“And you think that’s a bad thing?”
I let my gaze slide back to Michael. He’s studying me intently.
“Alex…” He reaches a hand towards me, then stops himself. “It’s not a bad thing at all. And as for dreaming too much…” he trails off with a little laugh. “You’re a writer, that’s part of the job. But it’s not just that.” He sets the dishtowel down, gazing at me fondly. “It’s who you are. And there’s nothing wrong with any part of it—with any part of you.”
I stare at him, my throat so tight I can barely breathe. Then he reaches his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. My hands are still in the sink, but I twist towards him and rest my head against his chest, closing my eyes, wondering what that warm feeling is rushing through me, filling me up, making me want to sob.
And then I realize what it is. It’s the feeling of being seen, for who I am, and being accepted anyway. It’s the feeling of being understood.
“Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for who you are or what you want,” he murmurs into my hair. He presses a kiss to the top of my head and I squeeze my eyes shut, letting a tear escape down my cheek, overcome with the strangest sense of peace. Somehow, in the space of five minutes, he’s watched me fall apart and put me back together again in a way that no one ever has before. And I don’t know what to do with that.
When he finally releases me, he smiles softly, dragging his thumb under my eye and wiping my tears away.
I give him a watery smile, attempting a laugh. “See? Too sensitive.”
“No.” He shakes his head, gazing at me. “It just means you feel deeply—you care. I learned that about you the second you gave change to that homeless guy outside Beanie.” He picks up the dishtowel again, smiling to himself.
I look down into the sink, trying to quell my smile. I can’t believe he remembers that.
“Thanks for listening,” I say after a pause. “I don’t often talk to people about this. You probably think it’s pathetic, still worrying about what your parents think at my age, but—”
“Not at all. I understand, probably better than most. I don’t think you ever grow out of wanting your parents to be proud of you.” A shadow passes over his face as I hand him a clean plate, and I remember him telling me his parents pushed him into finance instead of letting him write. My heart squeezes.
“You think your parents aren’t proud of you?”
“Not really. Well, not my father. He’s—how do I put this? He’s a difficult man. Hard to please. Never been all that impressed with my choice to be a writer, annoyed that I gave up my ‘real job’. And when I got divorced, he was just so disappointed in me.” He focuses on drying the plate. “Anyway. I’m closer with my mom, but because of Dad I don’t see them all that much. I’m much closer with my grandmother. She lives in Vermont, otherwise we’d be spending Christmas with her.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Your grandmother is still alive?” Whoops. That might have sounded a bit rude.
“Yes, she’s still alive.” Michael cocks his head to one side, sending me an amused look. “Just how old do you think I am?”
“Shit, sorry.” I cringe. “I didn’t mean…”
His mouth twists into a smile. “You think I’m really, really old, don’t you?”
A laugh escapes me. “No. It’s just, well, my grandparents all died when I was little. And I know I’m younger than you, so I figured…” I shrug.
“Yeah, yeah,” he teases.
“So… how old are you?”
“I’m forty-one.”
I nod, turning back to the dishes. That’s about what I thought.
“Does that bother you?”
I glance back at Michael, surprised. “Why would that bother me?”
He lifts a shoulder but he doesn’t say anything more, and for a second he looks a tiny bit vulnerable.
“No,” I murmur, forcing my attention back to the sink. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”
We do the dishes in silence, both of us lost in thought. After a while, Michael asks, “So what do you think of life in the city?”
My mouth pulls into a grin. “I love it.”
“Must be different from home?”
“God, yes. I come from a town of seven thousand people. They couldn’t be any more different.”
“You don’t miss it?”
I shrug. “I love the energy here, but it has been full-on over the holidays.” New York does Christmas on a grand scale—big displays, bright lights, Santas on every corner. And I’ve loved it, mostly, but I can’t deny it would be nice to get away from the frenzy of the crowds for a while. “I don’t miss home but I miss the quiet, sometimes.”
He thinks for a moment. “If you want a break from the city, I have a cabin you could use.”
“A cabin?”
“Yeah. It’s a family cabin, but hardly anyone else uses it. Mostly just me and Henry, sometimes my brother. It’s at Indian Lake.”
I mull this over as I scrub. Maybe I should get away. Some time out could help me sort my head out with everything.
“Where is Indian Lake?”
“In the Adirondacks.”
I let out a disappointed sigh. “Thanks for the offer. It’s a nice idea, but I have no way of getting there.”
Michael takes a few dishes and stacks them in a cupboard. “When would you go? I’m driving up to see Nana in the new year. I could drop you there on the way.”
“Henry wouldn’t mind?”
“He’ll be with his mom for the week.”
“He didn’t want to see your Nana?”
“Oh, he did.” Michael twists the dishtowel in his hands. “But that’s the week he’s supposed to be with his mom and she wouldn’t let him come.”
“She wouldn’t let him?” I ask, handing him a glass.
He sighs. “It’s easier to go along with her than cause drama.”
I think back to the way he shrank at the dinner table, to the
