A Love Like Christmas Time (Wayward Hollow #2)

Prologue

Lauren

“You can do this, Lauren,” I mutter to myself as I pull the key out of the ignition, roll my shoulders and close my eyes then take a deep breath. Then another one.

It’s that time of the year again. The season of only so many family birthdays I can excuse myself from.

Once I’ve exhaled slowly, I open my eyes again, I pull down the sun visor and open up the little mirror. My nude lipstick smudged slightly in the corner of my mouth, but I’m afraid that’s fixed within only a few seconds.

I spent the entire morning getting ready for this.

Curled my hair to perfection, sprayed every strand carefully into place, re-drew my eyeliner about a thousand times to make it sleek, subtle, sophisticated.

As perfect as possible, knowing that every inch of my appearance is about to be scrutinized harder than a Pokémon card being evaluated for resale.

They can talk about my cream summer dress with blue flowers being too short. How my nails are too long, my platform heels too high, but my makeup? For once, at least that’s too perfect to become part of the scrutiny.

I let out a deep sigh. I have no more excuses to stay in the car.

Grabbing my handbag, I climb out of my Mercedes.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself again. Maybe I can speak some confidence into existence. For fuck’s sake, I’ve just done a press tour in five countries, spoken to what must have been thousands of people. I can survive a family function.

Holding the bouquet and present I brought high over my head, I make my way through the labyrinth of expensive cars in my parents’ driveway.

There are SUVs, minivans, and a shiny Porsche that I’m sure belongs to one of my cousins’ hedge fund husbands.

The hydrangeas lining my parents’ driveway are aggressively blue and white, topiaries trimmed to perfection, not a single leaf dancing out of line.

And I’d rather accidentally nick one of the cars instead of my mother’s pride and joy.

The sounds of laughter and screaming children drift from the garden all the way here. Sounds like everyone but me has already arrived.

Fuck. I should have Ubered here. Now I can’t even have a drink to make the entire ordeal more bearable.

The garden gate is wide open. As if it’s mocking me. ‘Gee, Lauren, nice of you to finally turn up.’

I subtly show it my middle finger as I walk inside, closing it behind me.

“Oh, shit!” A tennis ball flies past me, missing me by only a hair before bouncing off my parents’ high wooden privacy fence.

Four of my cousin’s children are engaged in what I think might be their interpretation of a Marvel fight with less slow motion.

Two more are honing their gardening skills by digging up my mother’s flowers.

Another one is running around with a towel stuffed into the top of his t-shirt, screaming, “I’m Superman! ”

Thankfully, the party is happening outside. My family is not small, and it’s hard not to get claustrophobia with everyone crammed into a room. I much prefer press tours. At least those are controlled chaos.

Clusters of adults stand and sit in loose circles, orbiting around each other.

My mother’s group is near the patio, champagne glasses in their hands.

Most of the women are standing by, keeping an eye on the children, armed with juice boxes and wipes.

Meanwhile, the men huddle around the barbecue, probably analyzing and waiting for the exact right time to turn the steaks while holding onto their emotional support beers.

“Lauren!” My cousin Maisie is the first one to spot me. Her voice cuts through the noise before I even see her. She appears out of nowhere, all sunhat, brown hair falling in perfect beach waves, white dress and her one-year-old in her arms.

“Oh my God, look at you! Straight from Hollywood to this humble backyard!” I lift my eyebrow. The rose bushes and giant water fountain would beg to differ.

“It’s good to see you, Maisie,” I say and set the bouquet and present down on the designated table before she gets to throw her arms around me.

“Likewise! I thought you’d be at the Oscars or something.”

“Those are in March,” I reply dryly.

“Oh right, I think I saw footage of you on the red carpet there. I need to know everything! But first-” She glances over my shoulder, suddenly distracted.

“Ethan! Your daughter is eating dirt again!” She brushes past me and, just like that, I know the need to know everything has burst into thin air.

“Great,” I mutter to myself and turn around to search for something to drink.

Mom intercepts me halfway across the lawn to their mini-bar. Her lipstick is sharp enough to rival the grim reaper’s scythe, her scrutinizing stare sending the same goosebumps down my spine as when I was fifteen and slightly late for curfew.

“You’re late,” she says pointedly. “Let me guess. Traffic?”

“Hello to you too, mother. The traffic was fine,” I make a vague gesture with my hand. “But I drove around the block to prepare myself emotionally, then got slowed down by the crushing weight of maternal expectations. You know, the usual.”

“Always trying to be funny.” She leans in and air-kisses both my cheeks, the scent of her heavy floral perfume assaulting my nostrils.

“Happy Birthday, Mom.”

“Thank you,” she replies and steps back. Her gaze flicks down my dress, then back up to my face, wrinkling her nose. “And that’s what you decided to wear? That’s a bold fashion choice, honey.”

“It’s a summer dress, Mom. As boring as they come.”

“Maisie wore something simple. So elegant. Really, she looked wonderful as she helped me set the tables.” I blink and avert my eyes, but I sense her glare burning into my temple. “All while managing her kids, isn’t that incredible?”

“Doesn’t she have a husband who can handle their kids while she’s helping?”

“Not the point, honey. He works a lot to support her. It’s good to see a man who still provides.”

“Doesn’t she also work part-time?” I raise my eyebrow, utterly unimpressed.

“Oh, do you always have to be that cynical?” She rolls her eyes.

“Not always.” I shrug. “Sometimes I nap.”

She exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose and clearly done with my antics, before she catches herself and forces her polite smile back into place. “I’m just saying, Maisie’s doing a wonderful job balancing a family. You could learn a thing or two.”

“I think our priorities lie a few worlds apart.” My eyes dart around as I’m thinking of an escape plan when my dad suddenly appears next to her.

“Lauren, honey. I was starting to wonder if you’d make it.”

I take a deep breath before I answer. “Good to see you, Dad. How’s the company?”

Mom quickly excuses herself, as I’d hoped, while Dad tells me all about the latest client his tech company landed.

If growing up in this family has taught me anything, it’s the skill of appearing interested while internally zoning out.

Usually nodding or throwing in an ‘Oh wow, that’s amazing’ will do the trick.

I used it to my advantage at the last fundraiser when I needed to schmooze with rich people to get them to make sizeable donations.

If there’s anything men my father’s age seem to enjoy, it’s talking about themselves.

“Your mother tries, you know?” he suddenly claims, and my attention snaps back to him. “She only wants the best for you.”

“No. She doesn’t.” I reply with a shrug and watch her play with Maisie’s children. “She doesn’t know me, much less what’s best for me.”

“I wish you were a little more open-minded.”

“About what?” I raise my eyebrow at him. “The body-shaming comments? Or her desire for me to settle down with a man whose only good quality is the ability to make money? And better do it soon because she wants to be a grandmother.”

“Don’t be like that, Lauren. Can’t you compromise for once?”

“I’m pretty sure the only way to make her happy would be to marry rich and have five children. Nothing about that sounds like there could be a compromise. Unless I get myself a dog. I doubt that would count as ‘grandchild’ to her, though, and just open a whole fresh bag of disappointment in me.”

“But what if you-”

“I’m getting myself a drink and some potato salad,” I interrupt him before this conversation can turn even uglier and walk off, softly shaking my head.

It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. It’s also not the first time my dad has tried to justify my mother’s comments, while still proclaiming to be a neutral party in our ever-ongoing squabbles.

And I’m growing tired of it. Bone-deep tired of always having to justify myself. Tired of being expected to take snide remarks on the chin and turn the other cheek. Of being reminded of how much of a disappointment I am.

I’m the only person in the kitchen, sipping on a lemonade as I peruse the buffet, until I’m scooping some lukewarm sausages onto my plate and Maisie walks in.

She’s carrying one of her crying daughters on her hip, carrying an empty plate with her free hand. Her eyes dart from her occupied hands to the food, and she lets out a sigh.

“Would you mind-?” she asks, holding the plate out. With a nod, I take it from her hand.

“Can I ask you something?” I point at the dishes one by one, waiting for her approving nod before I scoop a spoonful onto the plate. Her daughter’s eyes fall closed, and by the time I reach the pasta salad, she’s drifting off in Maisie’s arms.

“Of course. Go ahead,” she whispers, glancing down at her daughter.

“Are you… happy?”

She lets out a deep sigh, leaning her back against the counter, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head.

“That’s a deep question.” She zones out for a moment, her eyes going distant as she thinks about her answer.

“And it doesn’t have a straightforward answer.

It’s not about me anymore, you know? It’s about them.

” Her arms tighten around her child, and her eyes snap back to me.

“The full answer is complicated, but let me say it like this: As long as they’re cared for and happy, so am I. ”

I set down the plate and turn to her, leaning my hands against the counter beside me and watching her.

That’s the girl who used to invite me to sleepovers.

Who I used to eat popcorn with until we got nauseous while watching Twilight.

Who I used to dress up as princesses with.

One of my most vivid memories with her is lying in front of the TV and listening to her tell me about all those grand dreams she had.

Curing cancer, going to space, adopting twenty children to give them a better life than the foster system.

Now there are dark bags under her eyes, even shining through her concealer, that spark, all of that ambition… She doesn’t seem to carry it with her anymore. Instead, exhaustion radiates from her. It’s in every slow movement, every yawn she tries to hide by biting the inside of her cheeks.

Is this what ‘being happy’ is once you reach adulthood? Putting others first for the rest of your life, even at the expense of your own wellbeing?

Can that really be fulfilling enough?

Then again, who am I to question whether this is the life she wants? Maybe her ambitions changed. Maybe she has new dreams.

I’m worried, though. I’ve heard so many stories of stay-at-home wives who lose themselves and feel trapped in a hopeless situation because they lack support.

“You know, I’m only a phone call away, right? That you can always let me know if there’s anything you need?” Her eyes soften, and she gives me a soft nod.

“I know.” Finally, her mouth tugs into a small smile. “Thank you.”

Her daughter wakes up with a big yawn, wiggling in her hold until Maisie sets her down. Once back upright, she stares at me, opening her mouth as if she wants to say more. But that’s when her husband pops his head around the kitchen door.

“How long are you planning to stay in there? Jack is hungry.”

“I’ll be right out.” She grabs the plate from the counter and shoots me an apologetic smile. I watch her leave with a pit in my stomach.

Maybe being happy is not for me. At least not if this is the definition of it. But hopefully, being ‘content’ is.

Then again, am I content? My work hours are crazy. Every two weeks I’m all but overdosing myself on coffee thanks to jetlag. Almost every day, I worry about letters from strangers who think we’re soulmates.

With a sigh, I grab my plate and scoop some salad onto it. Which is a generous word, considering it’s about eighty percent croutons and dressing, twenty percent greens and vegetables.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket with a message from my best friend.

Nic: *Picture*

Nic: OMG Lauren!!! I said yes!!!

Fuck. I mean good for her.

I shouldn’t have driven myself. I need a drink.