Chapter 17
Lauren
“‘Tis the season to be jolly,” I softly sing under my breath as I walk the snowy streets of Wayward Hollow with a little spring in my step.
I’d love to hold on to one of those cute lampposts and do a cheerful twirl around it, as if I were in an old movie. Considering both of my hands are currently occupied, that would prove rather hard, though.
In my left hand, I’m holding a bag with a bunch of inspiration pictures I printed out after finding them in a late-night Pinterest-fueled haze and more coffee than I’d be comfortable admitting to.
And yes, there are several vulgar ones among them.
Little gingerbread men in black-icing harnesses or dominatrix gingerbread women.
Explanations of how you can give your gingerbread people juicy butts.
So amazing what the internet can offer.
In my right hand, I’m holding two pizza boxes. They’re my attempt to appease Caleb and sell him on the idea of doing this Christmas market stand with me. Not that I’m leaving him much of a choice, but maybe some pizza goodness will warm his grumpy heart and soften his resting murder face.
I’m so excited about this. These gingerbread cookies are the perfect idea for the Christmas market. Not only are they super cute, the whole endeavor allows me to pick up one more hobby I’ve been dying to try out: piping frosting.
There is not much I find more satisfying to watch on TikTok than people piping intricate buttercream borders on cakes. And a toxic little voice in my head keeps whispering, ‘That looks easy. You can do that.’
Yes, I know, the videos are sped up, but there are not many things that give me as much satisfaction as watching a woman on TikTok decorate one of those cute vintage heart cakes with buttercream frills or in those super-cute pie-inspired patterns.
Of course, I ordered myself some equipment and tried it out before committing to the idea for the Christmas market booth. Reality turned out rather disappointing when I noticed that it would take hours of practice to get piping somewhat even, or get the hang of swirl directions.
The hardest thing about it though? Writing.
No, I can write, thank you very much, but with pens, maybe a paintbrush if I’m feeling fancy.
But icing? That was certainly an experience.
However, it’s a skill I’m now determined to learn out of sheer spite.
And because it seems slightly easier to learn than soap making or crocheting.
“Heedless of the wind and weather,” I grit out another verse that’s definitely not in the right order, when it starts to snow and pick up my pace.
Snow is beautiful, snow is great, but only when I don’t have pizza boxes in my hands that have a great potential to soak through, thus ruining my dinner. And I’m excited about this pizza.
The streets of Wayward Hollow are empty. Well, mostly. Courtney is closing up her flower shop, carrying a box of wreaths inside.
Through the giant window lining her reception, I can see Andrea in her hotel, sitting behind the counter with a book in her hand, the orange glow of her lamp a beacon on this cloudy night.
Finally, Caleb’s comes into sight. I’ve almost made it. And there’s no snow pile on the boxes, and I haven’t lost my footing on the sidewalk—which, honestly, I didn’t expect. Yay for me.
“Falalala - huh?” I wonder out loud. It’s well past six already, so why is the light inside his café still on?
We are supposed to meet at Henry’s vet clinic, which is apparently where he lives. Above it, to be precise. Interesting. I was sure he’d live above his café for the ultimate commute-efficiency.
So why is the light still on at Caleb?
I walk a few steps further and peek inside through one of the windows facing onto the street.
The chairs are still neatly arranged around the tables.
Curious. Usually, he sets them on the tables to make it easier for his vacuum robot to run through the café overnight.
Or for him to sweep the floor in the morning.
There are even some dishes left on one of the tables.
I’m growing worried. That’s not like him at all. Is he okay?
My eyes trail along the counter, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Then I see him, and my heart drops.
He’s hunched over a table, face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
“What the hell?” I mutter and almost let the pizza boxes fall in shock. What is going on here? Whose behind do I need to kick? Quickly, grasp the pizza boxes with both hands and hurry to the door, somehow managing to wedge it open with my elbow and bursting inside.
“Caleb?”
With jerky movements, he turns his head and looks up. My heart skips a beat. Without taking my eyes off him, I put the boxes I brought on the counter and hurry over to him.
His complexion rivals the snow outside, and his eyes are red. Anger is written all over his face, with a deep crease between his eyebrows, cheeks a piercing red against his pale face and eyes glossy, his jaw set, his muscles wound tighter than a coil spring.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intend. I sit beside him, careful not to get too close.
His eyes keep moving — to the floor, the wall, anywhere but me.
My stomach twists. I want to help, but I don’t even know what I’m supposed to fix.
I have no idea what to say, or whether I should say anything at all.
Pain etches a crease between his eyebrows, his quivering lip revealing he’s only a hair’s length away from full breaking down.
I wait, not moving a muscle. He gulps heavily, pulling his cheek between his teeth, then his lips, like he’s swallowing down words. I wait right next to him until his shoulders lose some of their tension and his expression finally softens.
“Are you okay?” I ask in a whisper. My fingers are tingling, urging to reach out to him.
“No.” The word comes out in a regular volume that sounds louder than a scream with the emotions it conveys. Pain. Anger.
He jumps up, agitated, the chair clattering behind him as it tips over with the force.
“No, I’m not okay.” His voice breaks, and he runs his palm over his face.
He starts pacing, shooting the chair a glare that could kill before he picks it up and roughly sets it upright.
“How dare they come in here?” he mutters under his breath, walking a few steps, then turning back around. His hand trembles as he lifts it to his head, taking off his beanie and chucking it in the corner, then runs his hands through his hair.
“Fuck,” he curses and pulls on it.
He still evades my gaze, his eyes firmly planted on the ground. I give him a few minutes. There’s more cursing under his breath, more angry stomps, until finally, I’ve had enough.
“Caleb.” I remind him of my presence, trying to keep my voice calm. Finally, his head snaps up and his eyes jump to me, filled with a fury unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
“Sit down, Caleb,” I order him and point to his chair. My heart beats into my throat.
With any other man, I’d be nervous. He’s emotional and has no proper control over them, his hand flexing, a vein on his temple pulsating.
But this is Caleb. He couldn’t hurt a fly.
“What do you think—
“Now,” I reiterate, trying to sound strict, while internally I’m panicking. I have no idea what’s going on, or where this emotional outburst is coming from, and quite frankly, I don’t know what to do. “Please.”
His whole body visibly deflates. With an annoyed mumble, he eventually sits back down, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“I have no idea what’s going on. And while I’d love for you to enlighten me, right now I’d appreciate it if you could sit down and breathe for a moment.” I hold his gaze until he ultimately breaks eye contact. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t say yes,” he mumbles. I give in to the tingling sensation in my fingertips and reach for him, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“You’re still going to do it.” I lift my eyebrow, daring him to object. He gets up, and I’m about to scold him, when I realize he’s picking up his beanie, hurriedly pulling it over his hair and then further down to cover his eyes.
“Okay.” I let out a deep sigh. “Take a moment. Breathe. I’ve got you, Caleb.”
He doesn’t react. Not a muscle moves, apart from his chest as he greedily sucks in air.
As I walk past him, I give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. At first, his muscles tense under my touch, but then I hear him take a loud, shaky breath.
I’ll give him a few minutes.
On my way to the counter, I collect all the dirty dishes, balancing them on my arms, then set them on the counter. What an unusual perspective back here.
A peek around the corner to his kitchen reveals an open dishwasher. Hopefully he’s not one of those people who need them stacked in a very particular order, because nothing is inside there currently and I live by the chaos in my head.
I place as much as I can inside there, and a quick Google image search helps me find out how this dang thing operates.
When I return to the café, he hasn’t moved an inch. His beanie hides most of his face, one hand pressed hard against it as if to block out the world. His other arm crosses his chest, gripping his bicep tight, fingers buried in the soft flannel of his shirt.
The counter is spotless already, so I make my way back to the seating area and stack all the chairs on his tables, the way I’ve seen him stack them before. He doesn’t move a muscle the whole time.
When I’m done, I end up in front of him, unsure what to say next.
Fuck. I hate seeing him so broken, not knowing what I can do to help.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, taking off his beanie, his voice trembling and tainted with so much pain in it I can’t help but reach for him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper and run my hand through his hair, stepping between his legs. A part of me is waiting for him to tell me to fuck off, to leave him alone, or to lash out at me for seeing him this rattled.
My heart beats into my throat when, instead of pushing me away, he immediately throws his arms around my middle and pulls me closer, burying his face in my shirt.
“Everything will be okay,” I repeat to myself, twirling a curl around my finger, trying to provide comfort.
He’s hugging me so tightly it’s almost awkward to stay standing.
I think we’ve passed the point of being self-conscious. His chair creaks as I shift, then I ease myself onto his lap, his arms tightening around me.
“Don’t,” he whispers when I move, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear. When I finally sit, he clings tighter, face pressed into my shoulder. I pretend not to notice the quiet hitch of his breath — or the damp patch spreading through the fabric there.
His arms squeeze me like he’s trying to fuse me to him, and I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him a little closer. I hug him back just as fiercely, knowing I can’t be the one to let go. Not yet. That will have to be him.