Chapter 6
Six
My phone blasts the dark room out of its shadows. The remnants of the dream that startled me awake are hazy, edging into focus like a kaleidoscope.
A baby in my arms.
A warm hand on my shoulder.
A kiss that’s slow and reverent.
His eyes are bright green, not blue.
And looking at me like I am his whole world.
My heart pounds, trying to escape my chest. But it’s a dream, just a silly figment of my imagination. I shove the images down where I keep everything I can’t face.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, wanting to laugh and cry simultaneously.
This is what hope gets me. The universe is crashing me back to reality.
My hand gravitates to my stomach, drawn by instinct to what might lie within.
The possibility that changes everything. The complication I never saw coming.
Slipping on my robe, I make my way to the sunroom. Beyond a wall of glass, snow-capped mountains rise against the sky, their peaks glistening in the moonlight. This is my favorite corner of the house.
With her green thumb and artistic eye, my mother-in-law has transformed the space into a lush oasis.
Ferns, pothos, and monsteras spill from shelves and corners, their vibrant leaves creating the feeling of a secret garden.
A cozy seating area with plush armchairs, a Chesterfield sofa, and a gas fireplace invites you to curl up with a book, disappear into the view, or escape for a moment of solitude.
I gaze out over the mountains as memories of Christmases here flood back.
Margaret's patience teaching me to bake, sharing stories about love and life.
Hours of laughter with Jules, conversations that always made me smile and think.
Watching the twins grow from tiny infants into opinionated, hilarious boys.
Gary and Tom battling over snowman building while my nephews directed from the sidelines.
Afternoons teaching my nephews how to ice skate.
My period has been late before—from stress, too much running, or simply not taking care of my body. It could be any of those things, and Jules could be wrong. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it today. It’s Christmas, and nothing will be open—a charm of this little Vermont village.
I wrap myself in a chair and watch for hours as the moonlight dances across the peaks, until the sound of my nephews stirring begins to rouse the house.
Santa came. Everyone but Mason and Ivy shows up.
They both skip the early morning gift opening, choosing sleep over chaos.
James is here, and somehow that doesn’t surprise me.
Sinking into the sectional cushions, I get lost in the pleasure of seeing the twins’ eyes wide with wonder at each new item unwrapped.
James stands off to the side, his eyes analyzing the seating options.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he gingerly makes his way to the open cushion on the sectional, which is next to me.
I fold my hands together and cross my legs, holding my body as still as possible. He seems equally affected by the proximity. His eyes stay on Beck and Leo until Bell walks over and rests her head on his knee. He exhales and pats the dog, finally looking at me.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
“Yeah, my stomach’s fine,” I say, hearing how sharp I sound.
What else can I say?
Actually, I’m a fucking mess. I had a dream where I’m pretty sure you were the leading man with me and my baby. Cool, right? We’ve known each other for forty-eight hours. Totally normal.
His hand pauses on Bell’s head, and his jaw tightens. “Can I grab you a coffee?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll get it later.”
“It’s a cup of coffee, Sydney. I’m heading that way anyway. How do you take it?”
“Well… okay.” I glance away, flushed by how monumental the question feels. “Some oat milk. The color of a latte.”
“So, a splash of coffee with oat milk. Got it.”
My eyes, the traitorous things, can’t help but follow him.
Gray sweatpants hang loose over long, easy limbs.
His old college sweatshirt faded and frayed at the cuffs.
Even his tousled hair tells a story: no products, just a quick pass of his hand.
Mason will show up in a crisp button-down, not a strand out of place, every inch of him composed to stay that way.
“Did I get it right?” James flushes, watching me examine the cup he’s returned with.
“Yeah, you did.”
After the presents are opened, the kids run off to test their new toys while the other adults drift off.
But I stay rooted on the sectional, beside this man I can’t seem to pull myself away from.
He leans back, running a hand through his hair.
I sit cross-legged, plenty of space between us, but when he leans forward and his eyes fix on me, my stomach flips.
“Tell me about young Sydney.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I choke out.
“Come on, give me something. Were you serious? Funny in a self-deprecating way? Drive all the boys wild in high school?”
There’s something about him that makes me want to open up. Reminds me of when I first met Jules, and she was able to pull truths from me that I normally lock away. Maybe it’s how easy it’s been to talk to him. Maybe it’s how safe he feels.
What would I even say? That my presence was a burden to the people who should have loved me?
That I learned not to rely on others because they never showed up for me?
Or that I’ve always found it easier to keep people at arm’s length—and that’s why I married Mason, because he didn’t ask questions.
He let me pretend life before him never happened.
But here’s James, asking me to share and giving me his full attention.
I take a deep breath and say, “I didn’t have a good childhood. It’s hard to talk about.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I get it. I don’t like talking about my shit either. It’s hard to talk about the things we try to bury.”
I exhale, grateful for the way he doesn’t press for the sordid details. “Exactly. It’s like… if I don’t talk about it, maybe I can pretend it never happened.”
“But it happened,” James says. “And it shaped you.”
“You started reading the Riley Sager book yesterday, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. Are we starting our book club now?” He jokes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Did you get to the part with the poem Remember?”
“Yeah I looked it up. Better by far you should forget and smile / Than that you should remember and be sad. But I don't know... choosing to forget feels like giving up. Maybe the hard stuff is what makes us who we are.”
“That sounds nice in theory,” I say carefully. “But what if some things are too heavy to carry around? What if remembering just keeps you stuck?”
“I guess that's the risk. Without remembering, how will you ever know if you’ve grown?”
Every instinct in me screams to reach for him.
To fold into his chest and feel him tuck me under his arm.
I want to ask what pain taught him to look at the world this way.
Share why that poem doesn’t even pertain to me since the person asking you to forget would have to love you first. To kiss the corner of his mouth and run my fingers through the lock of hair that falls across his forehead.
No, Sydney. He’s not yours. Bad girl.
“What’s the deal with you and Ivy?” I ask the question tumbling out of nowhere.
I plead temporary insanity.
He sputters into his coffee, glancing around to see if anyone is within earshot, then turns the full force of his gaze on me. “What’s the deal with you and your husband? Because from what I’ve seen, he’s kind of a dick. And you… You’re not.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I look out the window, pretending the cool mountain air can soothe the burn beneath my skin. I’ve spent so long making excuses for his behavior, explaining it away, that hearing someone else see it so clearly strips me of every defense.
“Ouch.” I let out a shaky laugh and shift to break the tension, but our knees brush and I jump to my feet, dizzy from more than the movement. I grasp for something to steady myself.
His hand shoots out, gently holding my arm. “What was that? You just went white again.”
“I’m getting a refill, just stood up too quickly. You want one?”
As I head to the kitchen, I fold away this conversation into the back of my mind like a fragile note I’ll read later. I force my lips into an easy, soft smile, already knowing I’ll unfold that note sooner than I should.
***
Once everyone is up, Gary and Margaret hand out gifts. They always select something thoughtful. I peel back the paper on mine to find a deep red cashmere pashmina. Luxurious and soft, perfect for wrapping around my shoulders in the quiet mornings here.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“I know how often you curl up in the sunroom,” Margaret says, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “Thought you might adore something to keep you cozy while you read.”
Across the room, Ivy clutches a gift, tears in her eyes.
“I noticed you didn’t have this lens in your gear,” James explains. “I thought maybe the new focal length might inspire you to pick up your camera again. I haven’t seen you use it.”
“James, this is...” She’s at a loss for words, staring down at the lens. “It’s a lovely gift, but I’m no longer a photographer.”
“Well, it’s never too late to pick it back up.” He squeezes her arm and picks up the sweater she gave him. “Thank you for this. It’s great.”
His eyes briefly meet mine across the room before turning back to her.
A reminder of where my attention should be.
I hand Mason a slim box with a faint smile. He opens it, revealing a simple black Casio watch. “I read that the cold drains Apple Watches, and I know you time your ski runs.”
He nods and slips it on his wrist.
I lift the flap on the envelope he hands me. A gift card.
“Figured you could get books or whatever. I didn’t want to pick out the wrong thing.” Mason kisses my cheek.
“It’s great. Thanks.” My mouth twitches into what I hope passes for a smile. “Does anyone need more coffee?”