Holidays are Hell

"Sorry," I said, taking advantage of his surprise by pushing past him and up onto the ladder. "I'll be right back," I said, enjoying the cooler air up here smelling of wood and dusty boxes. The shush of a passing car from outside sounded odd and close. Arms wrapped around me, I looked over the past boxed up and piled haphazardly about, like memories in a person's brain. It was only a matter of knowing where a thought was and dusting it off.

My eyes lit upon the stack of carefully labeled tomato boxes that had my stuffed animals. A faint smile came over my face, and I stepped over the Halloween decorations to touch a dusty lid. I must have had about two hundred of them, all collected during my stints in and out of the hospital. I had counted them my friends, many taking on the names and personalities of my real friends that never made it out of the hospital that one last time. I knew my mom wanted them gone, but I couldn't throw them away, and as soon as I got my own place, I'd take them with me.

I lifted the first one and set it aside to find the box hiding under them. It was my dad's, tucked away lest my mom throw it out in a fit of melancholy. Some of his best stuff. I dug my fingernails into the little flaps to get a grip, grunting when it proved heavier than I thought. God, what had I put in here, anyway?

"Allow me," came Pierce's voice from my elbow, and I spun.

"Holy crap!" I exclaimed, then covered my mouth, feeling myself go red. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were up here."

Pierce's shock at my language melted into almost laughter. "My apologies," he said, and I shifted to let him to lift the box with enviable ease. "I like attics. They're as peaceful as God's church. Alone and apart, but a body can hear everything. The past stacked up like forgotten memories, but with a small effort, brought down and enjoyed again."

I listened to the cold night and smiled. "I know exactly what you mean."

Watching my footing, I followed him to the stairway. He took the box from me and gestured I should go before him, and, flattered at the chivalry, I did. My shoulders eased as the warmth of the house slipped over me, and I stood aside when Pierce lightly descended. He handed me the box to fold the ladder back up, but he hesitated at the bare bulb, still glowing in the attic. Without glancing at me for permission, he carefully pushed the light switch down.

Of course the light went out. A delighted smile came over him, and much to his credit, he didn't play with the switch but shoved the collapsible ladder closed and back into the ceiling. I watched his eyes travel over the lines of it as he did, as if memorizing how it worked.

"Thank you," I said as I went before him, back into the kitchen with the box.

The coffeemaker was gurgling its last, and Pierce looked at it, undoubtedly figuring out what it was from the rich scent that had filled the kitchen. "If that doesn't cap the climax," he said, almost missing the table as he set the box down. "It made itself."

"I'll get you some," I said as I hustled to the cupboard. It smelled great as I poured out two cups and I handed him one, our fingers touching. He smiled, and something tight-ened in my chest. God, I am not falling for him. He's dead. But he did have a nice, mischievous smile.

"I hope I'm not making a mistake drinking this," he said "How real am I?"

I shrugged, and he took a sip, eyeing me over the rim to make my breath catch. God, he had beautiful eyes.

His eyebrows shot up, and jerking, he started to violently cough.

"Oh, golly," I said, remembering not to swear as I took the cup from him before it could spill. "I'm sorry. You can't drink, huh?"

"Strong," he gasped, his blue eyes vivid as they watered. "Really strong."

I set his cup down and took a sip of mine. My mouth tried to pucker up, and I forced myself to swallow. Crap, my mom had filled the filter, and the coffee was strong enough to kill a cat. "Don't drink that," I said, taking his cup and mine to the sink. "It's terrible."

"No, it's fine."

I froze as he caught my hand. I turned, feeling his light but certain grip. A slow quiver rose through me, and I stifled it before it could show as a tremor. I was suddenly very aware that we were here alone. Anything could happen—and as the moment hung, his silence and almost-words ready to be whispered that he was having thoughts, too—I nearly wished it would. He was different. Strong but unsure. Capable but lost. He knew I had been ill, and he didn't baby me. I liked him. A lot, maybe. And he needed my help. No one had ever needed my help before. No one. Especially someone as capable and strong as him.

"It's undrinkable," I said when I found my voice, and he took his cup from me.

"If you made it, it's divine," he said, smiling like the devil himself, and I felt my heart thump even as I knew he was bullshitting me.