Snowed in with Stud (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)

Prologue

Holley

Glistening catches my eye, the hum of the vacuum no longer soothing me as my curiosity is piqued. Cutting off the machine and shifting the sofa ever so slightly, there the metallic piece sits taunting me.

The earring under the couch.

It’s small and sparkly and absolutely not mine, and for a full three seconds my brain tries to make it something innocent. A friend’s? A coworker’s? Something that fell out of a bag?

Something, anything, other than what it is.

Even if my gut has been screaming at me for months that things aren’t quite right between us, love is blind right?

Then I see the smear of red on the inside of the cushion where the fabric dips—his shirt smeared with a similar shade on the collar.

One random night he came home late, it all crashes through my head again.

“Traffic is a bitch,” he explained, dropping a kiss on my cheek that smelled like a perfume I don’t own.

The earring glints up at me from the floor like it’s proud of itself.

I rock back on my heels a little and just… stare at it.

It’s quiet in the house. Late afternoon light comes through the front windows, warm and golden, making all the dust I haven’t bothered to clean float like lazy snow.

The Christmas boxes are still in the hall closet, untouched, because I haven’t had the energy to drag them out.

We were supposed to decorate this weekend.

All thoughts of holiday spirit leave my mind.

I’m holding another woman’s earring in my hand instead.

My throat tightens. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. This can’t be happening.

“No,” I whisper, even as every piece slides into place. The drunken laughs on his phone late at night. The sudden gym membership, the new cologne, the way he started complaining that I was distant whenever I said I was tired.

I am tired. Tired from working the extra shifts. Tired from patching the budget, paying the bills he forgot. Tired from carrying both of us while he stays between opportunities that somehow always involve craft beer and networking.

And now I’m tired of being stupid.

The sound of the garage door opening snaps me out of it. The earring feels heavy in my palm.

I close my fingers around it and stand up.

The door from the garage squeaks open a second later. “Holls? You home?”

His voice is casual and warm, like we’re a normal married couple and there isn’t another woman’s jewelry pressed into my sweaty palm.

“In here,” I call, and I’m surprised my voice doesn’t crack. It comes out level. Almost bored. Is this where we have ended up? I am so shut down I’m numb.

He comes into the living room carrying a brown paper bag with the liquor store logo.

Great. More liquor we can’t afford. His dark hair is mussed like he’s run his hands through it, his blue button-down is untucked, jeans slung low.

He looks like the version of himself he likes to present to the world: laid-back, charming, and a little edge to him. The guy without a care in the world.

“Hey,” he greets, grinning, setting the bag down on the coffee table. “I thought we could do margaritas tonight, make it a thing. I grabbed that—”

I open my hand instantly silencing him. The earring gleams between my fingers. Or maybe it’s in my head the way the light seems to beam down on the small metal jewel.

His words cut off like someone pulled a plug.

For a second, all the blood drains from his face. It’s subtle—just a beat, just a flicker—but I know him. I’ve known this man for twelve years, been married to him for eight. I know the blink too slow, the swallow, the recalibration. Then he plasters on a confused smile. “What’s that?”

I don’t blink. “You tell me.”

He laughs, but it’s too quick, too high. “Holls, come on. It’s an earring. Probably yours?”

“It’s not mine.” My voice is quiet, steadier than I feel. “Try again.”

He takes a step toward me, palms out like he’s approaching a skittish animal. “Babe, relax. It’s probably from— I don’t know, from when you had your sister over last month. Or—”

“My sister wears hoops,” I cut in. “Gold hoops. You know that. She has since high school.” The bigger the hoops the better the whore, was her favorite motto for her earrings.

I tilt the sparkling stud so it catches the light.

It’s delicate and fancy. “This was under the couch. Near the nice red smudge on the cushion. The same shade that was on your shirt.”

We stand there in the middle of our living room, the silence thick between us.

His jaw works. He looks at the earring, at me, back at the earring. I watch the shift in his eyes as deny everything slams into she’s not buying it. His mind working overtime to fix this, fix me.

He drops his gaze, exhales through his nose. “Holley…”

My stomach drops. That one word is enough. The way he says it: weary, guilty, like I’m something fragile he’s sorry to break but not sorry enough not to have done the breaking.

“How long?” I manage.

He rubs a hand over his face. “It’s not— I mean, it’s not what you think.”

I laugh, short and incredulous. “Well, please tell me what I think. Better yet, what is it, exactly? Neighborhood earring fairy? Traveling jewelry salesman? Spontaneous ear accessory manifestation?”

He bristles. “Jesus, you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

The world tilts. There it is. I almost expected an apology. Groveling. Tears. How stupid am I to think he wouldn’t turn this on me somehow. Everything is always my fault somehow.

“Answer the question,” I order, and I hear ice in my own voice. “How long?”

His eyes flash with that defensive anger I’ve been seeing more lately, the kind that looks for reasons to stay in the fight. “What difference does it make?” he challenges.

“It makes a lot of difference to me,” I snap. “Was it a one-time thing? Is she someone you work with? Is she—”

“It’s not serious,” he blurts. “Okay? It’s not… it’s not like that.”

A cold, clean fury slides into place where the shock used to be. “So you cheated on me and I’m supposed to feel better because you don’t have feelings about it?”

He scoffs. “Like you even care anymore. Maybe if you paid more attention to me, I wouldn’t seek it somewhere else.”

The words land like a slap. My hand tightens around the earring until it digs into my skin. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re never here,” he fires back, unleashing on me. “You’re always working late, always tired, always stressed. You don’t want to go out, you don’t want to have sex, you don’t want to talk about anything except bills. Do you know how depressing that is?”

I throw my hands up in frustration. “So I drove you to cheat? Is that really what you’re saying?”

“I’m not saying that,” he says, which of course means he is. “I’m just… we haven’t been happy for a long time, Holley. You aren’t happy so how can I be?”

I stare at him. At the man I thought I would grow old with. At the man I’ve been breaking myself in half to support while he figured things out. This was his mid-life crisis I told myself.

“And instead of talking to me,” I mutter slowly, “you brought another woman into our home. Into our bed.”

“Look, it just happened, okay?” he remarks, frustration bubbling. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t, like, go out looking—”

“Stop.” I hold up my hand. My chest is tight, my eyes burn, but I’m not crying. Not yet. “Just stop. I don’t care about the details. I don’t want to know her name. I don’t want to know what you told her about me.” My voice trembles on that, and I swallow it down. “I’ve heard enough.”

He shifts, suddenly uneasy. “Holls, can we just talk like adults? I’m here, we can go to counseling, we can—”

No, there is no more we can anything. “You need to leave.”

The words hang in the air between us.

He frowns like he misheard me. “What?”

“You need to leave,” I repeat. “Now.”

He barks a laugh. “Come on.”

“I’m serious.” My hands are shaking but my voice isn’t. “Pack a bag and go to… wherever she is. Or your buddy’s place. I don’t care. But you don’t get to stay here tonight. Not after this.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “This is my house too.”

Rage flares, hot and sharp. “My name is the only one on the mortgage. My paycheck covers every bill that’s actually paid. You’ve been between jobs for eight months, so forgive me if I don’t feel generous about supporting you one second longer.”

His face hardens. “Low blow.”

“You slept with someone else in our home,” I state my voice cracking.

“That’s the low blow. You brought another woman in my sanctuary.

This is self-respect.” I don’t recognize myself anymore.

I’ve been swallowing things down for so long, smoothing, fixing, apologizing for both of us.

Now the words are just spilling out, sharp and clear, and part of me is terrified but another part feels… released, almost clean.

“Holley, be reasonable—”

“I am being reasonable,” I state. “Reasonable is not throwing that bottle at your head.” I nod at the liquor bag on the table. “Reasonable is not screaming until the neighbors call the cops. Reasonable is telling you to pack a bag and leave before I change my mind.”

He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m bluffing.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tries.

“No. I’m done sharing space with you.”

“Come on, baby, we can—”

“Do not call me that.” The word feels like acid now. “Go. Get your stuff for tonight. I’ll give you a window tomorrow to come pack for the long term. Tonight figure out where you’re staying because it won’t be here. After that, we talk about lawyers.”

He flinches. “Lawyers?”

“What did you think was going to happen here?” I ask, my voice dropping. “You break my trust and we… what? Hug it out?”

His shoulders slump. For a second, some real emotion flickers through the anger—fear, maybe. Regret, probably not. But it’s too late. I’m too tired. I think of the earring under the couch, of all the late nights, the times I believed him when he lied.

“Fine,” he mutters finally, and looks away. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll go.”

He stomps down the hallway, and I hear drawers yanked open, the bang of the closet door, the drag of his suitcase wheels. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I sink onto the edge of the couch, staring straight ahead.

The TV is still paused on some home renovation show. A couple beams at each other while they talk about knocking down walls and building their dream kitchen. I let out a shaky, hysterical little laugh. Yeah. Good luck, guys.

He reappears with his suitcase and a duffel bag. He avoids my eyes. “I’ll… I’ll come get the rest of my stuff this weekend.”

“I’ll give you a window tomorrow, you get it tomorrow” I command. “I’ll leave a key under the mat because I will be changing the locks.”

He hesitates. “So that’s it? You’re just… done?”

I look at him. Really look. At all the little lies stitched into his face. At the man who let me carry everything and then blamed me for being tired.

“I’m done letting you treat me like I’m disposable,” I say softly. “That’s what I’m done with.”

He swallows. For a second, I think he might cry. He doesn’t. He just nods, jaw clenched, and opens the door.

Cold air hits the bare skin of my arms. It hits like an extra cold winter storm even if the sun shines out front.

He pauses in the doorway. “You’re going to regret this.”

Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Right now, I can only feel the throbbing ache in my chest and the hollow buzzing in my ears and the faint, strange relief under all of it, like a splinter finally being pulled free.

“Maybe,” I say, and close my hand around the earring until it hurts. “But I won’t regret not sharing a bed with a liar.”

He shakes his head, mutters something under his breath I can’t hear, and then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than any slammed door.

For a long time, I don’t move.

I stand in the middle of my not-quite-decorated living room, holding another woman’s earring and listening to the silence of a house that suddenly feels too big.

The tears come then, hot and blurring everything, and I let them.

My knees buckle and I sink to the floor, pressing my forehead against the couch where I found the stupid little thing.

My shoulders shake, my chest heaves, and I cry for the marriage I thought I had, the future I imagined, the kids we were hoping to have someday but kept pushing off.

It hurts. God, it hurts.

But beneath the pain something else flickers.

Quiet. Fragile.

A single, small thought: I’m still here.

And I’m not the one who should be ashamed.