Chapter 9
Wren
Iwake up to the sound of hard knocking and the realization that I'm using a half-naked man as a pillow. A grumpy, warm, surprisingly comfortable man who's currently making disgruntled noises at whoever's trying to break down my front door.
"Go away," Holden mumbles into my hair. "We're dead. The blizzard killed us."
"The dead don't knock back," I point out, reluctantly extracting myself from his warmth.
"Maybe it's zombie neighbors. Very polite zombie neighbors who respect boundaries," he suggests, pulling me back down.
The knocking intensifies, now accompanied by Finn's voice: "I know you're in there! Your terrible rug is visible through the window!"
"My rug is not visible from outside," I protest, then realize what that means. "Oh god, the power's back on."
"And the blinds are electric," Holden adds, suddenly very awake. "And they're probably open."
We both freeze, processing the implications. Then we're scrambling for clothes like teenagers whose parents just came home early.
"Where's my sweater?" I hiss, grabbing what turns out to be Santa's judgmental face.
"Which one? You were wearing the entire sweater section of Target," Holden reminds me, hopping on one foot while trying to put on pants that might be inside out.
"The top one! Or bottom one! Any one that doesn't have googly eyes," I specify, throwing clothing around frantically.
"WREN!" Finn's voice carries through the door. "I can hear you doing the walk of shame shuffle! Open up!"
"It's not a walk of shame if I'm in my own apartment," I yell back, finally finding something that passes for decent coverage.
"It is when the whole town saw your silhouettes last night," June's voice adds helpfully. "Very artistic shadows, by the way. Like a Christmas card gone wrong."
"The whole town?" I squeak, looking at Holden in horror.
He's managed to get dressed, though his shirt is definitely backwards, and he's wearing one of my socks with candy canes on it. "How many people exactly?"
"Well, there was me, June, Giuseppe, three members of the Christmas Committee, and Mrs. Chang with her binoculars," Finn lists cheerfully through the door.
"Why does Mrs. Chang have binoculars?" Holden asks, still struggling with his shirt.
"Birdwatching," I explain weakly, finally opening the door.
Finn, June, and, inexplicably, Giuseppe crowd into my apartment, bringing cold air and the judgment of the entire town with them.
"Birdwatching," Finn repeats, grinning wickedly.
"Some rare species appeared last night," June adds, already taking mental notes. "The Tangled Lovers, I believe. Very rare in Vermont."
"We were conserving heat," I say with as much dignity as possible while wearing a sweater inside out.
"Is that what we're calling it?" Giuseppe asks innocently, his hands gesturing wildly. "Because from my restaurant, it looked like you were creating heat. Much heat. Passionate heat!"
"Your restaurant is six blocks away," Holden points out, finally getting his shirt the right way around.
"I have expert eyes," Giuseppe says proudly. "Eagle eyes! Romance-detecting eyes!"
"Everyone needs to stop having eyes," I declare, sinking onto my couch.
"Too late for that," Finn says cheerfully, making himself at home in my kitchen. "The whole town's talking. Delia's called an emergency committee meeting."
"Emergency?" Holden asks, sitting beside me. "Is it a committee thing?"
"Everything's a committee thing," June explains while pulling out her notebook. "So, how would you describe last night's activities? For the record."
"For the newspaper?" I ask, horrified.
"For posterity. And yes, the newspaper. 'Local Toy Shop Owner Finds Warmth in Blizzard' has a nice ring to it," she muses, tapping her pen.
"That's terrible," I tell her.
"How about 'Frozen Assets Become Liquid'’" she tries.
"That doesn't even make sense," Holden protests.
"'Cold Snap Leads to Hot Night'?" Giuseppe suggests, waggling his eyebrows.
"Stop helping," I beg.
"'The Grump Who Stole Christmas Gets His Heart Back'?" Finn offers from where he's raiding my refrigerator.
"I'm not that grumpy," Holden defends himself.
We all look at him.
"I'm appropriately grumpy," he amends.
"You have resting grump face," I inform him. "It's like resting bitch face but more seasonal."
"Seasonal grump face," June writes it down. "I like it."
"Why are you all here?" I ask desperately. "Don't you have lives? Jobs? Literally anything else to do?"
"This is more interesting," Finn says, emerging with my last yogurt. "Plus, Delia sent us to fetch you. Committee meeting in twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?" I yelp, jumping up. "I need to shower! And find clothes that aren't inside out! And possibly flee to Canada!"
"Canada's also having a blizzard," June informs me helpfully. "I checked for you."
"You checked Canada's weather for my potential escape?" I ask.
"I'm a good friend," she says simply.
"I'm keeping the shop closed today," I announce, making an executive decision. "Mental health day."
"You mean physical health day," Giuseppe winks. "Much physical activity! Very athletic!"
"Giuseppe, please stop," Holden requests, rubbing his temples.
"I'm Italian! We celebrate passion!" Giuseppe declares, throwing his arms wide.
"You're from New Jersey," Finn points out.
"I'm spiritually Italian," Giuseppe insists, hand over his heart.
My phone buzzes with approximately thirty-seven messages, all variations of "saw your shadows" and "get it, girl" and one from Delia that just says, "Committee. Now. Bring the boy."
"The boy?" Holden reads over my shoulder. "I'm thirty-two."
"To Delia, anyone under fifty is a child," I explain, then notice everyone staring at us. "What?"
"You're sitting very close," June observes, scribbling.
"It's a small couch," I defend.
"It's a three-seater," Finn points out.
I look down and realize I'm practically in Holden's lap. When did that happen?
"Habit," I mutter, scooting away slightly.
"After one night? Fast habits," June notes with raised eyebrows.
"We should go to this committee meeting," Holden says, standing abruptly. "Get it over with."
"You can't go like that," I inform him.
"Why not?" he asks, looking down at himself.
"Your shirt's still got a tag sticking out, you're wearing one of my socks, and you have what appears to be my lipstick on your neck," I list.
He touches his neck, and his hand comes away pink. "This is glittery."
"It's festive lipstick," I defend. "'Candy Cane Dreams' by—not important."
"Very important," June disagrees, writing furiously. "'Local Businessman Wears Candy Cane Dreams' is a great headline."
"I'm not a businessman," Holden protests.
"What are you then?" Finn asks innocently.
The room goes quiet. Even Giuseppe stops winking.
"I'm... between things," Holden says carefully.
"What things?" June presses.
"Past things and future things," he answers vaguely.
"That's not an answer," Finn points out.
"It's an existential answer," I defend, though I'm curious too. "Very philosophical."
"Speaking of philosophy," Holden redirects, "shouldn't we head to this meeting?"
"You still need to change," I remind him.
"Right. I'll just..." he gestures vaguely toward the door.
"Your clothes are here," Finn points out helpfully. "All over the floor. Like breadcrumbs of passion."
"Please never say 'breadcrumbs of passion' again," I beg.
"Passion crumbs?" Giuseppe tries.
"Worse," Holden and I say together, then look at each other.
"You're already talking in sync," June observes. "That's either very sweet or very concerning."
"Why would it be concerning?" I ask.
"Couple brain. Very contagious. Soon you'll be finishing each other's—"
"Sandwiches," Holden interrupts.
"Sentences," I correct, then realize what we just did. "Oh, God."
"Stage two already," Finn diagnoses solemnly. "By Christmas, you'll be wearing matching sweaters unironically."
"Never," Holden says firmly.
"I have two matching sweaters over here," I confess as I pull them out.
He looks at me in horror. "Why?"
"They were on sale. Buy one, get one free. I panicked," I explain.
"You panic-bought matching Christmas sweaters?" he asks incredulously.
"The reindeer had little bells!" I defend myself.
"The reindeer made you do it," June writes it down. "Sure."
"This is why I need committee approval to shop," I mutter.
"There's a shopping committee?" Holden asks.
"There's a committee for everything," everyone says simultaneously.
"That's creepy," he observes.
"That's Snowfall Creek," I correct.
Fifteen minutes later, we're dressed in weather-appropriate, correctly oriented clothing, trudging through the snow toward what I can only assume is my public shaming.
"It won't be that bad," Holden says, taking my gloved hand.
"Delia once made a PowerPoint about someone's incorrect pruning technique. It had thirty-one slides and a musical score," I inform him.
"For pruning?" he asks incredulously.
"She takes gardening seriously," I explain.
"What does she do with actual serious things?" he wonders.
"Nuclear-level response," Finn supplies from behind us. "Remember the great parking violation of 2021?"
"We don't talk about that," June and I chorus.
"Why not?" Holden asks.
"Legal reasons," I say vaguely.
We arrive at the community center to find what appears to be the entire town assembled. There's actually a projector set up.
"She made another PowerPoint," I whisper in horror.
"About us?" Holden asks.
"About your shadows," Teddy calls out cheerfully from his seat. "Very artistic interpretation!"
"Please tell me she didn't—" I start.
The first slide appears: "Inappropriate Shadow Puppets: A Crisis of Public Decency."
"She did," I finish weakly.
"Is that supposed to be us?" Holden asks, squinting at the blurry photo.
"That's either you two or an interpretive dance," Finn observes.
"Very passionate interpretive dance," Giuseppe adds with enthusiasm.
"Can we please stop saying passionate?" I beg.
"Would you prefer 'ardent'?" Delia asks from the podium. "Fervent? Amorous?"
"I'd prefer death," I mutter.
"That can be arranged," Delia says pleasantly. "Now then, shall we discuss the committee's concerns about your very public display of... enthusiasm?"
Holden leans over to whisper, "How long is this going to take?"
"The pruning presentation was two hours," I whisper back.
"For pruning?" he repeats, horrified.
"Welcome to Snowfall Creek," I say, patting his hand. "Where everything's a committee matter and privacy is just a suggestion."
The second slide appears: "Timeline of Corruption."
"Corruption seems like a strong word," Holden protests.
"Would you prefer 'Timeline of Moral Flexibility'?" Delia offers.
"How is that better?" I ask.
"It's more accurate," she says, clicking to the next slide.
It's a photo of us from Giuseppe's, kissing.
"That's private!" I protest, standing up.
"It's in a public restaurant," Delia counters calmly.
"With windows," June adds.
"Large windows," Giuseppe confirms proudly. "I clean them myself! Very transparent! Good for viewing!"
"This is insane," Holden mutters beside me.
"This is Tuesday," I correct, pulling him back down. "Wait until you see what happens on Thursdays."
"What happens on Thursdays?" he asks warily.
"Bingo night," everyone says together.
Holden looks at me. "I'm starting to understand why you have so many contingency plans."
"Just wait," I promise. "It gets worse."
The next slide appears: "Recommendations for Appropriate Public Behavior."
"Oh good," I mutter. "Instructions."
But as Delia launches into her presentation, complete with charts about acceptable PDA levels and a scatter plot of "passion versus propriety," I feel Holden's hand squeeze mine under the table. His shoulders shake slightly—he's trying not to laugh.
And suddenly, it doesn't seem so bad. Sure, we're being publicly scolded for shadow puppetry we didn't know we were creating. Sure, the entire town is invested in our relationship. Sure, Delia has somehow created a mathematical formula for appropriate levels of winter canoodling.
But Holden's thumb is rubbing circles on my palm, and Giuseppe keeps giving us encouraging thumbs up, and even Delia's fighting a smile as she explains her theory of "thermal necessity versus wanton abandon."
This is my life now. Being lectured about shadows while holding hands with a man. A man who still hasn't explained his past or his too-soft hands or why he looks panicked every time his phone buzzes.
A man who made me forget about Section 3, subsection 2a of our very non-legal, very laminated contract.
"In conclusion," Delia says, reaching slide forty-three, "the committee recommends..."
She pauses for dramatic effect, and the entire room leans forward.
"More discrete blinds," she finishes.
The room erupts in laughter, and even Delia cracks a genuine smile.
"That's it?" I ask incredulously. "We sat through forty-three slides for 'get better blinds'?"
"Also, congratulations on finally acting like an actual couple," she adds, her expression softening. "Very lovely shadows. The loan committee will be impressed."
My stomach drops like I've missed a step. Right. The loan committee. The whole reason this started.
I look at Holden, who's studying the floor with sudden intensity, his hand still in mine but somehow feeling further away.
Because last night wasn't about the loan committee. Last night wasn't about convincing anyone or meeting contract requirements or saving my shop.
Last night was just us. And the way his hand tightens around mine tells me he knows it too—knows we've crossed a line we can't uncross, signed a different contract entirely, one that has nothing to do with lamination or contingency plans.
"Meeting adjourned," Delia announces, but her eyes stay on us, knowing and slightly sad, like she can see the beautiful mess we're about to make of everything.
The crowd disperses with chatter and laughter, but Holden and I stay seated, hands clasped, both afraid to move and break whatever spell we're under.
"We should probably talk," I say finally.
"Probably," he agrees, but neither of us moves.
Because talking means admitting what's happening between us. And admitting what's happening means either breaking the contract or breaking our hearts.
I'm starting to think we're going to do both.