Page 65 of Elf-ish

I might actually be jealous of drops of water.

“So, it wasn’t a fever dream,” she whispers, dipping her gaze to the blankets over my lap.

“What wasn’t a dream?”

“You climbing into bed to heat me up. Or you running a bath for me. Or washing my hair.” Her gaze leaps to my face, while the hesitation in her voice suggests she isn’t certain any of those things really happened.

“Not a dream,” I admit.

“For a minute there, I thought I was having my own Christmas Carol moment.”

“Oh yeah. What ghosts haunt you?”

Her eyes remain fixated on my face. “Only friendly ones.” She takes another sip of her water. “Thank you for being here, Jude. Thank you for taking care of me.”

A strange sensation that can be called nothing other than warm and fuzzy fills my chest. I’m not certain I’ve ever felt whatever this tickle is inside me. I almost feel giddy, and then I want to slap myself.

However, my sister was right. This is new, and I must admit, it feels incredible to be genuinely appreciated. To take care of someone else’s needs.

I wouldn’t say I’m fully reformed, but I’m getting there.

Like learning to skate again, I’m still a bit wobbly.

chapter 20

[Jude]

The next day while Angelica sleeps, I attempt to work, but my mind continually wanders. I take a second glance around her apartment. The rug covering the hardwood flooring. The abundant pillows on her couch. The worn leather chair. She even has a small Christmas tree strung with real popcorn and dried cranberries. It doesn’t contain any ornaments, but the simplicity of it is beautiful. A string of lights hangs around the window.

Her place is comfortable, cozy even, which is something I hadn’t considered yesterday. Her one-bedroom apartment is a home compared to my place on the upper floors of a downtown high-rise.

I’m easily distracted by the floating shelves on one wall near her television, which holds a myriad of framed photographs. Close-ups of children. Laughing adults. A couple in black and white. A pair of older women.

Eventually, I stand to further inspect the images.

With my hands behind my back, I stare at each and every image as if I’m viewing fine art in a gallery instead of candid photos.

I note the close-up of the children. Some of the boys have a mischievous twinkle to their eyes, while one of the girls has the same. Each face looks relaxed, content, well-loved. Their smiles appear genuine.

Next, I stare at the adults, easily distinguishing Angelica, her sister Christmas, brother Dane, and assume the final male is her brother Beau. In one picture, they are laughing with large grins and their heads tipped backward. Whatever was said or done to prompt such a photo was truly funny, but the attractive part of the image is that they appear to genuinely enjoy one another.

The pair of older women must be her Aunt Gertie and her grandmother. The two have their heads together, like a couple of teenagers. The image is rather sweet.

Finally, I focus on the black and white image of a couple on their wedding day. They’re dancing with their foreheads touching. Her eyes are closed. He appears to be looking at her. I’ll never be able to meet Angelica’s parents, and yet looking at this image, the love within them radiates outward, unlike the wedding portrait of my parents, where they both look stiff and uncomfortable.

Heck, I couldn’t recall a single photograph that was spontaneous for my family. Nothing was unplanned. Photos were taken, and then re-taken, if our smiles weren’t just right. With our perfected smiles, we always had a slightly stilted expression.

“My dad liked to stare at my mother.”

I don’t turn my head but catch Angelica out of the corner of my eye leaning against the door jamb to her bedroom, tipping her head to the side. She’s wearing a dark green pajama set today. Silky pants and a complementary top with three buttons.

“When he got caught by one of us, he’d always say our mother was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.”

Hearing the soft smile in her voice, I turn my head, noting a hint of sadness in the curve of her lips.

Turning back to the photographs, I say, “You all look like you genuinely like one another.”

Angelica chuckles. “We do. Most days.”