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13

ALWAYS HERE

DECEMBER 1ST, 2009 – 18 YEARS OLD

With November passing and December arriving, Rubble Ridge has become a Christmas dream. Lanterns are dressed in glittering garland that shimmers in the night. Strings of twinkling bulbs line shop windows and illuminate homes. The town has smoothed over the ice rink in the park, and people skate between large twinkling decorations and giant spruce trees strung with thousands of bulbs, igniting the night in a holiday fantasy.

I remember skating with Holt on that ice. I remember the way he’d move behind me, guiding me around the rink and through the lights. It had felt so incredibly romantic. So incredibly magical.

Now, the memory drifts through my mind with a heavy ache that roots itself in my soul.

Tate signals off the main road toward the part of town where we both grew up. Nerves swell inside me, sparking nausea I haven’t felt in a while.

“You okay?” Tate asks.

I dare a look at him, nodding.

His jaw hardens, but his voice is soft when he tells me, “You don’t look okay.”

“I’m nervous.” I try not to fidget with my fingers. I fail.

“Don’t be.”

“We’re telling our parents I’m pregnant. Of course, I’m nervous.”

“We have to tell them.”

“I know.” I sigh. “But do we have to do it tonight?”

He peers at me before he casts his eyes to the street again. He reasons quietly, “You’re showing.”

“I’m not showing that much.” I’m really not. I’m still able to hide it for the most part. I think I’m lucky for that. Some women show far sooner and far more. Maybe my baby is small—unlike his father.

“But you’re showing. It’s better to tell them than to let them figure it out on their own. To let them question…”

“But—”

“I told Holt over a month ago. Nothing. He hasn’t called, and he hasn’t come.” He looks at me again. “Has he called you?”

I can’t speak through the raw hurt. I shake my head.

“We have to move forward now,” he tells me gently, but firmly. “This is us moving forward.”

“Okay.” The word sounds raw, my hurt echoing into the space between us. “Okay, we move forward.”

Tate reaches across the truck to take my hand in his. I hold it back, needing his strength, taking comfort in his strength. I take comfort in him.

“Thank you for being here for me—with me.”

“Always,” he vows. “Until I take my last breath.”

I wish I could promise him the same thing, but something stays my tongue. A knowing I can’t explain.

Instead, I vow, “I’ll love you like you deserve to be loved, Tate. I just need time to—” My hand moves over the swell of my belly. “I don’t feel like me.”

“I don’t need anything more than you’ve given me. I don’t need more than you feel comfortable giving me. Not ever.”

“You deserve everything,” I tell him honestly as he parks in front of my childhood home. I’ve told him this before, but I’ll tell him again and again for all the days that I live my life with him—because he’s honestly the best, kindest, and most generously loving man I’ve ever known. “You deserve the best.”