19. Chapter 19
Adam
I pull into my parents’ driveway, my hands tight on the steering wheel.
The house is decked out in Christmas glory; white lights trace the roofline, a wreath hangs on the door, and through the front window, I can see the Christmas tree, towering and perfect like everything else in my mother’s home.
A row of cars already lines the curb, which means everyone’s here: Lauren and Jake, Hailey, and the Greenes.
For a moment, I consider backing out and driving away, but I decide against it.
One last Christmas. I can endure it. In eleven days, I’ll be on my way to Oregon. Eleven days until I’m free.
The thought gives me enough courage to kill the engine and step out into the biting December air.
I grab the bag of presents I bought; generic gift cards mostly, except for Lauren and Jake’s, which I actually put thought into.
The small, wrapped packages feel like props in the performance I’m about to give.
I’m halfway up the front walk when the door swings open.
My mother stands there, elegant in a deep green dress, with a string of pearls at her throat, her makeup perfect as always.
Her face lights up when she sees me. “Adam! Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” She pulls me into a hug that feels like a straitjacket, her perfume suffocating.
Her smile falters when I get inside and pull my coat off. “Adam,” she says, her gaze traveling from my face down to my chest. “You’re not wearing your blue sweater.”
I glance down at the red cable-knit I pulled from the back of my closet this morning. “Yeah, so?” I shrug. “I couldn’t find it. Besides, I like this one better. Red is festive.”
Her lips press together momentarily before she schools her features back into a welcoming smile. “Well, you’re here. That’s what matters. Come on, everyone’s waiting.”
I let her usher me into the warm, pine-scented air of the living room.
It looks like a Christmas catalog threw up in it.
Garlands drape every surface; the tree commands pride of place in the center of the room, gold and silver ornaments gleaming, brightly wrapped presents stacked beneath.
The Dickens Christmas Village Mom has been collecting for years sits on a table, among carefully arranged drifts of fluffy fake snow.
My mother has outdone herself, as always.
“Look who’s finally here,” she announces, her hand firm on my back as she guides me into the room.
My father rises from his armchair, relief washing over his face. “Adam,” he says, crossing to pull me into a hug, slapping my back a few times before letting go. There’s something in his eyes, a question, maybe even a hint of concern. “Glad you’re here. Hope you’re feeling better?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, meeting his gaze. For a minute, it seems like he’s going to say something else and then thinks better of it.
Behind him on the sofa, Millie sits with her mother.
The dress she’s wearing is a shade of blue that matches the sweater my mother wanted me to wear almost exactly.
The coincidence makes my stomach turn. But of course, it’s not a coincidence.
Mom told her what she thought I was planning to wear, I’m sure of it.
“Adam!” Millie’s face lights up, and she rises.
But my father doesn’t move his arm from my shoulders. Instead, he steers me toward the bar cart in the corner. “Let me fix you a drink,” he says, his voice just a touch too loud. “Eggnog? Or something stronger?”
“Stronger,” I say without hesitation. “Bourbon, if you’ve got it.”
“Coming right up.” He positions himself between me and the rest of the room, his back to Millie as he pours. “How’s work?” he asks, though I get the feeling he doesn’t care about the answer. It’s just noise to fill the space.
“Fine,” I say, accepting the glass he hands me. “Busy time of year.”
Lauren catches my eye from across the room, where she’s sitting with Jake on the loveseat. She gives me a small, encouraging smile. I return it, drawing strength from our shared secret. Jake nods at me, a solidarity I never expected but deeply appreciate.
“Adam,” my mother’s voice cuts through the momentary peace. “Come say hello to Rhonda and Millie.”
I take a fortifying sip of bourbon before turning. My mother stands with her arm linked through Rhonda’s, both women watching me with expectant smiles. Millie hovers next to them, looking both hopeful and nervous.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, keeping my distance. “Nice to see you all.”
“Oh, get over here and give me a proper hug,” Rhonda insists, breaking away from my mother to engulf me in a cloud of floral perfume. “We’ve missed you so much.”
Over her shoulder, I see Millie waiting her turn, and something cold slides down my spine. The last time she touched me was on the cruise, when she pressed herself against me and kissed me. The memory still makes me feel vaguely ill.
Rhonda releases me, but before Millie can move in, my father appears at my side again. “Adam,” he says, his voice jovial but his eyes serious, “Lauren was just telling me about that property on Maple Street. The one with the frozen pipes?”
It’s a lifeline, and I grab it. “Right, yes. We should probably discuss that.”
I allow my father to lead me over to Lauren and Jake, feeling Millie’s disappointed gaze boring into my back. Something’s off about my father today. This protective hovering isn’t like him at all. Usually, he’s content to let my mother orchestrate her little schemes without interference.
“Thanks,” I mutter as we reach the loveseat.
He just nods, his expression unreadable.
Lauren gives me a knowing look. “That wasn’t very subtle,” she says, her voice too low for anyone else to hear.
“Better than the alternative,” I reply, settling into the armchair beside them.
My father excuses himself, returning to his own seat where Hailey perches on the arm, tapping away at her phone. She looks up as my father sits, her eyes finding mine across the room.
“So, Adam,” she calls, loud enough to ensure everyone hears, “first Christmas as a single guy, huh? How’s that going for you?”
The room goes quiet. I feel several pairs of eyes on me: my mother’s, calculating; Millie’s, hopeful; my father’s, concerned.
“The woman I wanted to marry dumped me, Hailey,” I reply, the words bitter on my tongue. “How do you think I’m doing?”
“Geez, you don’t have to be so gloomy,” Hailey presses, with a glint in her eye that reminds me uncomfortably of our mother. “If you’re lonely, there’s plenty of people here who would be happy to keep you company and distract you.” Her gaze flicks meaningfully toward Millie.
“Hailey,” my father says, his tone sharp. “That’s enough.”
I stare at him, surprised. My father rarely contradicts anyone, least of all his daughters or wife. He’s always been the peacemaker, content to let others set the agenda while he follows along. But there’s an edge to him today that I don’t recognize.
“I was just saying,” Hailey mutters, returning to her phone.
An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only when my mother claps her hands together. “Well, why don’t we enjoy some appetizers before dinner? Rhonda, will you help me bring out the trays?”
As my mother and Rhonda head toward the kitchen, Millie makes her move. She crosses the room with determined steps, sinking into the chair next to mine. “Hi,” she says softly. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
I take another sip of bourbon, letting the burn distract me from the irritation rising in my chest. “I’ve been busy,” I say, not looking at her.
“Too busy to return a call?” Her hand lands on my arm, her fingers curling around my wrist. “Adam, I’ve been so worried about you. After what happened on the cruise—”
“Nothing happened on the cruise,” I interrupt, pulling my arm away. “Nothing is going to happen, Millie, ever. I thought I made that clear.”
Her face falls, those familiar blue eyes filling with tears. It’s a look I’ve seen a thousand times, one that used to send me rushing to fix whatever was wrong. Now it just makes me tired.
“Adam,” she starts again, but before she can continue, my father is suddenly standing over us.
“Millie,” he says firmly, “I think Paula and your mother need help with the appetizers in the kitchen.”
It’s a transparent excuse, but Millie has no choice but to nod and stand. She casts one last wounded look at me before heading toward the kitchen, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
I stare after her, then look up at my father. “Thanks,” I say again, genuinely confused by his intervention. “But why are you—”
“Just drink your bourbon, son,” he says, cutting me off with a small shake of his head. He returns to his seat without another word, leaving me puzzled.
Lauren leans over. “What was that about?”
“No idea,” I murmur. “Since when does Dad interfere with Mom’s matchmaking?”
“Maybe he’s finally come to his senses,” Jake suggests, his voice low. “Maybe he’s realized that if they continue pushing you at her, regardless of what you want, that they’re just going to lose you.”
I shrug, unconvinced. My father has never shown much interest in the emotional currents running through our family. He pays the bills, makes the occasional joke, and leaves the rest to my mother. Or at least, he always has before.
The next hour passes in a strange dance of approach and avoidance.
Every time Millie moves toward me, my father finds a reason to intercept, asking me about work, drawing me into conversations with Lauren and Jake, or simply positioning himself between us.
It’s so unlike him that even my mother notices, casting confused glances at her husband as her carefully choreographed reunion falls apart.
“Gerald,” she finally says, her voice tight, “could you help me with something in the dining room?”
My father rises obediently and follows her out. Through the archway, I can see them in the dining room, their heads bent close together. My mother’s mouth moves rapidly, her hands gesturing in frustration. My father’s responses are shorter, his expression growing increasingly stubborn.
Lauren notices too. “Wonder what that’s about,” she murmurs.
“Nothing good,” I reply, watching as my mother’s face flushes with anger.
They return a moment later, my mother’s smile fixed and brittle, my father’s jaw set in a way I rarely see. She crosses directly to where Millie sits with Rhonda and takes the younger woman’s hand.
“Millie, dear,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet, “why don’t you tell Adam about the New Year’s Eve gala at the country club? I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it.”
“Oh, yes,” Rhonda chimes in, her eyes lighting up. “Millie’s on the planning committee this year. It’s going to be spectacular.”
My mother turns to me, her smile widening. “You should go, Adam. It would be good for you to get out and socialize. It would take your mind off things.”
“I won’t be able to make it,” I say, my voice flat. “I have other plans for New Year’s.”
“What plans?” My mother demands, skepticism clear in her tone.
“Just plans,” I reply, holding her gaze steadily.
My father clears his throat. “Paula,” he says, his voice unusually firm, “let the boy have his own plans. He’s thirty years old, for God’s sake.”
My mother whips around to face him, her eyes widening in surprise. “I’m simply suggesting—”
“You’re not suggesting,” my father interrupts. “You’re manipulating. As usual.”
The room goes silent. No one ever speaks to my mother this way, least of all my father. Rhonda looks scandalized. Hailey’s mouth hangs open. Lauren and Jake exchange startled glances.
“Gerald,” my mother says, her voice dangerously soft, “this is hardly the time or place—”
“It’s Christmas, Paula,” he continues, his tone weary. “Our son is here for Christmas dinner. Can’t we just enjoy that without trying to force him into a relationship he clearly doesn’t want?”
I stare at my father, stunned. Where is this coming from? This isn’t the passive, agreeable man I’ve known all my life. This is someone with a backbone, someone willing to stand up to my mother’s schemes.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you today,” my mother says, her face flushing. “But I would appreciate if you would stop embarrassing me in front of our guests.”
“And I would appreciate if you would stop trying to control our children’s lives,” my father returns, his voice rising slightly. “Look around, Paula. Look at their faces. They’re miserable. Is that what you want for Christmas? For everyone to be miserable but obedient?”
My mother’s mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. She looks genuinely shocked, as if she can’t comprehend this rebellion from the husband who has always acquiesced to her every whim.
The tension stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until Rhonda lets out a nervous laugh. “Well,” she says, her voice artificially bright, “I think we could all use some more Christmas cheer. More wine, anyone?”
My mother seems to snap back to herself, her hostess mask sliding into place. “Actually,” she says, straightening her shoulders, “dinner is ready. Shall we move to the dining room?”
Everyone rises, grateful for the excuse to break the awkward tableau. As we file toward the dining room, my father falls into step beside me.
“Dad,” I start, not even sure what I want to ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “Later,” he says, his voice low. “We’ll talk later.”
I nod, mystified but grateful. Whatever has prompted my father’s sudden change, it’s bought me a reprieve from Millie’s attention and my mother’s machinations. For now, that’s enough.
In the dining room, the table gleams with her best china and silver, candles flickering in the centerpiece, another perfect Paula Kelley production.
As we take our seats, me safely between Lauren and my father, Millie across the table between her mother and mine, I catch Lauren’s eye.
“Interesting development,” she whispers, nodding toward our father.
“Very,” I agree, still puzzled.
But there’s no time to discuss it further as my mother calls for everyone’s attention, raising her glass in what is sure to be the first of many toasts this evening.
I lift my glass automatically, my mind already miles away, thinking of Oregon, of Caitlin, of the life waiting for me once I break free of this one.
I wish I could say that the drama of the day was over and we all enjoyed a nice Christmas dinner together. Unfortunately, my mother just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie.