head to bed. Take care of that baby bean.”

She reaches a hand out and Georgia takes it and squeezes.

“Blankets for the pullout still in the top closet?”

When Georgia looks at me, her eyes are shiny with tears I realize she needs to cry out.

“What are you, cracked?” I give her an extra tight, extra long hug. “You take my bed. You know how good my mattress is, and you’ll be right next to the bathroom.”

She laughs into my neck. “That’s sweet, Sade, but I’m only a few weeks preggo. I don’t pee all the time yet.”

“Still. I want you to take my bed. I’ll take the younguns out for random caroling and make sure they’re all tucked in. If you’re in my room, I won’t risk waking Mom up when we come home late. So, it’s like you’re doing me a favor.”

I hug her hard, and try to figure out what feels different. She’s always been curvy, but she feels fuller or softer. Less stiff. Less tight. I hold on, glad for the change, even if it is based on a colossally bad idea.

“You’re a dork.” Her voice is thick.

She makes the kissing rounds, then touches the bikini frog and rushes up the stairs, but not after a tiny sob wrenches free from her throat. Trent makes a move to follow her, but Ella catches his arm.

“Let her go, Trent. It’s all hormones and memories. Trust me, she needs a good, long cry to let it all out. Don’t make her do that thing where she puts on a brave face for you. You know how big sisters like to play tough.”

She turns her pixie face up and smiles brightly. He backs down and nods, his eyes catching my gaze for a quick, hot second.

“I sure do. Look, I should probably head out. Your mom will kill me if I’m not here for French toast tomorrow morning, and I’m pretty celebrated out.”

“No.” Ella stomps one booted foot. “Forget it, Trent. You can sleep on the couch if you don’t want to go out with us, but you’re not leaving. And since you know you need to be pretty fucking tired or drunk for that couch to be comfortable, come with us.”

She stomps again when he starts to protest. “I’m the baby! You’ve all spoiled me and given me everything I wanted for eighteen years. You’re seriously going to deny me my heart’s desire on
Christmas Eve
?”

Trent’s smile starts slow, then turns into a full chuckle.

“Fine! How can anyone resist this face?”

He smushes my sister’s face between his palms and turns it in my direction.

“I definitely can’t. Let’s get hats or earmuffs, so we don’t get frostbite.” I try to sound jolly.

My sister and Trent have had this goofy, easy, lovey relationship since they were babies, and I’ve always been glad they had each other. But now jealousy coils low and burns in radioactive waves. It’s so simple and happy for the two of them. No weirdness. No prickly, gut-wrenching, head-ache inducing, heart-constricting confusion.

Trent pulls the cardboard box full of winter accessories out of our hall closet and hands Ella a pair of panda earmuffs.

“Love them!” She unfurls the coiled plastic headband and fits them over her ears. “How do I look?” she practically screams.

“Shhh!” Trent and I both shush her between giggles.

“I have to go get some stuff together,” she stage whispers. “Be right back!”

Trent takes a lavender beret out and pulls it on my head, tucking my hair in with all the efficiency of a parent.

“Perfect,” he declares, and my organs liquefy.

I fish through the box and find a black skullcap with a skull on it. I pull it low over his eyebrows and push his hair back behind his ears under the stretchy band.

“You look like a thug.”

When I pull my hands out from under the band, he catches them in his.

“You look like a little Parisian elf.”

He rubs the tips of my fingers with his thumbs. I tilt my head back. He steps so close, his feet are on either side of mine.

Ella bursts back into the living room.

“C’mon. Let’s spread some Christmas cheer to those who really,
really
don’t want any!”

She throws a long gray and red scarf at me. I clash, but years of enduring subzero winters have taught me that it’s way more important to be warm than coordinated. We bustle out into a cold so frigid, it borders on being painful. At the first breath, my lungs feel frozen open and my nostrils pull in and stick together, instantly iced over.   

“It’s too cold, Ella!” I yell to my sister.

The wind snatches my voice and throws it away.

“Shut up, you whiner!” she screams back. “This is tradition! We need to do this!”

She’s yelling as loud as she can, running at full speed, and I know that her insane behavior is all part of her crushed upset.

She’s the baby of our group, and is always comparing what she gets to do to our glory days. When I was her age, random caroling was led by Eileen and Mom. All four of us were forced to come, even though we pretended to be too old.

We knew that after we were done, there would be hot cocoa and giggling, then the moms would stay up super late, and we would be herded into the ‘playroom’ in the basement, where the girls would sprawl on the pullout and Trent would suffer on an old cot with a sleeping bag thrown over it. We would chatter late into the night, pretending not to hear our mothers pop the bottle of Tott’s they kept for Christmas Eve and go to town putting out way too many presents under the tree.

I saw in the way Ella’s eyes flashed frantically to my mom, then Georgia, as they yawned and blinked back tears that she wanted that time back. Eileen had spoiled my sister worst of all, and Ella dealt with the tearing, gripping, terrifying void of losing her by forging ahead and trying to plow right past all the rotten emotions.

When Trent and I finally skid to a halt next to her, I can clearly see the reason she even stopped running. The icy glint of an upended bottle catches a streetlight’s shine as my baby sister chugs.

“Hey, slow down.” Trent grips the bottle and pulls it out of her pink-mittened hands. “There’s no drinking during random caroling.”

My sister’s eyes are bright with cold and impending intoxication.

“According to tradition, our
mothers
would be here. And your sister. And it wouldn’t
suck
!”

The last word rings out and echoes in the freezing air.

Trent turns the bottle and reads, “Candycane vodka? Seriously? Your taste in alcohol is as shitty as our sisters.’” He licks his lips, squints, and brings the bottle up to his lips. “Bottoms up.”

I’d estimate he drinks two or three shots, grimaces, and passes me the bottle.

I should stop this. I should tell my sister that this is going to lead to a lot of tears and a rager of a headache tomorrow. But what’s the alternative? Doing this sober and remembering, every frigid step of the way, what is was like last year? When Eileen was just getting sick, but we didn’t know that it was so much worse than a stubborn winter cold?

I study the lamplight, then follow the path of green and red bulbs that leads up to the McCallister’s staid mansion with my eyes. When I look through the bottle glass, I swear I catch a glimpse of our big-haired, loud-mouthed mothers, arms around each other, cackling and sliding on the black ice patches as they prepare to belt out a very out-of-tune rendition of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”

I whip the bottle away from my tricky eyes, and there’s nothing but the chilly wind, the lonely lamp, three lost, freezing kids, and a bottle of sweet-and-sharp alcohol.