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“Similar, yes,” I confirm, registering that she reads Malcolm Gladwell—yet more evidence that I’ve vastly underestimated what Julia knows.
For once, she doesn’t have a retort. She lets out a sigh and looks over at the fire, focusing on the flames.
“So are you happy to go back?” I ask, making small talk for possibly the first time in twenty years.
“I like Christmas.”
Ask her, Gus.
“Julia—”
Her eyes swivel to meet mine and she stares at me with expectation on her face.
Hell, ask her.
“Up,” I request instead, holding out my hand.
Confused, she frowns at it before she says, “I thought you didn’t dance.”
I nod at the record player, where Elvis croons softly against the sound of the crackling fire. “I do when the King is playing.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting back a smile.
Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love with you.
We sway quietly, her head resting on my shoulder. My hand is laced with hers and the other rests on the small of her back. In this position, my chin sits on the top of her head and I can’t ignore how well we fit together, like two pieces in an infuriating, three-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, sure—but we fit perfectly, nonetheless.
Grow a pair and ask her to stay.
“What’s with you and Elvis?” she asks, shifting to look at me.
“My grandpa was a fan,” I answer, trying to ignore the focus in her gaze. She’s trying to read me, as usual. “Growing up, he always played Elvis records.”
Julia’s head returns to my shoulder, offering me a reprieve from her inspection. “Sounds like you spent a lot of time with him.”
I breathe in deeply and exhale before I say, “He and my grandma raised me.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“Mom left.”
“And your father?”
“Died,” I reply, hating how soft my voice grows. Tonight is the first time I’ve told anyone about my past in twenty-five years, and the rapid-fire admissions have me wishing I were back on the couch instead of standing in the middle of my living room with only Julia to distract me. Vulnerability is a menace I’ve avoided at all costs. Now, it breathes down my neck—and I’m entirely without armor.
The song ends and the next one starts. “I’m sorry,” she finally murmurs.
“It was a long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
More questions. Too many questions. I want to tell her to stop, but I know how badly she craves information. Knowing things. Understanding things. She’s so curious, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire her inquisitiveness. But when it comes to me, it’s different. I should give her more, I know. But the last time I gave any of myself to someone, it nearly ended me.
But I want her. I want her so much that I muster every ounce of audacity and daring in me, the stuff that made me the man I am today.
“Ten,” I answer.
All that build-up for a simple, three-letter response.
