May 22
Ana
I toss a stick across the yard and Casper bounds after it gleefully. He hasn't quite mastered the art of returning the stick, but it's a start. He wanders over to where Ryan is hammering away at the frame for the greenhouse, stick clamped firmly between the puppy's teeth. Ryan looks up from his work and reaches for the stick, engaging in a game of tug-of-war that ends with Ryan gently scolding the puppy for not relinquishing the item as requested. Casper looks appropriately shamed until Ryan throws the stick for him and he races out across the yard again. Ryan wipes his brow with his sleeve and looks over at me.
"Want to take a break from that?" he asks, indicating the task I've been working on: tilling the soil for our new garden.
"Do I ever," I reply, happily throwing down the shovel. The soil around the cabin is rocky. Preparing the earth for the garden is proving more difficult and painful than I expected.
For the next several minutes, I help Ryan assemble the frame for the greenhouse, resulting in a small freestanding structure. It's slow going since neither of us has built anything like this before and he's not particularly dexterous. I offered to take charge of building the greenhouse, but he seemed oddly determined to do it himself. Since the materials and books for our gardening endeavor arrived three days ago, we've both been devoting every waking minute to researching, planning, and building our garden. With the sun rising before 4 am and setting almost at midnight, we've had plenty of daylight to aid us in our task. The weather took a turn for the warmer this week and we're both eager to get the plants in the ground as soon as possible.
Casper watches us, me holding the frame up to the wooden beam cemented in place while Ryan secures it with nails. Eventually, the puppy realizes that no one is going to fight him for the stick and reclines in the dirt, gnawing at the stick contentedly. According to the books, Casper should start teething soon. Hopefully, he limits his gnawing-items list to sticks and dog toys. Fortunately for us, Casper seems perfectly satisfied to stay near us and doesn't wander off into the forest. Though he sports a collar with a temporary, improvised name tag, we never need to use his leash to keep him with us.
When the fourth wall has been secured in place, I let go of the frame and step back while Ryan tests each for stability and security. I admire his work. I have to admit, I had my doubts he'd be able to manage the task. He has more strength in his injured arm than I gave him credit for.
"It's really starting to take shape," I say, smiling up at the little structure.
Ryan pauses at my right side to look up at his handiwork with a critical eye.
"It's a little uneven, but I think it'll do," he says. He turns his gaze on me. His hair and characteristic flannel shirt are damp with sweat, his unmarred skin covered in a light sheen. His blue eyes are shining with the exertion. I find myself staring at him a little longer than I should. I thought I'd become accustomed to looking him in the eye without feeling like my insides are melting. I've had over a month to will myself to stop turning into a star-struck fangirl at the sight of the youngest Burke son. I'm certain that's not the reaction he wants. I've never been one to fawn over celebrities, so where is this coming from?
I shift directly into his line of sight so that the right side of his face is visible. He breaks his gaze away. Strangely enough, being able to see his scars makes him less intimidating. I can still see the preserved beauty in his left side, but it's not as intense and heart-stopping as when that perfect profile is all I can see.
"I'll let you know when it's time to attach the rafters. Try to finish tilling the soil today," Ryan says, turning away from me and heading toward the remaining lumber and the circular saw. I sigh and glare at the rocky soil.
~~~
When we head inside for a hasty dinner, we're both tired and the sun is still high in the sky. The greenhouse frame is complete and ready for the plastic sheeting; the garden is tilled and ready for the addition of the topsoil that arrived with the rest of the supplies. Both of us and Casper are dead tired. Ryan doesn't even bother rebuking Casper when he begins chewing on a stray sock before passing out on his little dog bed. We eat dinner in near silence. I let Ryan shower first so I can enjoy a long, warm soak in the tub. My muscles are already sore and I know it'll be hell to pay tomorrow if I don't try to appease them now.
As the water begins to feel more lukewarm than soothing, I hear a knock on the bathroom door accompanied by the sound of my name. I sink into the water, only my eyes peeking over the edge of the tub.
"What is it?" I ask.
"I'm making popcorn. Do you want some?"
"Yes!"
I hurriedly unplug the tub drain and begin to dry off. Ryan bought popcorn at my insistence, though he refused to buy microwavable popcorn because of the single-use bags. The remote cabin doesn't exactly have trash pickup. Ryan composts or recycles whatever he can and burns anything he can't. He's very hesitant to burn anything because of the extreme pollution he assures me plagues Alaska, especially during winter.
When I begged him to buy popcorn, my all-time favorite snack, he acquiesced with the understanding that I'd have to pop it myself, on the stove. Fortunately for me, Ryan quickly discovered he'd been severely missing out for the past several years and now he's happy to make it himself.
Opting for speed rather than style, I separate my long hair into three sections and hastily construct a braid. I throw on my clean clothes and exit the bathroom. Ryan looks up from the stove, surprised.
"That was fast," he says.
"Popcorn motivates me," I reply.
As I gather the butter and salt we'll need once the corn is popped, a bittersweet memory assaults me. Pushing down the sadness that threatens to bubble up, I latch on to the happiness in the memory and start gathering some additional supplies without consulting a cookbook. This recipe is written in my heart. I join Ryan at the stove and begin heating another pot.
"What's that for?" he asks.
"You'll see," I respond mysteriously, flashing him a smile.
While Ryan tends to the corn, I create a thick chocolate sauce. While it warms on the stove, I pull out some baking sheets and a bowl. After tossing the already popped corn with some melted butter, I drop pieces of popcorn into the pot of warm chocolate, fishing them out with a fork and leaving them to cool on the baking sheet. Before the chocolate can harden, I lightly sprinkle the tasty little morsels with salt.
"Chocolate covered popcorn?" he asks.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Cooking experiment?"
"Family recipe."
Ryan doesn't say anything after that. He's probably remembering my reaction the last time I brought up my family in conversation. This time, I'm determined not to dissolve into tears. Ryan finishes the last batch of popcorn and I coat it in chocolate. Leaving the freshly dipped corn to harden, I take a bowl full of the first batch over to the couch. I settle in my usual spot on the left side of the couch and Ryan takes his place at the right, the popcorn bowl in between us. I draw my knees up to my chest and flip my long, damp braid over my shoulder.
"This is really good," Ryan says after trying a piece.
"I thought you'd like it."
He gives me a questioning glance.
"Oh come on, admit it, Mr. Fudge Brownie Ice Cream. You love chocolate."
I manage to get a small chuckle out of him with that comment. He looks down at the bowl, still smiling.
"So did my dad. Before Mom's career took off, they didn't have the money to go out. So they'd make popcorn at home and watch movies and pretend they were at the theater. For their first Valentine's Day, Dad made chocolate covered popcorn to honor their favorite snack. We've been making it ever since."
I look back at Ryan. He's looking at me like he expects I might burst into tears at a moment's notice. Instead, I give him a small smile. No tears this time.
"Every Christmas, every Valentine's Day, every time my parents' anniversary rolls around. You'd think we'd have gotten sick of it." I pause for a moment. "Actually, I missed it this year. I didn't celebrate Christmas. I haven't celebrated any holiday since... you know."
"I haven't either."
"Five years without Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or New Year's?" Spending one holiday season in grief and sorrow was terrible. I can't imagine spending the next four that way. But at the same time, I can't imagine being able to celebrate a holiday wholeheartedly any time soon.
Ryan shrugs. I look down at the popcorn bowl. Maybe I can change that for both of us. Babysteps, Tayja.
"Can we make popcorn for Christmas this year?"
"Of course," Ryan says quietly.
I smile and grab a handful.
"So," I ask. "Did your family have any exciting Christmas traditions?"
"If by exciting, you mean an elaborate party where someone invariably spiked the eggnog regardless of the presence of children, everyone ended up wasted, and the police were called, then yes. The Burkes are well known for their wild parties."
"That's," I pause, searching for the right words. I also notice he said their instead of our. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."
Ryan is grinning at me. "If you were hoping for a traditional, family-centric celebration, look no further than the Burke family Thanksgiving tradition, when every relative with money, good connections, or both is schmoozed by anyone in the family looking to improve their social standing. The turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie are just obstacles to hurdle in the race to somebody's wallet. Mother often complained about the necessity of inviting our 'less fortunate' relatives, but I think she enjoyed being worshipped by them."
I'm at a loss for words. "Well, that's, um..."
"Not what you expected?"
I laugh awkwardly. "No, not exactly." I tilt my head and give him a teasingly contemplative look. "I think I need to teach you how the holidays are supposed to work."
"And how's that?" he asks, playing along.
I spend the next several minutes telling him all about the Thanksgivings and Christmases spent at Abuela's house when I was little, then at our house when Abuela moved in with us after Julie was born. I tell him about how our holiday celebrations grew smaller after Abuela passed away and Tio Fernando moved his wife and my cousins to Miami. I tell him about the New Year's Eve we spent in Times Square just before I graduated high school and how we thought we were going to freeze to death. How Dad teased me that I'd never be able to survive college in Vermont, still hoping that I'd decide to stay in Arizona for school even though I'd already been accepted to the University of Vermont with a full scholarship. How I wish I'd chosen to stay home for college so I could have spent more time with them. What I don't say is that if I'd gone to school in Arizona, I'd never have been hiding the night those men broke in and I'd be dead too.
Is my decision to go to school on the other side of the country the sole reason I lived the night my family died?
Ryan seems to sense the melancholy mood that has descended upon me and asks if he should refill the empty bowl on the couch between us. I decline.
"I'm going to bed," I say with a yawn. "Thanks for the popcorn."
"Thanks for the chocolate."
He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn't know what to say or how to say it.