1. The Reason for the Season
~ SAM ~
The front door slammed.
“Fucking fuck!” Bridget screamed, startling me so that I almost dropped the hot pot lid and had to juggle it to the counter.
“Whoa, whoa, babe. What’s—?”
She stormed around the corner and into the kitchen, dark hair flying, eyes wide and welling with tears, face pale, arms gesticulating wildly as she spoke.
“It’s not even Thanksgiving, Sam! What the fuck are they thinking?!”
Frowning, I dropped the oven mitts to the counter and started towards her. “Slow down. What’s going on?”
She paced past me, but I hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her up against me. She turned and buried her face in my chest, which was a relief—it meant I wasn’t the one she was angry with. So I stroked her hair as she brought her hands up to her face. “Breathe, babe. Just breathe.” Touch always grounded her. But fuck… she was shaking.
When she’d taken a couple breaths, I tipped up her chin and made her look at me. “Bridget, what’s happened?”
A single tear trickled down her cheek as she looked up at me and my heart sank. But at least she lowered her voice and wasn’t throwing her hands around anymore.
“I stopped at the corner store and they were playing fucking Christmas carols…”
Oh, shit.
“…It freaked me out so I just left to drive home—but now our asshole neighbors are putting their Christmas lights up. Already. It’s not even Thanksgiving, Sam! How—”
I pulled her back into my chest, wrapped my arms around her and held her tight, shushing her because she needed to breathe and calm down before we talked about this.
Help me out here, God. This is… exactly what we didn’t need.
“It’s going to be okay,” I murmured into her hair, stroking her and holding her tightly because it helped her breathe.
Christmas was Bridget’s nightmare. She was a child when, in the middle of December, her organized crime boss father shot and killed her mother in front of her—then took the seven-year-old Bridget on a month-long road trip while he killed several of his enemies. And threatened Bridget’s life countless times in the process—all while every song on the radio, every store, every television show bombarded her with Christmas music and decorations.
She couldn’t see a hint of Santa or hear jingle bells without her body yanking her back into that trauma.
I’d known this was coming. She’d been twitchy ever since Halloween. I could tell she had already wanted to run—something she had done every year as an adult. She’d disappear to another country, or a hidden remote area where no one knew her. Last year she had finally called me and let me join her. I had hoped we’d have a little more time before she wanted to run this year. I talked to her about it back in summer and offered to plan a trip, but she’d said let’s wait and see because her father passed away this year and she hoped she wouldn’t be as affected.
Clearly that wasn’t going to happen. I squeezed her tightly as another wave of shivers rocked through her body.
Dammit.
I didn’t want her to panic and leave without me again. When she’d first disappeared last year, it was the scariest two days of my life—and I was an ex-felon.
I kept stroking her hair and holding her until her breathing slowed. My mind swam back to those days last Christmas when it looked like I might be going back to prison at the same time she was fighting her demons.
We were in a hotel bed together during our very brief honeymoon, basking in the afterglow and just talking, but her mind was churning…
“I hate Christmas.”
“Because of your Dad?”
She nodded. “Before that year, Christmas was literally my favorite time of year. Mom would always let me help her decorate the tree the day after Thanksgiving. And she’d collect presents and wrap them early so I’d come home from school and there’d be new boxes. I loved it—hot chocolate, peppermint, Christmas carols, the whole thing. But every single memory of those weeks looks like decking the halls, sounds like fucking jingle bells and Michael Bublé, and… God, I hate it so much.”
“Bridget—”
“I’m not exaggerating, Sam. I’m a walking panic attack for like six weeks. By the time New Year’s finally arrives, I’m exhausted. Gerald, my Psychologist, says it’s the true definition of triggers—”
She dropped her voice to a low, pompous posturing that I guessed was supposed to be Gerald.
“—Your brain has attached the negative experiences you endured with the external stimulus that were present during that season of your life. When your mind hears the music, or sees the decorations, it unconsciously associates those with core memories of pain and loss. To your psyche, Santa Claus might as well have murdered your mother. You have to face it, Bridget, because it won’t change unless you do…”
She groaned and rolled back over, shaking her head as she stared at the ceiling. “Whatever,” she muttered. “All I know is, I can’t escape it. And it’s fucking exhausting.”
I took a deep breath and pushed up onto my elbow to lean over her, looking down, and put my hand on her hands where they were clasped, white-knuckled, on her stomach.
“There’s one difference this year,” I said quietly. She looked at me, and I smiled. “I’m going to be here this time.”
She nodded and smiled, but it was tight. And the unspoken words, if you’re not in prison, hung in the air.
“I’ll help, Bridge, I promise.”
“I hope so.”
I tipped my head and gave her the half-grin she liked so much. “I’ll have the best present for you to unwrap.”
She snorted and I felt some of the tension in her body unravel. “A ribbon around your cock is not a Christmas present.”
I pretended to be wounded. “What? Why? What more could a wife want?”
“To forget that it’s Christmas at all,” she shot back without hesitation.
I sighed. “Maybe we can go somewhere they don’t celebrate?”
She gave me a look. “In the middle of a Court case in which we aren’t supposed to be within a hundred feet of each other? Sure. Sounds like a plan.”
“Bridget—”
“I’m not mad, Sam. I’m just being realistic.”
Neither of us spoke for a while, but I could see her sinking away, so I squeezed her hands again and made her focus on me.
“We’ll get through this. It’s going to suck this year—but I’m here, Bridget. I’m here for you. And when we beat this, we’ll figure out our own traditions. The… the Anti-Christmas. And we’ll do it every year.”
Her brow furrowed. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
And I meant it…
“Do you remember what I promised you last time?” I murmured quietly when she seemed to breathe a little easier.
She nodded, but didn’t speak. I held her tighter.
“I have some ideas, babe. Just… don’t give up, okay? We’ll do this together.”
She nodded, but she’d gone quiet and still. A quiet, still Bridget was a dangerous one. The deeper she sank into her thoughts, the more likely she was to rush into some unhinged plan to relieve herself of the stress. I had to keep her here and focused on me until we could solve this together.
Taking a deep breath and praying I’d see it if she reached her limit before I could get the details in place, I tipped up her chin again—and my heart broke a little bit at the tears in her eyes.
I wiped them off her cheek with my thumb and held her shining gaze.
“You stay here, inside. If anyone needs to go out it’ll be me, okay?”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, which only reminded me that she was not a quiet person.
“I already have a plan, but I need to finish off some details,” I said pointedly. “So, I need you to rest and breathe and stay here with me.”
She nodded again, but tried to look away. I caught her chin again and shook my head. “Shut out the world if you have to, Bridget. But you don’t shut me out, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ve got this, babe. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.”
“Bridget—”
“I believe you, Sam. I do. I just… I didn’t expect that so soon.”
“Me either, but we’ve got this. I promise.”
Finally, finally a soft smile from her. But it didn’t last.
When she’d stopped trembling, I went and saved the dinner before it burned, then made her take a bath and I dried her and rubbed her down in lotion afterwards.
I knew it was bad when she didn’t try to instigate sex—Bridget used sex to soothe everything. But that just made me more resolved to get my shit together and get her out of here.
So, that night while she read her book, I went online and finalized dates, made a shopping list, a final packing list, and a hundred other little details. I even texted her psychologist, Gerald.
As soon as I could make it happen, we were getting out of here. And we were facing this demon down once and for all.