Chapter 4 #2
“And you see disaster everywhere! You can’t let anyone try anything because you’re too busy waiting for everything to go wrong!”
The wind whips between us, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing in this conversation.
“Better safe than sorry,” I snap.
“Better sorry than never trying anything!” she fires back. “Sometimes I wonder if Spencer was right about—”
“Spencer?” The name comes out sharp as a blade. “What does Spencer have to do with anything?”
I see the exact moment she realizes what she’s said. How her face goes white. But it’s too late—the words are out there, and they hit harder than the wind.
“Nothing. I didn’t mean—”
“No, go ahead. What was Spencer right about?” My voice has gone deadly quiet, which is never a good sign. “What insights did your ex share about our relationship?”
“He just... he said maybe you were too pessimistic. Too negative.”
“And you agreed with him.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t have to.” The fight goes out of me all at once, replaced by something worse. Certainty. “Maybe Spencer was right about realistic expectations. Maybe this was a mistake.”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and cold and destructive.
I watch her sunshine dim. Watch the light go out of her eyes as she realizes what I’ve just said. What I’ve just done.
“Maybe it was,” she whispers.
And then she’s walking away, disappearing into the storm, and I’m standing alone in the wreckage of both the festival setup and whatever we had together.
Half the town just watched me break the heart of the woman who believed in me.
Good job, Lennox. Really stellar crisis management.
I sit in the empty fire station, surrounded by equipment that can’t fix what I’ve broken.
The storm’s passed, leaving behind the kind of crystalline quiet that only comes after nature throws a tantrum. Everything’s covered in pristine snow that makes the world look innocent and new.
Too bad I feel like I deserve to be scraped off the bottom of someone’s boot.
My phone’s been buzzing for the past hour. Mom. My partner. Ellen, who somehow convinced someone to let her use their phone. All wanting to know what happened at the festival site.
What happened is I turned into exactly what Mads was afraid of—someone who makes her feel small when she’s scared.
I replay the fight in my head, looking for the moment where everything went wrong. Was it when I snapped about the decorations? When I grabbed her arm? When I let Spencer’s ghost stand between us?
Or was it earlier? When I decided I wasn’t good enough for her sunshine? When I started pulling away instead of fighting for us?
My phone rings. Mom.
“Asher Michael Lennox, what did you do?”
“I messed up.” No point in dancing around it.
“I figured that much from the way Mads looked when she left.”
“She’ll be fine. Spencer’s here. He’ll take care of her.”
“Spencer?” Mom’s voice goes arctic. “That spineless weasel who convinced her she was too much trouble? That Spencer?”
“He knows what he’s getting into with her. I don’t.”
“What you’re getting into? Asher, you’re talking about love, not a science experiment.”
“Same level of potential casualties.”
The silence stretches so long I wonder if the call dropped. Then: “Your father really did a number on you, didn’t he?”
The observation hits hard. “This has nothing to do with Dad.”
“Doesn’t it? He taught you that loving someone means eventually disappointing them. That people leave when things get difficult.”
“People do leave.”
“Some people. Not everyone.” Her voice softens. “Not the right people, honey.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock on the station door. I look up to see Ellen Cooper’s face pressed against the glass, breath fogging the window. Her sister, Lila, is with her.
I let them in, and Ellen stands there in her pink snow boots and serious expression, studying me.
“You made Mads cry,” she announces.
“I know.”
“That’s not very Santa-like.”
“I know that too.”
“She insisted on coming here to tell you this.” Lila looks over at me apologetically.
Ellen climbs up on the bench next to me, swinging her legs. “Grandma says when people are mean, it’s usually because they’re scared or sad inside.”
“Your grandma’s a smart lady.”
“Are you scared or sad?”
Both. Definitely both.
“Ellen, stop interrogating him,” Lila says.
I lift a hand as if to signal it’s okay. “Maybe a little scared.”
“Of what?”
How do you explain grown-up fears to a six-year-old? How do you tell a kid that sometimes loving someone feels as if you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall might kill you?
“I’m scared I’ll disappoint people. That I’ll mess up Christmas.”
“But you already messed up,” she points out with devastating logic. “And Christmas is still happening.”
Out of the mouths of babes strikes again.
“Besides,” she continues, “Mads isn’t people. She’s Mads. And she likes you even when you’re grumpy.”
Liked. Past tense. After tonight, I’m pretty sure she’s done trying to find the good in my grumpy exterior.
“Ellen, what if you really wanted something, but you were afraid you might break it?”
She considers this seriously. “When I wanted to hold baby Emma at Mom’s friend’s house?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Mama said if I was careful and gentle, I could hold her. And if I was too scared to try, I’d never get to find out how soft babies are.” She looks up at me. “But you have to want to be careful more than you want to be safe.”
This kid should be writing greeting cards.
“Do you want to be careful with Mads more than you want to be safe from her?”
The answer comes without hesitation. Yes. I want to hold her heart as if it’s precious. I want to deserve her sunshine.
But want and deserve are two different things.
“She might not give me another chance, Ellen.”
“She might. You won’t know unless you try.” She hops down from the bench. “Besides, it’s almost Christmas. And Christmas is for second chances.”
She says it as if she’s quoting something, and I remember the Mrs. Claus letter Mads showed me. The one about opening hearts and trusting in Christmas magic.
Maybe it’s time I stopped being such a skeptic.
“Ellen? You still think I can be Santa?”
“If you stop being scared and start being careful.” She grins. “And if you apologize to Mads. Santa doesn’t make girls cry.”
After she leaves with Lila, I sit in the quiet station and think about courage. About the difference between being careful and being safe. About six-year-old wisdom and Christmas magic and whether a grumpy firefighter can learn to deserve sunshine.
Tomorrow I have to face the community knowing I’m the Grinch who stole Christmas.
But tonight, I’m going to figure out how to get it back.
The storm outside is nothing compared to the one in my chest. But if Christmas magic is real—if second chances actually exist—I need a miracle.
And maybe, just maybe, I need to stop waiting for magic to happen and start making it myself.