28. Taking in the View

28

TAKING IN THE VIEW

QUINN

While Patrick is changing his clothes and grabbing the snowshoes, I pack our picnic. Two medium-sized thermoses of hot cider, two canteens of water, one large thermos of vegetable soup, some bread wrapped up, and some cookies to boot. I slip Patrick's notebook in a front waterproof pocket of my backpack for protection. From a drawer, I nab a red pen for official editing purposes. I only wish I had my scratch-and-sniff stickers with the smiley faces on them to add some positive reinforcement to his work, in a fun way.

The last item I grab is the map of the grounds Hobart left us a few days ago. He explained that every amenity in the chalet was designed by a previous Santa. One Santa was a competitive swimmer, hence the heated Olympic-sized swimming pool. Another Santa loved to hike, so he had trails carved out, marked, and maintained throughout his season, all leading to the best views of the North Pole.

When Patrick comes back in his red flannel, khaki jacket, and tan boots, he looks rugged. I swoon. My husband has always been handsome, but he's even more so now that he was so vulnerable with me out on the porch. I pass him one of the packed bags, and we head out.

Snowshoeing properly requires a kick-step technique. I enjoy the satisfying crunch of the cleated deck that's bound to my boots as it presses into the snow. The crisp sound of spearing my pole in front of me to maintain my balance adds to the harmonious song.

It takes a half hour to reach our destination, but once we're there, the view is too spectacular to begrudge the sweat beading beneath my knit hat.

The village, from this vantage point, looks even more like a miniature, and a light, sporadic flurry has started giving it the appearance of a snow globe come to life.

We lay out a blanket in the snow and unpack our provisions. Patrick goes straight for the soup. I grab a piece of bread, his notebook, and my pen.

I nestle inside Patrick's words. He always says he's better at drawing, and in the years I've loved him, I know that to be true, but his mind is far more beautiful than he gives it credit for. Sentences jump out at me like: Christmas has always had a special place in my heart, so I hope you'll welcome me into yours while we work together.

My red pen hovers over the sentence. From someone else's mouth, it could be cheesy, but coming from Patrick, his sincerity will bleed from the statement. He's earnest to a fault. I bite back a smile, eyes flicking up and over to Patrick, who is pretending not to watch my every move while he leisurely eats the soup.

"I read slower when you're staring at me." It's mostly a joke, but I have always been sort of incapacitated by Patrick's steely blue eyes. Their intensity is one of the first things I noticed about him when we met.

He shrugs, peers into the thermos of soup. "Read as slow as you want. We've got all the time in the world."

I love that. All the time in the world. In New Jersey, it always feels like the clock is conspiring against me. Not enough minutes in the school day to finish all my lessons. Not enough hours in the evening to spend quality time with Patrick. Here, time is our ally.

I go back to reading. He goes back to his soup.

I make light grammar and line edits. I suggest some reordering of paragraphs, and I adopt his voice to add some transitional language that will tie it all together with a neat bow. "It's really great," I say, passing the notebook back.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"I wouldn't lie to you." I realize that sounds bad given what came before this, but if he flinches, I don't catch it. Besides, he didn't exactly lie. He withheld the truth. Knowing what I know now, they're not as similar as I assumed.

One page at a time, he digests my notes. "Will you miss it? Teaching?" The question surprises me.

"Like a toothache." It's not entirely true, so I don't know why I said it, or specifically said it like that.

"Has it really been that bad?" The notebook is closed now. There's no dodging the conversation. His tone is too serious and his conviction too strong.

"No. Not exactly." I reach for a cookie even though I haven't had my lunch. "I'll miss my students a lot and my classroom. I'll miss the organization of my days. I won't miss the administrator observations or the microaggressions."

"Microaggressions?" The werewolf of Patrick's protectiveness rips up to the surface.

"No need to get excited. It's nothing," I say, not fully buying it myself but wanting his alpha mode to go back into remission. "Right before winter break, they asked me to take down the photo of us on our wedding day, so I did."

"What? That's not nothing." He closes the soup and repositions onto his knees. "We got engaged in front of your students. Nobody batted an eyelash then."

"Yeah, different year, different students, different parents. Besides, those are the drama kids. The parents who enroll their kids in the arts know what's up." I don't need confirmation to know that the parent or parents who complained were the same ones who commented on my Pride flag at back-to-school night, the ones who regarded me with iciness during parent-teacher conferences, as if my queerness or diverse book choices were the reason their child was reading below the state standard level.

I try to do right by everyone who walks through the door of my classroom, no matter their age or their intellect, and yet, I don't feel that being reciprocated, especially by adults who should know better.

Patrick's nostrils flare. "You should've texted me when it happened."

"You were at work," I say, then regret it because I know now that he wasn't, but that's not the point at present. "Never mind. It wasn't a big deal. I took it down. I didn't want you to feel the need to—I don't know—defend the sanctity of our union or something. It wasn't that deep."

He drops off his knees with a plop. "It sounds pretty deep to me."

I've clearly offended him, so I reach out to touch his shoulder. "Pat, I'm sorry. I would've told you, it's just—" I didn't know how to bring it up without catastrophizing the whole thing and breaking down in tears from the stress and the grind, I think, but instead say, "I just don't need more battles to fight in my life right now."

He moves away from my touch. "You took it down. Doesn't sound like you fought the battle at all."

I hate that he's picking this argument right now. Even more, I hate that he's mostly right. Mrs. Birch has a photo of her and her husband hung up in the music room. Nobody says anything to her. Mine was in a frame on my desk, facing me. But I don't press the subject because the simple fact is that: "I'm not a fight-the-power kind of person," I say.

"Positive change is worth the fight," Patrick says simply. "Will you promise me you'll at least consider putting it back up when we get back?"

"Maybe."

"Quinn, your students need a good example of unconditional love because you know if their parents have a problem with a picture, the love they're getting at home is anything but."

"Seriously never say you're bad with words again." I shove his shoulder, amazed at how perceptive he is. How a change of scenery has already unlocked this poet inside of him. "Tonight's going to be amazing. You're going to crush your speech. Let's focus on that for now, okay?" He nods, tentatively, tapping his gloved fingers on the spine of his notebook. "Have a gingersnap. They're delicious."

Patrick accepts the cookie with a smile.

We stay out for another few hours, enjoying the view and the fresh air. Our conversation is more periodic, but lighter in tone and flirtier in nature. Patrick draws in his notebook. I crack open the paperback I tucked into my bag—a collection of Christmas-themed short stories by literary greats. It's nice to be reading something for pleasure for once. I miss absorbing words and worlds for the sheer joy of the experience.

I break out the cider thermos in the late afternoon. Patrick surprises me by producing a bottle of bourbon to make hot toddies.

"To take the edge off my public-speaking nerves," Patrick says, as if we need a reason to day drink on New Year's Eve.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Saint Nick."

The bourbon does the trick to warm us and draw us close. So close, in fact, that we're snuggling on our picnic blanket with gloved hands roaming all over. Our cold, gingery lips come together. It's pulse-spiking and surreal.

"I take back the saint part," I whisper headily. "You kiss like a sinner."

He gives me a wolfish grin. "I know another thing that would take the edge off my public-speaking nerves."

Without hesitation, we climb all over each other right there on the blanket overlooking the town.