Only One Bed

6. Abbie

Abbie

Abbie

Though Reed said he was feeling better, the morning’s activity apparently saps his energy. By ten, he’s in bed again. Either a belly full of pancakes put him to sleep, or the lingering effects of his concussion did.

Maybe both.

When I hear him moving around late in the afternoon, I nix any further attempt at conversation by putting in earbuds and pretending he doesn’t exist. That works until I have to sit at the same table again.

Dinner is pappardelle with a meaty tomato sauce, sautéed veggies, and garlic bread. The last guy I dated would have been whining about carbs at this point. Not that he lasted. It only took my sister and my mother moving in to run him off.

Mom would have also complained about the carbs, despite no one forcing her to fill her plate with more pasta than vegetables. And she’d have lamented that if she skips the bread, it will go to waste (though if I’d skipped making a serving for her in anticipation of her not wanting the carbs, she would have complained that I didn’t make enough for everyone or that I’m implying she’s fat and pushing her to diet.) Lauryn would have looked at the pasta box and declared that she’d have chosen a different brand or that we should always make our own pasta (not that she would help)—and then, if I do make the pasta myself, demand that I use free-range eggs (I already do, but she checks the carton each time to make sure) and a non-GMO artisan flour that she heard about online (though she doesn’t buy it herself or offer to pay the difference.)

Reed’s not complaining about carbs, though. He’s not complaining about anything. He genuinely seems to enjoy the meals I’ve made so far…which is a novelty.

I feel his gaze on my face while we eat, but I’m still using my earbud protection. At the table. It’s rude, beyond rude, I can barely even stand myself right now, but there’s a weight in my chest growing heavier and heavier with every passing minute. I’m afraid if he says one word to me, just one—it doesn’t even matter what he says—I’ll burst into tears.

But it’s not because of Reed. Not really. It’s just…I only wanted one thing during this holiday. One simple thing. To spend a few days away from people who criticize and judge and who simply cannot fucking leave me be.

Though Reed is leaving me be. I recognize that. But I also wanted to spend time painting—and I’m too afraid of what he might say if I do. It’s not even that I care about his opinion. I don’t. But I don’t want to open myself up to any criticism he might have. It’s the same reason I’m not playing Christmas carols on the portable speaker like I did the first day. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have anyway, while his head was clearly hurting. Or while he was sleeping. But I won’t now, either. Having been around my mom and sister makes it impossible for me to sing out loud in front of anyone else. I don’t have a great voice, I know it. It’s scratchy and always off-key. But I like singing. It makes me happy. Yet I know from experience that it only takes one snide comment to make me feel like shit, instead.

I’m so tired of always having to protect myself. So I just wanted a few days where I didn’t have to walk around with my armor on. I can’t do that at home. I’d hoped I could here.

But Reed’s here now. And even though he was so nice about me rubbing against him this morning, though he’s been so nice about the food, though he said nice things in his delirium, I feel as if I’m waiting for the knife to come out. And why wouldn’t it? He’s always hated us. And he said plenty of shit before. Do I really think he would stop at tearing down a house when I’m right here to tear down, instead?

I don’t.

So I just want to be alone. I just want to be alone.

Where it’s safe.

Reed silently volunteers to do the dishes by starting on them after finishing his dinner. I let him have at it, change into my pajamas, and head to my armchair to read. I don’t look up from my phone when he eventually joins me in front of the fireplace. His big frame fills the oversized chair, where he sits with his feet extended toward the flames and his eyes closed for almost two hours. Then he heads to bed.

Though I’m exhausted, I don’t follow. Instead I toss another piece of wood onto the fire, return to the armchair, and arrange the quilted throw over as much of me as it will cover. I set my phone aside and close my eyes.

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up shivering, my back aching. The fire’s low. I need to add more wood. But before I uncurl my legs, a massive shadow blots out the light from the fireplace and I’m scooped up against Reed’s broad chest.

He doesn’t say a single word as he carries me to the bed. He doesn’t have to. It was stupid to stay in the chair.

Though maybe he believes I’m asleep. Because I don’t say anything, either. I should. What kind of arrogant asshole bodily grabs someone and relocates them? I should be telling him off. Instead, I drowsily wallow in his warmth and the strength of the arms holding me.

But I can’t bear a repeat of the previous morning. Of waking to find myself writhing against his cock like a deranged Aladdin trying to rub a genie out of a lamp.

So as soon as he sets me on the bed, I shove myself all the way against the far wall. I’m still wearing my socks and pajama pants. If I hope to sleep, I need to take them off.

I don’t. I’m too afraid of falling asleep. Too afraid of what I’ll do. So I spend a miserable night, with my pants twisting around my legs every time I move and my socks irritating the fuck out of me and overheating my feet.

Reed sleeps restlessly, turning and turning. Or maybe he’s also awake. A few heavy sighs come from that side of the bed. A couple of times, the quiet within the cabin seems so thick—as if he’s about to say something.

He doesn’t.

By morning, my exhaustion has become a stupor, complete with a bonus headache. But I don’t ignore Reed anymore. It just makes me feel shittier.

Maybe because it’s Christmas Eve, we both make a concerted effort to be pleasant. Every word that passes our lips is careful. Polite. Safe. The weather has cleared, so we agree to go tree hunting after we eat—toast for me, eggs and toast for him. At the table, our conversation is courteous drivel.

“More coffee?”

“Yes, thank you. How are the eggs?”

“Perfect, thank you. I can never flip them without breaking the yolk.”

“I’ll show you the next time I make them.”

“That’d be great, thank you. I’ll do the dishes again when we get back with the tree.”

“I appreciate that, thank you. For dinner, do you have any Christmas Eve tradition that you’d like to follow? Assuming we have the ingredients, of course.”

“I don’t, but thank you for asking. I’m happy to eat whatever you traditionally have.”

“It’s not a traditional thing for me. It’s just something I wanted to do when I planned my menus. I thought to make finger foods—as a late lunch/early dinner—so that I can graze while decorating the tree.”

“A finger food free-for-all sounds damn good. What are you thinking of including?”

“A charcuterie board with the usual things, plus veggies and spinach dip—and so it’s not all cold stuff, sausage rolls and jalapeno poppers.”

“Hell, yeah. What kind of sausage rolls?”

“They’re those cocktail-sized ones that come frozen. They’re easy to throw in the oven along with the poppers.”

“I bet I’ll eat about fifty of those.”

That absurdity gets us through breakfast. Then Reed dons his snow suit and heads out to the shed for the sled, bow saw, and two pairs of snowshoes. I don’t have fancy snow gear but I bundle up, then step out onto the porch to wait for him.

It’s absolutely glorious outside. Azure skies. Majestic firs. Pristine snow.

For the first time in what seems like forever, the weight in my chest eases. The temperature’s just below freezing but the sun on my face makes the air seem warmer, fresh and exhilarating instead of biting and bitter.

I close my eyes and just breathe it in.

The crunch of snow alerts me to Reed’s return from around the back of the cabin—the uneven rhythm of his steps telling me that, despite what he says, his leg must still be hurting him. Or maybe his injury is aggravated by the difficulty of walking in the snow.

Reed grins when he spots me on the porch. “Pretty nice day, yeah?”

“It is.” His grin does fluttery little things to my insides, so I look away.

“You’ve got your tree permit?”

I pat my coat pocket.

“What are the restrictions?”

“No cutting within two hundred feet of a riverbank, lake, or a meadow. And it can’t be over fifteen feet tall.” A height which wouldn’t even fit inside the cabin.

“No worries there, then.” He drops the second pair of snowshoes by my feet. “Need help strapping these on?”

“I’ve got it.”

It takes me a few minutes to get used to walking with them, but I’m doing all right by the time we leave the clearing and start down the road. Reed keeps pace beside me, dragging the sled.

All the Douglas firs around us are much taller than fifteen feet, but I don’t care if it takes us a while to find one suitable for a Christmas tree. It’s so beautiful out here. So quiet, too, even with the noise we’re making. And I don’t know if it’s the fresh air, or simply being outside of the cabin for the first time in days, but my exhaustion and headache are gone. So is the dark and heavy mood that almost crushed me yesterday.

“This is the best smell,” I find myself saying, and Reed glances at me, his brows raised. “Fresh snow.”

“Yeah, it is.” He watches as I bend to sweep up a handful of powder, smash it between my gloved palms, and hurl the clump at a tree. “Are you itching for a snowball fight?”

I sniff derisively. “Snowball fights are something you do with friends, not your sworn enemy.”

“You’d prefer to fight with your friends than an enemy?”

“Of course. Friendly fights are the best.”

“Are they?”

“They are. Because you know a friend won’t hurt you on purpose. So instead of a fight, it becomes more of a battle of skill or wits. Or just pure fun.”

“Fun? I should probably warn you of a battle I’m fighting, then. I”—he pauses until I turn my head to look at him—“am going to make you laugh. Or smile.”

“Do you like losing? Is that why you’re flinging yourself into a battle that you can’t possibly win?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never lost a challenge before.”

“Never?”

“Never. And I won’t start today.”

So arrogant. I roll my eyes. Then I plow ahead of him, because I might smile. I might. “How far is your snowmobile? I’m assuming you came by the road.”

But there’s no sign of the machine yet. I don’t expect to see any tracks, but the snowmobile itself should be visible, even if it’s covered by snow. The forest is mostly clear of underbrush between the trees and the ground is even, so a snowmobile-sized heap will stick out.

“I did come by the road. It can’t be far.”

It is far. At least a mile, which is a ridiculous distance in the snow. And even with the snowshoes, trudging through the powder takes its toll. By the time I spot the tree branch that must have whacked him, Reed’s limp is more pronounced. I’m sweating, and my lungs and leg muscles burn.

“There.” I point to a tree on the side of the road. Near its base is a snowy heap. Red and silver show through the white where the wind scoured the snow away.

While Reed begins digging out his pack, I look farther down the narrow lane. The limb that fell on him is still partially attached to the tree and hangs down into the road. It’s no small branch. At least four or five inches thick where the limb cracked—and to break like that, the bough must have been additionally burdened with a substantial amount of snow.

And all that weight crashed down on him.

“You were really lucky,” I tell him seriously. Not just surviving the impact but then finding his way through the blizzard to the cabin.

He’s looking at the broken bough, too. Something in his face tells me that he hadn’t realized how large it was or how far from the cabin he’d been. Then he glances at me. “It’s worse than that.” He gestures to the large hiking backpack now strapped to the sled. “My keys are in there.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “So if I hadn’t been at the cabin…”

“Maybe I could have broken in, but the state I was in? Maybe not.” He shakes his head—and seems to shake away all the morbid thoughts. “Anyway. Let’s go get your tree.”

I’ve caught my second wind, so I’m ready to. I’m not sure he is. “Are you doing all right? Your head, your leg?”

“I can keep going.”

That doesn’t answer how his head and leg are doing, and the evasion tells me they hurt like hell. “Do you want me to pull the sled?”

The look he gives me is an emphatic, Not a fucking chance .

So we keep heading down the road. I don’t know why I thought there’d be little trees everywhere. But I suppose any tree shorter than three feet is covered in snow. Though there’s a dearth of medium trees, too.

Now that we’ve got Reed’s pack, though, we can search away from the road. “Harris said the best place to look is near the crag. Do you know where that is?”

“I do.” His huff of laughter emerges on a frozen breath. “It’s about a mile on the other side of the cabin.”

Shit. Well, I’m not going to make him walk that far. Not for this. “Let’s keep looking here, then.”

“We can head to the crag, if you want.”

“It’s fine. Besides—” A Christmas miracle. “Look there. That one.”

Reed frowns. “Which one?”

“That one. Right where I’m pointing.”

He drags the sled closer to me, as if to make sure he’s got the same view through the trees. “That skinny one with only four branches?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yep.”

“You’re sure? We can head to the crag. No need to settle for that one. Unless you want a Charlie Brown tree.”

My stomach knots. “If I wanted a perfect tree lot tree, I could have brought one.”

“And if you’re choosing this one because of my leg, it’s fine. We can keep looking.”

“I don’t want to keep looking. I found my tree.”

His eyes narrow. “And you’re telling me that tree fits into your best Christmas ever? This is what you pictured?” My expression must show some of what I’m feeling because he holds up his hands, as if in surrender. “I’m just trying to make sure you get the Christmas you wanted.”

“And I just pictured a tree. Any tree,” I insist, and his blatant skepticism yanks at the knot of emotions inside me, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter…until it snaps. “My perfect Christmas is screwed anyway, isn’t it? You’re here. And you and your dad are the whole fucking reason I came out here in the first place!”

His face darkens. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You bulldozed my mother’s home!” I scream at him, throwing my hands wide. “After your father stole it out from under her. After she spent every bit of her savings fighting to keep it. So where did she and my sister go? To my house! After years of hoping to get my own place, of making it mine. And your dad’s out there gloating over how she lost her house, how she lost everything. Have you seen how much it costs to rent? She can’t find anything decent, especially now that her credit’s fucked! So I have to hide in my own house because I can’t even walk in the door without them criticizing every choice I’ve ever made. And I hate it!”

Blinded by tears, by fury, by hurt, I snatch up a fistful of snow and fling it at the blurry giant figure that is Reed Knowles. “I hate it! And I hate every Knowles man alive for going after us, and going after us, and tearing us down! Wasn’t it enough to badmouth me to Harris?” I hurl another snowball. “You had to take their house? And now I can’t do anything without them sniping and sniping and sniping—and when they aren’t sniping about me, they’re sniping about everything else in the world. So my perfect Christmas? It’s not the fucking tree! It’s just being away from them. Away f-from the c-constant?—”

My voice breaks. Despair rushes in, heavy in my chest. So heavy. Crushing me.

“And I have to go back!” Covering my face, I sob into my hands. “Oh god, I have to go back.”

“Don’t. No. Abbie.” Reed’s voice is low, rough—and so close. Then he wraps me in his arms, brings me in against his chest and I can’t even fight him. My fists clutch his coat and I hold on tight, sobbing into his shoulder.

Gradually I become aware of the soothing hum he’s making, and his hand stroking up and down my back. And this is worse, a million times worse, than waking up while rubbing against his dick.

My face is likely swollen and pink. I’m an ugly crier. So beet-red embarrassment won’t make much difference.

Body stiffening, I pull away. I can’t look at him as I mumble, “Sorry.”

“Hey, no.” Removing his gloves, he gently cups my face in his hands. “You took care of me. It’s my turn to do the same for you.”

He couldn’t know how that statement would affect me. My gaze flies to his, and I see nothing but concern there. And warmth. Has anyone ever taken care of me? People have done what they think is best for me. But has anyone taken care of me in a way that I actually felt cared for, even for a few measly minutes? I can’t think of one person.

Except for Reed Knowles. Of all people.

“Now you’ve got to let me apologize,” he says, his thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks. “First of all, I’m sorry for badmouthing you to Harris. I knew nothing about you. So I should have kept my mouth shut.”

I don’t trust my voice yet, so I just give a small nod. Accepting that apology.

He takes a deep breath. “And the second thing… Fuck, I’m sorry for this. I’m so sorry to tell you this. But your mom was the one who approached my dad about taking the house off her hands.”

I jerk back, staring up into his face. “What?”

His eyes are solemn. “The assessed value of the house did increase and the property taxes went up—but most do over time, and there are state limits on the increase. Something like three percent a year. That wasn’t the real issue, though.”

“Not the real issue?” I shake my head. “I saw the bill. The amount she owed was ridiculous. It was impossible to pay.”

“Because she hadn’t paid in over fifteen years.”

“What?” I wheeze the question as if I’ve been punched.

“From what I could tell, when the mortgage was paid off—which likely included the property tax payment—she ignored the new tax bills the county sent.”

I close my eyes. Still reeling. But thinking back…I did see the huge amount owed. My mom showed me that. But never a statement with the breakdown. “So they held off for fifteen years?”

“Not quite. But whenever they started to threaten a levy, she’d go in and make promises. Make payment arrangements. She’d keep those up for a while then stop. And a levy never moves quick—not in our county, anyway. But after fifteen years, they began moving toward taking the house. It never actually went to auction, though. Is that what she said happened? That’s why you thought my dad got it for nothing?”

“It is,” I say, feeling utterly numb. “But she went to him?”

“Yeah. I was there for that. He called me up, said he had a gift for me. That meeting was when I saw the paperwork, the history. She said she didn’t want the hassle of trying to sell it through a realtor. She just wanted it off her hands.” He shakes his head. “But she shouldn’t have an issue finding another place. His company paid cash, and after settling the outstanding taxes…that should have left her about four hundred K in the bank.”

I stagger and trip over my snowshoes, dropping to the snow in a tangled heap. “Four hundred thousand?!”

His grim nod is like another punch to my gut. I can’t take the hand he offers to help me up. I can only stare up at him while everything I thought I knew crashes down around me.

Four hundred thousand. While all this time, she hasn’t been paying for much of anything—saying she’s saving up for another place. But although it sucks that she hasn’t been helping out financially while living in my house, it’s not what rips into me the most.

What hurts are the lies. The guilt trips.

The majority of the money I used to buy my house was from my share of my father’s life insurance and the trust he left for each of us. That’s the weapon my mom pulls out whenever I gently suggest they start looking for their own place—because isn’t it horrible and selfish to use money earned off my dad’s death to buy a home, but not gladly welcome the rest of his family to live there, too?

Since I haven’t taken Reed’s hand, have just sat in the snow staring up at him stupidly, he crouches beside me—with clenched teeth and a hiss, as if the movement pulls painfully at his leg. Yet he focuses his concern on me.

“Are you all right?”

“No.” My voice wavers as if I might burst into tears again. Whatever happened to not allowing Reed Knowles to see any of my vulnerable spots? Yet I’m sprawled out in front of him now, nothing but a huge and pulsating open wound.

He seems to realize I need time to process. Time and space. Tilting his head toward the skinny tree, he says, “So, that one?”

“No,” I say hoarsely. “Let’s take the branch.”

“Which branch?” This time, no skepticism or doubt. He looks ready to snap off any of the four branches on that sad little tree.

“Not those. The one in the road. I don’t actually need a whole tree. I’m not putting any presents under it. I just like that pine smell.”

“So you want to celebrate Christmas with the branch that almost killed me.”

That dryly stated response almost makes me smile. “You’ll get your revenge by dismembering it. And it’s blocking part of the road, so it’ll have to be cut down before we drive back through anyway.”

“True.” His dark eyes search my face. “What’s the plan if the snow doesn’t melt?”

“Hopefully it will. A warm front is supposed to be coming in after Christmas. But if I don’t show up to work on the Monday after the new year, Harris sends a plow.” That was just the plan for me, however. “Does anyone know where you are? Are you going to be listed as a missing person or return to attend your own funeral?”

“I sent Harris a text. I don’t know if he replied. My phone’s in there.” He gestures to his pack. “He might have tried to tell me you were already here. Or…maybe he didn’t.”

“Because he thinks it’d be hilarious if a blizzard trapped us together?”

“Probably.” He rubs his hand over his cold-reddened face, then gives me another of those warm looks. That caring look. “If it helps, it’s not just your mom. My dad’s a raging asshole, too.”

“It does help.” I don’t know why, but it does. “What are you, Reed Knowles? Also a raging asshole?”

“Maybe.” Then he shakes his head. “No, what I am is very lucky.”

“True.”

“No, I mean—I’m lucky I got whacked on the head. If I hadn’t wrecked, I’d have stopped at the cabin, saw you were there, and left the same night. And I wouldn’t have realized there’s at least one Walker girl worth knowing. The Abbie girl.”

“And I wouldn’t have known my mother lied to me.” Or that one Knowles man is maybe worth knowing, too.

This time when he offers his hand, I let him pull me to my feet. “What will you do now that you know?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I swipe my gloves across my ass to brush off the snow. “Maybe there will be a Christmas miracle, and they’ll have moved out before I get back.”

“You think so?”

I sigh and shake my head. “I’m not the lucky one here.”

“It’s that bad?” he asks quietly.

“You really want to hear?”

“I’d like to know you better. Because if I’d bothered to know you before, maybe some of this shit would never have happened.”

He’s about to know me better than anyone else does, then. Because we’re in a snowy wood with more than a mile to go, and I’ve never unloaded. I didn’t even realize how desperately I needed to until I get started.

“Well, there’s Lauryn, who’s just…negative. Beyond, you know, normal bitching. It’s as if nothing pleases her. If I take her out to dinner, the only comments she makes are about what’s wrong—with the prices, with the food, with the service. But then she’ll clean her plate. And I know her. When Lauryn doesn’t like the way something tastes, she won’t eat it. She’ll ask me if I want it or leave it on her plate. So she enjoys it enough to finish, but what she enjoys is never mentioned. Only the negative stuff. Or if I say, ‘Wow, this chocolate dessert is really good,’ she’ll comment that it looks like a piece of shit. Every time I mention something I like or enjoy, she’ll find something wrong with it. I can barely stand to be around her anymore, because it’s such a constant beatdown. And I keep my mouth shut about what I do enjoy now, so that she doesn’t come swinging in with all her reasons why I shouldn’t enjoy it. So I just feel…I don’t know what.”

“Silenced,” Reed says, the sleeve of his coat brushing against mine as we walk, the sled sliding along behind.

“Yes? Not deliberately, because she hasn’t told me to shut up. But I’m so tired of it. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. There’s this dread in my chest all the time when I’m with her, like I can’t breathe. Nothing I do is good enough. Because she’s also socially and environmentally conscious—which I get, and I’m on board for?—”

“Me, too.”

I don’t know why I’m so glad to hear that, but I am. I pause, so distracted by his reply that I can’t recall what I was explaining.

Reed saves me with a, “But she doesn’t think your efforts are good enough?”

“Not even close. I do try to make responsible choices and to put my money where my mouth is. But I also accept that there are some things I just can’t get around. So I choose what my priorities are, but there are areas where I have to make compromises. Mostly I just do my best as things come up.”

“It’s all anyone can do.”

“Not if you’re Lauryn. Her priorities are the right ones, her compromises are the acceptable ones. Everyone else gets judged for theirs. Oh! An example from just this past week: I’ve got a neighbor, Delia. She doesn’t drive anymore—she’s eighty, eighty-one?—and I check in on her when I can, and every once in a while she calls me if she needs help with something. So she asked me to pick up a few things from the grocery store—she gets them delivered, but sometimes the items she needs aren’t in stock. So my sis is with me. And some of the things I get for Delia are these pre-sliced, pre-washed vegetables. Like diced onions. And Lauryn goes off on this, because of the wasteful packaging, how it’s lazy because it doesn’t take long to cut things up, and it’s fresher if I get whole produce. So I have to tell her that Delia can’t, because her arthritis is just bad enough that she can’t grip her knife easily. So Lauryn says that I could cut them up for her—which I have done before—until I remind her that I’ll be gone this week. But when I tell her that Delia wouldn’t mind if my sister came over to do it, instead…yeah, nope.”

Reed grunts and shakes his head, which I take as a complete lack of surprise at Lauryn’s refusal to assist a neighbor.

“So anyway, Lauryn decided the packaged vegetables were okay—and I’m just, why does she feel like she gets to judge whether it’s okay for Delia to use them? Why is it her place to judge? And why does Delia’s personal business have to be laid out in the open, so that she can justify her choices to someone who shares no part of her life? But Lauryn does that all the time. She judges what people are doing—though, okay, we all judge other people. I’m judging Lauryn right now for all of her judgements! That’s just human nature. But she judges, then doesn’t ever ask herself why they might be doing it. She just decides they must be wrong—and then says they’re wrong. Without making sure she’s actually right. And without considering whether saying these things might give someone a bad name that’s completely undeserved.”

Reed clears his throat and bumps his arm lightly against mine. “I’m intimately familiar with the type of person who opens his mouth and says shit before he actually knows anything about the situation.”

It’s hard not to laugh. “At least you apologized.”

“She doesn’t?”

It’s even harder not to laugh at that. “Somehow it was Delia’s fault—or my fault—that Lauryn didn’t know that Delia can’t use a knife. Because Lauryn claims she wouldn’t have said anything if she’d known. But why would I tell her? It wasn’t any of her business. And it wasn’t just that one time. She never apologizes for anything. Another example: when they moved in, while I was at work, Lauryn threw away half of what was in my fridge and pantry. Not even donated, but trashed it all—because she didn’t like the brand, or she deemed it unacceptably sourced, or it had corn syrup in it, or GMOs—oh, she had reasons for it all. And when I yelled at her, she actually went on Reddit to ask if she was an asshole. And then she raged in the comments at all the people who said she was one, writing these long, long replies with the reasons they were wrong. Until finally a moderator came in and shut it down.”

Reed’s the one laughing now—his shoulders shaking and the deep sound of it rocketing through the trees.

“I did enjoy that,” I have to admit. “I don’t think she ever knew I saw the post and all the replies. And, god. I wish I could say her judging was always over important things, like the environmental stuff. Because at least there’s something good at the core of it—wanting the world to be a better place. But it’s the stupidest shit, too. Like you should have heard her a few months ago going off about pineapple on pizza. It’s not my preference, but no one is forcing anyone else to eat it. Yet she talks about people who enjoy it as if it’s a deep moral and ethical failing. And I’m not even joking when I say that if she had the power to forbid people from making it, she would. She’d do it for their own good, because they obviously don’t know any better.”

Reed grunts again. “Like washing legs.”

“What?”

“It just reminds me of something I saw a while back online—about people who scrubbed their legs in the shower versus those who let the water run down and wash everything off. People were invested in this argument. A whole lot of them appalled and judging. But all I could think was, as long as no one’s forcing anyone else to lick their legs, what the hell does it matter?”

“Right? Who’s being hurt?”

“Sounds like you are,” he says, looking over at me. “Not by pineapple or leg washing, but having to deal with similar shit all the time.”

I sigh. Because that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

“Is it just you or does Lauryn do the same thing at work? How does she get on with other people?”

“She doesn’t work. My dad left her enough money that she can slide by as long as she lives with my mom?—”

“Or you.”

“Or me,” I say unhappily. “I have pointed out that she can afford her own place if she gets a job—because she obviously isn’t happy with the way I live—but there’s always some excuse. Usually that most businesses are run by evil, greedy corporations. And I agree, some are evil. But not all of them. She could put in the effort to find like-minded people.”

Reed frowns. “Wait. She’ll toss your groceries because she doesn’t like the brand or the ingredients—but does she use a smartphone? Or watch any streaming shows? Does she know those are all made by greedy corporations? And where does she keep her money? In a mattress? Because most banks are as greedy as they come.”

“Right?! But like I said, her compromises are the acceptable ones. And it’s not just corporations. Even a small business, there’s always some problem that means she can’t tolerate working there. She doesn’t like where their product is sourced, or some policy they have, or there is an industry adjacent to the business that she can’t approve of. Even a bookstore or library is out of the question.”

Reed stops dead. “What?”

“Partially because they all carry books by people she doesn’t think should have a platform. But also because the books use so much paper.”

He looks like he’s been whacked with another tree limb. “Okay, maybe the paper thing is true. But doesn’t the good of a library outweigh the bad?”

“Nope. And there’s always some issue, whatever it is. But when I say, ‘If you work there you could find ways to change whatever you don’t like or boost what you do like,’ she always argues the business owners or the city or the current employees should have already done something—and if the policy is based on a law, they should already be fighting against the law. And I’m just…does she not know that people are exhausted ? I see it every single day. People are just burned out and tired. And small businesses especially have no money to wage that kind of legal battle.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” he says wryly.

“And it does no good to tell her . Any element of compassion or understanding seems to be chucked out the window, because she only cares about how things should be—but that’s a level of idealism that’s impossible to live up to if you participate in society at all. Yet for her, nothing else is acceptable. But what does she do to change anything or to help anyone? Nothing. All that energy she puts into criticizing everything around her could go into doing something at a ground level. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t even vote.”

He grimaces. “If she truly cares about anything, that’s the bare minimum.” Then his brow furrows. “Why not work at a nonprofit like you do?”

“Oh, I suggested that, too. But we accept donations…from rich people and from corporations.” It’s hard not to smile when he laughs. “You should hear the snide shit she says about me working there.”

Reed blinks at me in disbelief. Probably because he knows Harris’s organization—which provides mental health and addiction services—was named one of the best nonprofits in the state to work for, several years running.

I shrug, because I don’t understand either. “There’s just nothing that she’s satisfied with.”

“And your mom’s the same?”

“No.” I sweep up another handful of snow, throw it at a tree trunk and watch powder explode everywhere. “To be fair, whatever else she is, my mom does put the work in. Maybe not for reasons that I can admire, but she does help people. But the problems between us mostly stem from her being so rooted in the past.”

“The thing with your dad and my mom?”

“Well, also that. But mostly my past.” I steal a glance up at him. He’s still walking close, our arms brushing now and then. His head is tilted down toward me as if not wanting to miss a word—and I’ve said more words today than…maybe ever. Yet his attention hasn’t strayed. “I don’t remember this, but I was apparently a smart little kid. I was already reading and learning multiplication by the time I got to preschool. So she had plans for me, because she’d given up her dream to go to med school when she married my dad. And she made sure I was in the gifted programs, did the science camps, everything. But although I liked all those things, always got good grades, I was obsessed with drawing. Then painting. So when I started to push for more art classes and camps…well, you can imagine how that went. She belittled it. She would defend herself by saying that she wasn’t belittling me , though that’s how it felt. But she belittled art as a course of study—telling me that it wasn’t even worth having as a hobby because I wasn’t exactly a Picasso by middle school. So I would never stand out, which would be a sad, sad fate for someone with my potential—and she was just trying to guide me so I could be successful and never have to struggle or regret, like she did.”

“Fuck her,” Reed says harshly, then meets my eyes. “I know that pressure you’re talking about. My dad did it differently, but he always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. And I like engineering, so I went along with his plans for a while. What I don’t like is what he does. I don’t want to spend my life building McMansions, even if there’s money in it. That’s his idea of a good life, not mine. But all it took was one shouting match and it was done with.”

“Lucky you.”

He smiles slightly. “Lucky me. He still suggests me joining him now and then, but he doesn’t really care if I do. As long as he’s got his. But your mom still brings it up—even now?”

“ All the time. Or she’ll randomly text pictures of me at science fairs as a kid. She’ll say, ‘Look at when you were so happy.’ And the thing is…I wasn’t. I liked learning everything but she was always more invested in it than I was. What I remember is trying so hard to make her happy and proud and never quite feeling like I did. And she has zero interest in who I am now. The only version of me she ever cared about was the one who represented all of her own hopes coming true. Or when I was the kid she could point to and say, ‘Look how smart my daughter is’—because it reflected on her so well. Her texts should really say those pictures are from when she was so happy.”

“Was this happy time before your dad died?”

“After. I was only seven when he was killed. Though when I was thinking about it a few years ago, I wondered if she’d thrown herself into securing my future as a reaction to his sudden death. I mean, I could understand that—even feel some sympathy for her. But…she’s still doing it? Still trying to relive those happy years—and rewrite history so those were my happy years, too? She still does it, even though I’m secure and have a good job? But it’s not a job that shines brightly enough, I guess. And she always suggests that Harris is doing me dirty, that he doesn’t appreciate me enough and isn’t paying me enough, but I’m doing exactly what I want to do and I’m happy with where I am. When I tell her that, though, or tell her to stop, she insists she’s just trying to support me and make sure I get what I deserve. But really, she’s just shitting on what I do and what I earn and all my friends.” I let my head fall back and stare up at the clear blue sky. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s punishing me. Maybe not even consciously, but punishing me for not becoming what she wanted me to be.”

This time Reed’s grunt has a rough edge. More like a growl. “Does she do the same to your sister?”

“Not really. If she sends Lauryn pictures, they’re more likely to be pictures of my dad. He always did more stuff with Lauryn than with me—and she’s older, so there are more photos of them together. But my mom and Lauryn, they kind of…circle around each other. They don’t talk to each other much because they end up arguing, unless they’re reminiscing about my dad. And when my mom does talk to her about other things, she’s usually trying to push Lauryn into volunteering at MCS. Which, of course, is somewhere Lauryn would never go.”

“MCS,” Reed echoes, as if trying to place it. “That church school off Alder Road?”

“Yeah. Technically, a non-denominational Christian school. My mom began working there as one of the admin shortly after my dad was killed.”

“Your sister didn’t want to go to school there?”

“She was never given the option. Lauryn was already in the public school, and my mom decided it would be too upsetting for her to change. Now, of course—absolutely not. Lauryn won’t touch anything so closely related to any church. But I didn’t go there, either. I was only in second grade, so it wouldn’t have really mattered if I’d changed schools…but my mom didn’t think MCS offered the programs or facilities that I would need to reach my full potential. Not that she said so to anyone at the school who asked why we didn’t enroll. I think she told them something about making a promise to my dad that we’d attend schools in our own neighborhoods. She always did stuff like that—use my dad as the reason behind whatever decision she made, because it’s not as if anyone could verify the truth with him. As for the church part of it, my family didn’t go before my dad died, and Lauryn and I didn’t after.”

“Your mom got religious after he died?”

“Yes? No?” I shrug. “That’s the thing. If you ask anyone at that school, anyone —they will say she’s the perfect model of charity and faith. She’s nice to everyone, helps everyone. She gives so much of her time. And she does. She does . So it’s hard, it’s almost impossible to explain…it’s all fake.”

He makes a short, scoffing sound. As if once again, that’s the least surprising thing he’s heard. “It’s organized religion. In my experience, what they preach and what they do are two very different things.”

My experience is a little different. “I don’t have much use for it, myself. But I know of some people who are genuine—we get a lot of overlap between the local churches and Harris’s organization, and some of the people I meet truly, truly care. And MCS is on the more open-minded, welcoming end. No fire and brimstone and bigotry and misogyny. If there was, I honestly don’t think I could have put up with my mom at all. So it’s not like she wears a righteous face in public and spouts racism at home or something. She’s not fake in the sense that she only pretends to help the people in that community. It’s more like…the help she does is all for show. No one can really ever know what’s inside someone?—”

“But you see something different than what other people do.”

I nod, my gaze on the road ahead. We’ve almost reached the hanging tree limb that hit him. “She volunteers for the school and puts on a smile…but at home, she complains about how much time she has to spend volunteering.”

“Because nobody else will?”

“Because nobody else can do it so well . So she feels obligated to do it. Otherwise it won’t be done right.”

Dryly Reed says, “And no one knows how she suffers.”

“Oh, Lauryn and I know. My mom repeats every compliment she gets, and will tell us every time she’s lauded—but more often, she’s upset because she hasn’t been complimented enough . They do thank her, she’s frequently celebrated within the community—but not as much as she feels is deserved. What more she wants, I’m not sure. But she thinks she deserves more. That’s what I mean when I say she’s fake. She doesn’t help people because it’s good to help, but because it makes people say good things about her. And I suspect the appearance of being good is far more important to her than the actual good being done. Because she sure as hell never put in any similar effort at home.”

“What do you mean by— No. Hold that thought. Let me get the saw.”

Because we’ve reached the branch. The broken part of the bough hangs almost vertically toward the road, like giant, bushy tail. Above our heads, the limb has split horizontally, and the broken end is still attached with a strip of what resembles a three-inch-thick tendon of fir.

That tendon will be the best place to cut, but it’s out of his reach, even with the additional eighteen inches offered by the hacksaw blade.

“This must be one of the first times in your life you’re not tall enough to do something.” I pat his shoulder. “But I believe in you. You’re a structural engineer. Surely you’ll build a ladder out of twigs.”

He casts me a look that says my innocent tone hasn’t fooled him. “Yeah, and what my fancy degree tells me is that the wood is too green to snap, and I’m also not strong or heavy enough to rip it free.” Reed eyes the limb again, then nods. “All right. I can’t get up there. We’ll bring it down here. Hold this saw and step back for a few minutes.”

I do, watching as he plants his boot on the end of the dangling bough, pushing it down toward the snow. Then stepping again, a little higher along the branch, forcing that section down into the snow. It almost looks like he’s trying to climb the bough like a ladder…but his weight is bringing it down, instead. The limb creaks overhead—then screeches, as the split deepens.

“You are ripping it free,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “It’s only ripping along the grain. It’ll stop where that limb gets thicker. But then the whole thing should start bending.”

I look at it again, realize what he means. “And then we’ll have a catapult. Too bad there’s no nearby castle to breach.”

He huffs out one of his dry laughs, stepping higher up the bough—and the bough comes down farther. “You do realize it would be catapulting me?”

“That would be the whole point,” I say, though I hadn’t realized. “You breach the castle and fight everyone with your bare hands. Will my weight help keep it down?”

“It’s not a worry. This thing isn’t throwing me anywhere. And when it gets low enough, I’ll have you saw—because the more tension in that limb up there, the more unsteady this end of the branch will be. Since I’m standing on it, it’d be a bad idea to start sawing it myself.”

“All right. Anything I can do now?”

“Yeah. Tell me what you meant by your mom not making the effort. You’re talking about when you were kids?”

“Mostly.” I’m a little distracted watching the limb overhead begin to bend. “Because that’s when it matters most, right?“

“Probably. Was this after you started pursuing art? Because it sounds like before that she was pretty damn involved, pushing you where she wanted you to be.”

“She did both, weirdly. Pushed me and also didn’t make the effort. Looking back, it makes more sense to me now. Pushing me was really for her . So she put in effort. But anything else that was just for Lauryn and me, like showing up for volleyball games or our track meets, or school plays, or birthdays—or Christmas. It was just, nope. She was busy—not at her job, really, but with all the related volunteering.”

He pauses and spears me with an intense look. “She didn’t do Christmas?”

“Not after Dad died. But again, I thought it was the grief. At first.”

“Ours was different after my mom, too. We had all the stuff—the tree, the nice dinner, and my dad would spend a shitload on my presents—but I can’t say there was any joy in it anymore.”

An unexpected pang strikes my heart as I imagine a younger Reed surrounded by gifts but lacking the sweetest part of Christmas. And knowing he was lacking it. “The first few years, my grandparents showed up for a little while on Christmas Eve and brought stuff—my dad’s parents. Then my mom had a falling out with that side of the family. I don’t know why. But I haven’t seen them in a long time. My grandpa on her side, I never met. And her mom, my grandma…I get the feeling she’s a lot like my mom is. Not putting in effort unless it benefits her personally or makes her look good. She remarried and has another set of grandkids anyway.”

“Did she ever explain why it changed? Christmas, I mean.”

“She said it was because the holidays had all become too fake and commercialized—and that the true meaning of Christmas just got buried under all the tinsel and wrapping paper. Which is true, but a lot of people don’t celebrate it for the religious aspect anyway. Instead they get together for…I don’t know, togetherness. That’s how we celebrated when my dad was alive. But after, even togetherness wasn’t reason enough. And not just for the holidays. Any day. If we needed her to attend something, Mom always had something else to do, something more important. She was always busy. Because she never said no to the school and always said no to us. But even when she didn’t have an event scheduled, she’d say that she was too tired after being so busy. Which might have been true, but we learned really quickly we weren’t worth her time—or any money. So it was like she used the school as justification for being as uncaring and uncharitable as possible toward her own family.”

“I suspect Baby Jesus would not approve.”

Oh shit. He almost got me there. I have to bite my lips to stop my laugh.

He narrows his eyes, watching me. Then he shakes his head and continues forcing down the limb.

“Maybe the money issue was real, though,” I continue, turning all the new information over in my head. “After all, she wasn’t paying the taxes. And she had money from Dad, too, but I know at least some of it went to pay off the mortgage. Maybe the mortgage took more than I realized.”

Reed mutters something that I don’t quite catch.

“What?”

He pauses again, and the look in his eyes is a lot like when he told me about the fifteen years of unpaid taxes. “I said she probably spent it on lawyers.”

“What do you mean?”

“She sued my mom for malpractice.”

“How?” The money I’m talking about was spent after my dad died—and so after his mom died, too. “How did she sue your mom after she was dead?”

“She went after the value of her practice. Since my mom was your dad’s therapist.”

I gape at him. “She did what? I can hardly…yet it makes so much sense! I’ve heard all my life how unethical your mom was”—a flash of pain in his expression stops me cold—“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

“No,” he says firmly. “It was unethical to hook up with her patient.” A smile quirks the side of his mouth. “Do you know how often I heard my father call your dad a slippery two-faced hypocrite?”

“Oh, I know that one.” It’s not anything that I haven’t silently acknowledged myself. “He was a good man, one of the few honest lawyers left, an upright pillar for justice. My mom can go on forever talking about what a paragon of morality he was. Obviously only an unethical Jezebel could have made him stray—and so it was all your mom’s fault, not his. He was emotionally manipulated by an expert into abandoning his children and family, because he would never have broken his vows otherwise.”

Reed gives me another wry look. “Neither one was an angel, were they?”

I shake my head.

“All right.” With an upward jerk of his chin, he says, “Try sawing it now. But stand off to the side as much as you can, because that limb will snap upward but this branch is going down hard.”

Nodding, I lift the blade and just manage to reach the tendon. I begin sawing—and the back and forth, back and forth reminds me far too much of rubbing . And of the last time I rubbed something. Oh god. I nearly burst into hysterical giggles but somehow stop myself.

And my mother is always a topic that can sober me up. “Do you think one lawsuit would be that expensive?” I’m already panting and my arms are aching from having to saw overhead like this. “If that’s where all her money went?”

“Not one lawsuit. She went after my mom for years. Filed multiple lawsuits.”

I shoot him a horrified glance. “Multiple?”

“Her lawyer came at it from about every conceivable angle until the courts said he’d be sanctioned if they filed another suit. I remember my dad crowing about that, too. You all right? Want to take a rest?”

“No,” I gasp, though my shoulders are on fire. I’m afraid if I stop now, I won’t be able to lift the saw high enough again. “So she went…after the money. Though she always said… you were the immoral…cheats. All the while…it was the money.”

“While my dad always said you were all goody-goody hypocrites who never did an actual good thing, you just threw shit to stain other people’s names. Not that my dad did any good. Unless it was tax deductible. But he never claimed to be good, so I guess— Get back! ”

I stumble backward and take another tumble onto my ass. The limb whips upward. Reed slams full-length to the ground, carried down by the freed end of the bough. A cloud of icy powder bursts into my face from the impact. Spitting and shaking my head, I brush it away with gloves that are just as covered in snow.

Reed groans. He’s still face down, spreadeagled across a bed of green needles.

“Did the mean branch hurt you again?” I ask him. “Are you dying inside?”

“No, I’m doing great.” With another groan, he rolls onto his side. “Just going to stay here for a second, though.”

I crawl over and lie on my side facing him. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but a quick scan of his body doesn’t reveal anything that looks worse than it did before. “If you’re broken, I’ll pull you back on the sled. It’s the least I can do after you bravely captured your attempted murderer while in hot pursuit of a Christmas tree.”

His slow smile reminds me of the one he wore in his delirium. “I’m not broken.”

“I’m glad, because I bet you’re heavy. Do you know what I was thinking, just before the branch snapped? It might be terrible to say.”

He opens his eyes, his gaze sharp. Focused. So no new head injury. No delirium. “Tell me anyway.”

“I was thinking that it was no surprise that my dad left my mother. I can’t agree with the way he did it, abandoning me and my sister. And there’s no excuse for cheating. But escaping my mom? I get it.”

“Heh. I’ve never blamed my mom for leaving my dad, either. I sure as fuck couldn’t live with him.” His expression softens. “This time, you had to escape.”

“It’s not the first time I did—though things weren’t as bad before. But I was out of there after high school. Started doing things I wanted to do. Including Christmas, though that was just one thing of many. Escaping here…it’s not really about Christmas at all.”

“No?”

“No. I could have stayed and did all kinds of Christmassy stuff. After I started working for Harris, I’ve mostly spent the holidays backing him up at work events and charity fundraisers, though I also did the tree and lights and all that at my house. And I like the season, don’t get me wrong, but celebrating at home wasn’t super important. Last year, though…it was all the shit from when I was a kid all over again. But worse, because I knew what freedom was like. And this year…I just couldn’t bear the thought of being there. Every night after work, the last year and a half, I’d come home to them, and it seemed like everything good and happy inside me was being sucked away. I just didn’t have enough left for anyone else. Even the usual stuff with Harris was sucking everything away, too. But it could have been any time of year. I just…hit my limit. So I decided to do this for myself. Just for myself. Does that sound selfish?”

“No. Selfish is when it deliberately hurts someone who doesn’t deserve to be hurt. You’re not hurting anyone.” His warm gaze searches my face. “You say you’re usually with Harris over the holidays, but that’s work. What about other friends?”

“They’re mostly all from work, too. But even them…there’s no one I’m really close to. It’s difficult being that open with someone.” Yet, here I am. Lying on a branch in the snow, spilling my guts to Reed Knowles.

His brow arches as if he had a similar thought. Yet, here she is. “Then I’ll be your friend.”

I’m always blindsided with him. “You can’t. We’re already sworn enemies.”

“A sworn enemy here to ruin your Christmas,” he says with a little grin. “Now tell me what your perfect Christmas looks like so I know what to ruin.”

Warmth spills through me. I know he’s not asking to ruin it. He wants to know so that he can help me have it. “Honestly, there’s nothing in particular. I got all of the dinner trappings, but mostly because I could and I wanted to cook.” I finger the fir needles flattened in front of me. “I don’t care about the tree specifically, but I do love the smell and how the greenery looks. Mostly I just wanted to enjoy something without being made to feel like shit for enjoying it.”

“And you thought, with someone named Knowles around, I’d be one more person tearing you down.”

My throat thick, I whisper, “Yes.”

“I’ll promise you this, Abbie.” He traces my cheek with a gloved finger while his gaze holds mine. “Nothing I ever say will be meant to hurt you. If you aren’t sure how to take something, ask me. Yeah? And I’ll make sure you get the Christmas you need.”

My eyes blur and I nod. But I refuse to cry again. I blink away the welling tears and find his gaze on my mouth. My stomach tightens. Is he thinking of kissing me?

Do I want him to kiss me? Just because he’s been so unexpectedly nice?

It would be more nice of him to kiss me. Though maybe a little rough, with all that stubble shadowing his jaw. It’s almost heavy enough now to be called a beard, framing his mouth and emphasizing the firm shape of his lips.

“Abbie?”

“Hmm?” I say, a little distracted because his stubble is good hairy. And I don’t mind rough. Rough can be very, very nice.

“I’m going to kiss you tomorrow.”

My heart gives a wild thump. Then— “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He’s wearing that little smile again.

“What’s wrong with now?”

“I want you to think about it for a while first.”

“As some kind of torture?” I narrow my eyes. “This is why we’ll remain enemies.”

His grin widens. “You want me to kiss you now?”

“Hardly.” With a dramatic sigh, I flop onto my back. “But if you do it tomorrow, I’m sure to be disappointed after so much buildup. How can reality live up to the anticipation?”

“But you are anticipating it.” His smug tone is absolutely infuriating.

“Not anymore. I just said it’s destined to disappoint. Why would I anticipate a disappointing kiss?”

“You realize now I have to wait until tomorrow. To prove you wrong.”

“If proving me wrong is more important than kissing, you’re definitely staying an enemy.”

“You are the most?—”

Whatever I’m the most of, Reed doesn’t say. Instead he breaks off with a frustrated growl low in his throat—sounding a little werewolf-y, which is also good hairy. Then suddenly he’s over me, forearms braced alongside my shoulders and his hips wedged between my thighs. The feel of his stiffened length through the bulk of his snow suit steals my breath, though he’s not moving, not rubbing, not kissing me. His head lowers, but not mouth to mouth. Instead he rests his forehead against mine…or more accurately, since we’re bundled up, his knit cap against mine.

“It’s my turn to take care of you, Abbie,” he says, his voice roughened by the intensity of that declaration, his breath warming my lips. “And you told me that you’re never usually open. But you were ripped wide open today—and I won’t take advantage of you being vulnerable. I’d fucking hate myself if I did. If we kiss now and you regretted it tomorrow, we’ll be stuck in that cabin together, both of us feeling like shit for doing something we wish we could undo. So that’s what I want you to think about. Not the kiss, but whether you’re sure. You say no, that’s fine. I’ll understand. But if you’re sure tomorrow, I’ll kiss you. All right?”

I nod, my knit cap rubbing against his, my throat aching with emotion. Because here’s what I just learned about Reed Knowles: he’s not nice. He’s kind . Which is a million times better.

“All right,” I tell him. And for the first time in a long time, it actually feels as if everything will be all right. Maybe not this minute. But somehow, someday.

Maybe even soon.