Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“That guy really is Mr. Perfection,” mutters Samuel, his voice nearly sounding in awe of Cole. “I will never understand why you picked me over him.”
I shrug. “He probably has a flaw or two we haven’t found yet.”
“Like what?”
“Who knows? We can’t hear him from all the way over here. Maybe he sings terribly.”
As we watch Cole continue to sing with his friends, Samuel and I share a look, likely imagining the worst, most terrible and off-key singing voice coming out of that adorable face, and at once we double over in laughter. Each time we think we’ve recovered, one of us snatches a peek at Cole, and we’re crying all over again.
In all seriousness, I hope Cole Harding finds his man someday. It’s because of him that Samuel and I overcame our stubbornness and came back together, after all. I owe a lot to that Mr. Perfection.
It’s well after sunset when the stars are out that the crowds are dispersed. All the children are home, awaiting Santa’s arrival, and the town becomes quiet and sleepy again. Samuel and I drive out to the Strong ranch, where he’s been invited to stay the night and enjoy Christmas morning with us. There’s magic in the air as Samuel, myself, my dad, Nadine, Paul, and Jacky-Ann enjoy mugs of hot chocolate on the patio, sharing stories about past holidays, funny gift ideas, hilarious happenings at the wedding yesterday, and just about anything that comes to mind.
One moment during the conversation, Samuel turns to look at me. Though the others keep chatting, in this moment, it feels like nothing exists except me and Samuel. This is a memory I think I’ll cherish my whole life, when at long last I felt like part of a bigger picture.
When at long last, I felt like I had a family again.
With a glance at my dad, in the middle of busting a gut from a joke Paul just told, I realize how much this must mean to him as well. He’s spent enough time these past few years mourning what he felt like was the crumbling of his family. Little did he know he had a new one ready to catch him in their opened arms.
I doubt my dad and I will ever be lonely again.
“Okay, so in the spirit of giving familiar treasures …” I start.
“Wait,” exclaims Samuel. “You got me something? When?”
We’re sitting in front of the Christmas tree while the others stay outside chatting away. The whole house is dark except for the light spilling in through the windows from the porch, and the multi-colored glow of all the lights that decorate the Christmas tree towering over us. A hint of tonight’s dinner lingers in the air, making the place feel special and warm, like home.
What sits between us is a box I wrapped. “I don’t mean to talk this gift up too much,” I go on, “but I think you’ll love it.”
“It better not be a puppy-dog.”
“Really? You think I’m gonna shove a poor lil’ puppy into this tiny box?”
He gawks at me with surprise. “Did I just hear you say ‘poor lil’ puppy’? Are you getting a soft spot for animals? Did I do that? Did I singlehandedly melt the wall of ice around your heart??”
I roll my eyes and shove at him. “My heart isn’t ice.”
“Not anymore,” teases Samuel, poking me back.
I swat away his hands and crack a smile. “Okay, look, they still make me sneeze, and I’m not exactly jumping on the next bus to the zoo, but … yes, I guess I’m starting to see their appeal. My sister will be ever-so-happy you converted me, and I’m sure you will get her personal thank-you someday.” I eye him. “But this is not a puppy-in-a-box. The gift doesn’t have a pulse. It’s … just … a little something.”
He takes the box from me and examines it, tongue half-out. As he tears off the (badly-placed) wrapping paper, he squints at me with mounting suspicion. Soon, the paper is gone, the box opens, and he has in his hand the gift.
“A … A hammer?”
“Yes!” I exclaim happily. “I found your hammer in the garage. The one you lost, remember? Your favorite hammer? This one was completely out of place from the others with a colorful handle and a brand that didn’t match Paul’s. So I assumed it had to be yours.”
“Wow, Malckie. That’s … um … This is … so very thoughtful of you, Malckie …”
“Merry Christmas, Sam—”
“… except it isn’t mine.”
My smile collapses. “What?”
“This isn’t my favorite hammer.” He meets my eyes.
I stare at it in disbelief. “But I—But it was the only—How can it—Are you absolutely sure?” I swipe it out of his hand and look it over. “This isn’t yours??”
“Nope. Mine has a blue handle, little white line down the side, and my initials on the top.”