Chapter Eighteen
Jace
The clock strikes five.
“And a Merry Christmas to you!” says the postal worker behind the counter with a smile stretched so wide it would be creepy if it wasn’t so genuine.
“Let’s. Get. Lit!” he yells as he clicks a button on his atrocious sweater.
The tree that’s no doubt been hot glued to the front of it lights up, and the customer turns away with an unreadable expression on his face.
It would be novel, except I’ve seen him do the same thing for the ten people who were waiting in line in front of me.
The pattern is the same. He clicks it on when he hands over a receipt and then starts the whole process again.
Now, it’s my turn to be the focus of his attention.
I’m not sure if his level of delusion is due to Birch Borough’s genius (or self-sabotaging) choice to defy custom and logic and keep their post office open into the late evening for the month of December.
I decide to give him as much grace as I can muster, given the holidays.
In the few weeks we’ve been here, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with the chaos of this town and come out victorious.
I force a grin and walk up to the counter, a package for my parents in my arms. Instead of stowing gifts away on the plane, I’ve decided to ship them to Florida instead.
Edgar and Angie recently bought their tickets to travel with us late on the evening of the twenty-third.
It’s arguably the worst day to travel, but the timing is necessary due to my siblings’ demanding businesses.
Weeks ago, we collectively decided to make this holiday as magical as possible for Emmy since I’ve been essentially hiding from my family for the past few years.
With Emmy growing up and the job offer in Florida, it woke me up to the fact that she doesn’t have a history with Christmas like I did during my childhood.
Emmy doesn’t even know what Christmas is like with her mom, so being surrounded by family is going to create memories she’ll hold on to for years to come.
She needs this; I need this. A new path for a better future.
Still, we haven’t even left Birch Borough yet, and I already wish I could make it work with Ivy. Canceling my tickets and scrapping my travel plans is sounding more attractive day by day. My resolve is cracking like a pond that hasn’t fully frozen over yet.
The postal worker, whose name tag reads Stewart, looks up at me from his four-by-four feet of cubic space across the counter. “Say now,” he declares, “aren’t you the guy that’s been seeing our Ivy?”
As pleasant as he sounds, I don’t miss the possessive indicator that this town sees her as one of their own.
I’m still the outsider, though I believe I’ve been given a bit of an express pass into the fold, to my great relief.
It seems I’ve been accepted into the Birch Borough social life quicker than Graham or Rafe.
It helps that my brother and sister had already built successful businesses here and were members of the community before I arrived.
I shudder, thinking of how much grief I would’ve been given otherwise.
Rafe and Graham are friendly; they invite friendship.
My demeanor when I first showed up in town was . . . well, not like that.
“I am seeing Ivy . . . in a way . . . yes.” The words shoot a spark up my spine as they stumble out.
I’m proud of being attached to her in any way, and especially with people thinking that we’re together, but the free-for-all prying that everyone around here seems to engage in is still disorienting.
“Excuse me, Mr. December?”
Instantly, I recognize the voice behind me. It’s coming from the primary troublemaker in this town, and I feel my shoulders bunching toward my ears, preparing for what’s to come. Gladys means well—of that, I’m sure—but she digs deeper than most.
“Stewart!” the older woman yells, appearing beside me and leaning on the counter.
She’s wearing a festive garland in her hair, and it almost looks like her head is a Christmas tree, her accessories complete with earrings in the shape of light-up ornaments that dangle from her ears.
“Are you aware of just who asked you to ship this box?” She looks at the label.
“To . . . Florida?” Her mood takes a swift turn.
She crosses her arms over her chest and faces me as the line of people behind us sigh with a collective groan. “You’d better not be moving, boy.”
I haven’t been called a boy since I was . . . well, a boy. “Ma’am?” I reply incredulously.
“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, young man.”
Caught in the chaos, Stewart simply hums, purposely disregarding what’s happening on the other side of his counter.
“I’m going to Florida for Christmas to see my parents.” I hasten to clarify, adding in a quiet tone, “But moving there has been the plan.”
“Absoluuuuuutely not.”
“That will be twenty dollars and seventy-three cents,” Stewart chimes in.
Really, Stewart? Now? My jaw clenches.
“You know that I’ve been rooting for you. I even put in a good word with Build Me Up, Buttercup Homes for the custom furniture you make . . .” Gladys’ voice rises an octave on the last words, and I swallow. “But now, I’m not so sure that was the right choice.”
“Gladys, I really need to get going. And these poor people behind us need to ship their packages.”
“Again, that will be twenty dollars and seventy-three cents.”
“Shut it, Stewart!” Gladys yells as I throw a credit card onto the counter.
She leans in, invading my personal space.
“Our Ivy needs you. And to be clear, we all could use a strapping guy like you around here. And besides Ivy being happy, Emmy needs this town. You need this town. Now, look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong. ” Her voice is low.
It would be menacing if I didn’t know that this is the woman who left me a chicken noodle soup casserole when she found out that Emmy had a stomachache yesterday. How she found out, I still don’t know. I see her eyes narrow in my peripheral vision, unrelenting.
Slowly, Stewart slides a receipt and a pen across the counter so deliberately that I think he’s planning to sneak-attack me.
However, his humming of the Christmas carols playing across the speaker system is a giveaway that he’s listening and only trying to act nonchalant.
Quickly, I sign the receipt and then nod toward the door, indicating that Gladys should follow me. She huffs but complies.
As we walk away, “And a Merry Christmas to you!” accompanies us toward the door.
We pause just inside the door leading into the post office. We’re not fully out of earshot of everyone in line, but my shoulders relax, and I crack my neck to relieve some tension. “Gladys, you’re not wrong. However . . .”
She visibly relaxes but looks at me warily. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Word on the cobblestone street is that it’s not an option to stretch the truth with Gladys, or she’ll call it rubbish, so I answer honestly.
“That it could be good for Emmy to move to Florida. My parents live there. It’s stable.
It’s not anywhere my ex has been. And the truth is that our adventure in Birch Borough was always meant to be temporary. ”
“I see.” The wheels in her mind are turning so fast that I should see smoke coming from her ears. “I hear your reasoning, and I raise you just one thing.” My nod gives her the permission she doesn’t need to keep going. “Ivy.”
I nearly groan. She’s hitting me where it hurts. “I’m staying in town until December twenty-third, if that helps.” My confidence deflates in the wake of her gaze.
“Hardly. Why would you even consider going when you know that the woman who is meant to be yours is here? Help it make sense!”
I sigh. “I can’t help it make sense because it doesn’t make sense. All I know is that, without meaning to, I lost Ivy once. I don’t know if I can survive if I realize . . . if I can’t . . .”
“If you’re too buff?”
“What? No.”
“Too suave?”
“No.”
“Too grumpy?”
“I’m not grumpy with her, and just, no.”
“Too giving? Your sister told me you used to be quite the helpful neighbor.”
I run a hand through my hair in frustration, the ends of it now stretching toward the sky. “Ivy should get the best. I could never give her enough.”
Gladys ignores me. “Too romantic? Don’t think I don’t know about your little escapade outside of Town Hall. I may have even seen them myself—well, secondhand through my camera, at least.”
“Oh, good Lord, help me.” My exhale is enough to get the people walking into the post office to look at me skeptically.
Three people have come in, and two have left since Gladys and I stepped away from the counter.
I could walk away, but I’m afraid of her.
I’m afraid of the ramifications if I even try to move. “No.”
“Too . . . what, then? Handsome? Intelligent? Handy?” At the last descriptor, she bounces her brows. I shut my eyes. “Tall? Manly? Punchy?” I sneak a glance to catch her as she mimics a boxer punching a bag and will myself not to laugh. “Too—” she begins.
I cut her off. “I’m not ‘too’ anything, Gladys.
I love my girl, my Emmy, but I made mistakes.
I lost hope. I lost my belief in love. Ivy fell in love with a version of me that existed before my sister died.
And no, this isn’t some condescending sap message.
I’m telling it straight. Just like it is.
That’s all you’ll get from me.” The last part almost squeaks coming out. I’m not proud of it, but it’s honest.
Her eyes widen, but I see she knows that I’m being genuine. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say yet.”
Out of nervous habit, I scratch the side of my jaw, unsure of how to handle her response.
“Ivy needs love. That’s it. And not love from this town, her studio, dancing, or even her family or friends. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. She needs love from you.”