22. Willa
22
willa
Despite having to hide my distaste for the Nicholas’s Christmas decorations—and there are a plethora —I love Beckett’s family. His mom, Bethany, welcomed me into the fold the minute I walked into the house, wrapping her arms around me in the tightest hug ever. In all my twenty-eight years, my mother hasn’t once hugged me so tight and for so long. No wonder Beckett is the way he is.
If he met my mom, would he think the same of me? I dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, not needing anything to bring me down tonight.
Bethany introduced me to the rest of the family as “Beck’s Willa.”
Heck if I didn’t mind belonging to him for the night.
Except to me, he’s Beckett, not Beck. And no amount of spending time with his family is going to change that.
“Family, we have an announcement,” Heidi proclaims once everyone’s arrived.
“You’re knocked up,” Shania guesses, much to her aunt’s chagrin. Heidi schools her expression quickly, but if I noticed, no doubt others did, too .
“Yes. Best Christmas present ever.” Lenny wraps her up in his arms, his hands splayed over her tiny belly.
“Congrats!”
“So exciting!”
“Well done, Lenny.” That’s their dad, Merritt. Beckett’s a younger version of him, without the beard. I’m kinda partial to the scruff and stubble Beckett’s had these past few days. My thighs especially.
Heat flames my cheeks. I shouldn’t be thinking about Beckett going down on me while there are other people around.
When we’re at his parents’ house.
When his sister just announced she’s pregnant.
But hell if I can help it. Because the man is striking to ogle. And of course, he doesn’t miss my staring. Caught in the act, he winks at me, once from each eye, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
Based on the color of my face, he probably does.
Hugs, high-fives, and congrats are shared among the family members, and Merritt proposes a toast.
With spiked eggnog.
Gag me.
I raise my glass handed to me by Dax in solidarity, but I can’t force myself to drink it. In a move only Beckett could orchestrate, he turns us around, swaps our glasses, and chugs my full one, spinning us back around in a matter of thirty seconds.
“Whiplash, much?” I mutter, but I’m grateful he’s here to protect me from having to explain why I’m not drinking the toast.
“Are you okay? The Nicholas clan can be a little overwhelming.” He drapes his arms over my shoulder, inching me closer to him.
“Compared to the Gibson clan, ‘a little’ is an understatement.” I chuckle, the sound dying shortly after. “I’m good, thanks. There’s a lot of love in this room, and if my family had half of it, life growing up would have been better. ”
It’s not that my parents were horrible, but affection and love didn’t come easily. They aren’t the touchy-feely type, which was harder on Clem than me. She craved it, and who better to give it to her than her twin sister? Ironically, she’s the one who still lives by our parents, but after Elias died, I needed a change of pace. When I announced I was moving to Vermont where Elias had grown up and went to college, no one but Clem tried to stop me. For her sake, I hate that we’re so far, but for my sanity, it’s better this way.
“I’m not sorry you’re here, Willa.”
It’s the only thing he says before he’s pulled away by his father for some before-dinner tradition.
His words play on repeat in my mind, my brain trying to make sense of his statement.
Does he mean here as in tonight?
Does he mean here as in Winterberry?
Does he mean here as in with him?
Is it a combination of the three?
“You seem lost.” Autumn appears next to me, studying my appearance.
I blow out a breath. “Not lost. Overwhelmed. Your family dynamic differs from mine.”
“Ah. I don’t get it, but it’s understandable. Shania’s dad couldn’t handle our brand of nutty. Took off before her first birthday. For a hot minute, I thought about packing up and following him, but I couldn’t do it. I want her to grow up like I did. Sometimes I feel guilty she’s growing up without him, but it’s his loss.”
“She’s an incredible kid. You’ve done an amazing job with her.”
“Eh.” She does that so-so motion with her hand I’ve seen from Beckett. “She has her moments, but I couldn’t ask for a better kid. And even though she’s got a lot of her dad’s personality, it’s the parts I loved most about him.” Wistfulness clings to every word, the emotion palpable around us. “Don’t mind me. Much as I love Christmas, it doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. The life I thought I’d have, so different from this one.”
“Preach it, girl.” I mumble the words, not sure I want her to hear me but relating to the sentiment. It occurs to me I never apologized for my erratic behavior the other night at Beckett’s. “I’m sorry I was so skittish the other night. I’m not quite myself lately.”
She waves away my apology. “No worries. Beck explained you weren’t feeling well. How long are you in town for?”
“Until Beckett gets the part for my car.”
“Huh.”
I can’t decipher the one word, but a commotion at the door saves me from having to. The guys have returned dressed in the ugliest Christmas sweaters I’ve ever laid eyes on. To hide my discomfort, I join in the others’ laughter.
Greens and reds of all shades adorn the guys’ chests. I home in on Beckett’s. An ugly green and red argyle pattern covers his chest with the words “Don’t stare at my package” stretched across. The alternating silver and black letters seem hand-sewn onto the material. The best part is a crocheted green present, complete with a red bow, attached to the bottom hem of the sweater inches above Beckett’s package. It’s hideous. The colors and patterns don’t match in the slightest, but a huge grin plasters Beckett’s face. I can’t not match it with one of my own.
Merritt hands out a pencil and a scrap of green paper to the girls. When he hands me mine, he explains, “It’s a contest. Best sweater wins.”
“By best, you mean . . .”
His grin lights up the already bright room. “The most hideous, of course.”
“Right. Got it.” I take the pencil and paper with nimble fingers, hopefully hiding the shakiness.
The women gathered at the far end of the living room, the other guys stand in a line at the front. When Merritt joins them, he speaks. “Reminder of the rules: ignore who’s wearing the sweater and vote on the ugliest one. Not about who wears it best or your affiliation with that person.” He slides his eyes my way before resuming. “May the best man win.”
From a speaker on the fireplace comes the sound of America’s Next Top Model theme song, and then, I couldn’t make this up, but one by one, each guy struts his stuff down the “runway”—aka, the middle of the living room floor. Each is more stoic than the last, getting into character, their chests showing off their sweater proudly. It goes in age order, so Beckett is last. With his gaze fixated on the wall in front of him, he strides across the carpet, one foot crossing in front of the other, like the models do. Why it amazes me he knows exactly what to do is beyond me.
About the middle of the room, he pauses, doing a slow and complete three hundred sixty-degree turn, the sweater covering his chest on full display. I wish I could rate his pose, his walk, his presence. Hands down, he’d win. Though his sweater is ugly, too. But I need a critical eye to assess them all fairly and unbiased.
For a moment, I forget they’re Christmas-themed and lose myself in the fun of the game.
Each man takes one final step away from the line, our last look at each sweater. I jot the winner down on the paper and fold it up. Beckett collects them, a wink for me when our hands meet.
“We’re talking later about your runway walk.”
One brow rises. “You should see me on the stage. The stripper stage.” He enunciates stripper, but his voice gives nothing away. I can’t tell if he’s serious.
My imagination fills in the gaps. Instead of Channing Tatum, I picture him as Magic Mike. Losing his clothes, thrusting his hips in tune with the music, giving lap dances. It’s a vivid picture. Another thing to add to the list to discuss tonight.
Beckett hands over the papers to his father to tally the scores.
“Well, looks like we have a new champion. Drum roll, please.” I watch in awe as every family member pounds on a solid surface until Merritt closes his fingers into a fist in the air to silence them. “The winner of this year’s Nicholas sweater contest is . . . ” He pauses, making eyes with his sons and son-in-law. “None other than . . . Beck.” A raucous chorus of “hooray” and “congrats” erupts in the room. Even the “losers” chime in.
From behind the couch, a trophy is produced. With a spray-painted gold Christmas tree on top, it appears to be years old. Vintage, almost. Bethany also produces a notebook, handing it over to her husband. He flips through the pages, scanning whatever’s written on each one until he comes to a blank page. A sharpie in his hand, he scribbles something on the page, holding it up once he’s done.
“After a few years’ hiatus, he’s back in the winner’s circle. Well done, Beck. Nice choice of sweater. Tell us, where did you find this monstrosity?”
Holding the trophy, Beckett radiates joy and excitement. Elation oozes off him, his dimple front and center, and I can’t help but bask in his glow. It’s less about the holiday sweater and more about the victory. What I wouldn’t do to feel his warmth on a more permanent basis.
Beckett waits until everyone’s quiet. “I couldn’t find what I wanted, so I embellished it. I bought a plain red sweater at Target and created the argyle pattern, then sewed on the letters. If you don’t believe me, I have pictures to prove it."
Is there anything this guy can’t do? So far, I’ve yet to find it.
“Impressive.” His mom comes closer to inspect his handiwork. “Very impressive. Nice use of crochet. Nana would be proud.”
“That part was simple. It was the embroidery that was a bitch. Poked my fingers a few too many times over the months I worked on it.”
As his family interrogates him more, I watch their interactions. All the decorations are making me kind of twitchy, but for Beckett, I’m trying not to let it show. With the way this family goes all out in their celebrating, it’s almost hard not to want to join in on the joy .
Telling Beckett about Elias unlocked something inside me, a box I’d kept secured tightly with a padlock. With it opened, some tension of holding onto the anger lessened, paving the way for more acceptance. More celebrating the joy.
Perhaps this year’s holiday won’t be the sob fest I’ve been dreading.
Dinner is interesting, to say the least. Bethany made a feast, more so than chili, salad, and cornbread. I get the sense not every family dinner night is like this, but holiday dinner night definitely is.
Covered by a holiday tablecloth, the dining table seats us comfortably. I’m seated next to Beckett and across from Heidi, with his parents each at one end. The discussion centers on the festivities over the next few days. Bethany made it clear the next two days were appetizers and finger foods, though there was mention of a brunch Christmas morning. My ears perked up on brunch, and damn if I don’t want to come for this mouthwatering feast. I’d have to put aside a lot—more than a plethora—of feelings to allow myself to appreciate the work going into something like that and not freaking out or hyperventilating at anything Christmas-related.
I’m honestly not sure I’m up to the task. Could I break the pattern from last year, knock down the walls I built to guard my heart against allowing myself to feel . . . happy?
Time will tell.
I won’t come if I don’t think I can handle it. I won’t do that to Beckett or his family. If I’m not completely on board with whatever the Nicholas holiday traditions are, I’ll stay away.
Beckett knocks his shoulder into my arm. “You’re quiet.”
“Ruminating things.”
“I like that one. Ruminating.” He nods, trying it out on his tongue. “In place of pondering or wondering.”
“Exactly that.”
“What are you ruminating about?” Under the table, he laces our fingers, my palm fitting perfectly in his larger one.
I give him a half-truth. “Life. Your mom’s chili is delicious. Much better than my mom’s. I was almost scared. She scarred me for life with hers.” A shudder passes through me. She’d make it at least every other week, forcing Clem and me to eat at least one bowl of the congealed crap.
“Nana’s recipe. It’s been so long since I’ve had hers, I can’t remember whose was better.”
I pat my stomach. “I’d be so fat if I ate this regularly. That, or I’d have to participate in the classes a friend drags me to.”
Beckett waggles his brows. “You could work it off in the bedroom. Did you know sex burns three point two calories per minute?”
Warmth creeps into my cheeks. “Beckett! You did not just say that at your family’s dinner table.”
“I did, and I’ll say it again. Se?—”
I twist in my seat and slap my free hand over his mouth. “Hush. Not dinner table conversation.”
His tongue sneaks out of his mouth, licking my palm. I should move my hand . . . but what I should do and what I do are different things.
That is, until he snakes his free hand along my inner thigh.
“You are so bad,” I whisper-hiss, looking around to make sure no one is paying us any attention. “Your mom is right there.” However, after today’s escapades in the dressing room, I’m having a harder time convincing him to stop.
But no. This isn’t the time or the place.
“So, Willa. What is it you do?”
The question comes from Autumn, and I freeze on the spot. How do I tell them what I do? Not after the other night with Shania. But how do I lie to these kind people? What even will I tell them?
As I’m internally panicking, Beckett rescues me. “She works with authors helping to market their books on social media.” The lie slides smoothly off his tongue, like it was practiced. It’s so fluid and plausible, I stop to consider if anything else he’s told me could be a fabrication of the truth.
Shania pipes up first. “That’s so cool. Do you know authors in real life?” I nod, not trusting what will spill out without my permission. “I’ve always wanted to meet an author, ask them questions. Like Evelyn Ravenhurst. Man, I’ve got so many questions for her.”
“Eep,” I squeak, and it’s Beckett’s turn to cover my mouth.
“If Willa ever meets her, she’ll tell her she knows her biggest fan.”
Shania smiles broadly at her uncle. “I really hope Santa got the memo about the collection I put on my list. I have the perfect spot on my shelf for them.” The way she says Santa leads me to suspect she’s not a true believer.
Beckett leans in close, his mouth right behind my ear. “I have it on good authority her shelves will be sporting new books. Maybe before you leave, you’ll sign them for her?”
“Yes, of course,” I breathe out, letting go of the pent-up breath zinging through me.
Beckett’s smile matches Shania’s.
One word plays on repeat in my mind.
Leave.
As much as I know it’s inevitable, why does the thought have me squirming in my seat worse than the thought of celebrating Christmas?