And why wouldn’t he be? I was messing up his Christmas plans, the first of his own design. If I had set about to ruin his holiday with his aunt, I don’t think I could have done a better job, which was profoundly disheartening. It was bad enough that my own holiday was a colossal fuck-up, I didn’t need to keep ruining his along the way.

When we were done, the last remnants of the misadventure placed in the dishwasher and the countertops wiped clean, I leaned back against the center island and dried my hands with a dishcloth and stared into space at nothing in particular, fighting the overwhelming sense of failure after failure after failure that went far beyond burned baked goods.

I had no idea how long I stayed like that, but it must have been longer than I realized because I didn’t hear Arthur leave the kitchen or notice he was gone until he returned.

And broke my thousand-yard stare with a Jammie Dodger.

“Here,” was all he said, as he offered it up to me.

I blinked. Blinked again. Frowned.

Then looked up to meet his dark brown eyes, which were still difficult to fully read, but enough concern eked through that I dropped the washcloth, covered my face with my hands, and burst into mortifying tears. Which I was sure wasn’t the reaction he was going for.

I ugly-cried like an absolute idiot for several moments, not fully sure why but also unable to stop myself. Also unable to run away to someplace dark and distant where I would be considerably less exposed.

I sensed Arthur lean up against the center island beside me, at a proper distance so as not to be invasive but not so far away as to seem like I was being shunned, which, somewhere deep in my lizard brain, I appreciated, especially because I wasn’t a crier. Or at least I hadn’t been before the last several weeks got hold of me. And I couldn’t even blame this on my period, which had happened two weeks ago.

This was all awkward me.

When my tears began to wane, I felt something lightly pressed against my right hand, and when I instinctively took it, I realized it was a handkerchief this time. A real one. Black cotton with white piping and the scrolled white letters ACW embroidered in the corner. It was almost enough to make me start crying again, but I managed to hold the second emotional wave at bay.

“Thanks.” My voice was scratchy and I sniffed a wet, snobbly sniff that bore no dignity, but I was too tired to care as I wiped my puffy, tear-stained face.

When I stared down at the handkerchief, uncertain what to do with it because this was the first time in my life I’d ever used one, Arthur murmured, “Keep it. I have more.”