Chapter Twenty-Eight
Drew
It was late, the kind of late when the tavern lights start to buzz and the world outside goes soft with snow. I’d sent the last of the customers home an hour ago. Now, it was just me, a broom, and the ghost of a good mood I’d lost somewhere between Reckless River and Seattle.
The Rusty Stag always felt different after closing.
It was quiet in a way that made every thought echo louder than it should.
I stacked stools on tables, wiped down the counters, and tried not to think about the fact that the one person I wanted to see most was probably sitting three hundred miles away, convincing herself that she’d done the right thing.
I should’ve known better.
Hell, I did know better.
This was how she worked. She’d stop showing up. She’d stop answering texts. She’d just stop.
And yet, like an idiot, I’d believed this time would be different. That Melanie would show up. That she’d see Reckless River again, see me again, and realize maybe she didn’t have to keep running.
But here I was, closing down the bar alone, humming into the empty room because if I didn’t, the silence might just drown me.
I flipped on the old jukebox in the corner. It sputtered to life, lights blinking weakly until Elvis’s voice filled the space, smooth and melancholy.
I’ll have a Blue Christmas without you…
I laughed under my breath. “You said it, King.”
It was too on-the-nose, but I didn’t change it.
Instead, I sang along, badly, my voice bouncing off the walls. If anyone walked in, I’d have died of embarrassment, but the odds of that were low. Reckless River rolled up its sidewalks after ten.
I grabbed the broom and danced it across the floor like an old partner.
And when those blue snowflakes start fallin’…
“You and me both, Elvis,” I muttered, sweeping around the tables.
The truth was, I didn’t even blame her. Not really. Melanie was a city girl through and through. She thrived on chaos, noise, people—things Reckless River didn’t have unless you counted the Christmas bazaar or the occasional moose sighting.
I’d known what I was signing up for.
A woman who could make me laugh so hard my ribs hurt and vanish the next day without warning.
We’d had our rhythm: a few weeks of texts, a few months of silence, and every now and then, a night that reminded me why I put myself through it.
She was wildfire and warning labels, and I was the idiot who kept standing too close.
But this time, I truly thought it was different.
Maybe it was the holidays or the fact that I was going to be an uncle.
But I’d let myself hope. That was the stupid part.
When she said she was coming up this weekend, I’d actually believed her. I’d cleaned the cabin, changed the sheets, even stocked her favorite coffee—the fancy city stuff that came in bags with words like aromatic notes and handcrafted roast.
Now it was all just sitting back at home, mocking me.
I leaned the broom against the bar and poured myself a small shot of bourbon. The good kind, the one I usually saved for celebration nights. I stared at it for a second, then lifted it in a half-hearted toast to no one.
“To my impeccable judgment,” I said, and downed it in one swallow.
The burn went down smooth, but it didn’t warm me.
“Maybe next time you’ll learn,” I muttered.
But the truth was, I wouldn’t. Not when it came to her.
Because no matter how many times Melanie ghosted me, one look from her, one laugh, one sarcastic comment, one tiny smirk that said she was fighting not to smile, always pulled me right back in.
I could still see her in my head, barefoot in her kitchen, hair a mess, wearing my shirt and pretending it wasn’t on purpose. The way she’d smiled up at me when she’d said I’ll be there this weekend.
I’d believed her.
That was on me.
I picked up another chair, flipped it onto a table, and whistled along with the song, my voice cracking on the high notes.
I’ll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas…
“Guess so,” I said, shaking my head.
The door to the kitchen swung slightly in the draft, creaking just enough to sound like footsteps. For half a second, my heart jumped with ridiculous hope flashing through me. Maybe she’d surprise me after all.
But when the door stayed still, the hope fizzled out just as quick.
“Pathetic,” I told myself. “You’ve officially lost it.”
The jukebox clicked as the song ended, rolling into another slow one, something about being home for Christmas. I turned the volume down a notch, suddenly too aware of how empty the place felt.
I finished the rest of my closing routine on autopilot, counting the till, wiping down the counter, and straightening the stools. My hands moved through it automatically, but my mind was still stuck on that phone call.
The way her voice had sounded…nervous, hesitant.
The way I’d wanted so badly to believe her, even when everything in me screamed not to.
I’d told her I wasn’t mad, but maybe I was. Not at her exactly—at myself. For letting the same pattern hurt in new ways. For being the guy who always waited.
Still, even through the frustration, I couldn’t shake the worry. She’d sounded off. Frazzled. And I’d brushed it off like it was just another excuse. What if it wasn’t?
“Don’t do that,” I muttered. “Don’t start hoping again.”
But hope was the worst habit I had.
I walked to the window and looked out at Main Street.
Snow was falling now with slow, steady flakes swirling under the glow of the streetlights.
Across the way, the Christmas decorations Lydia had bullied the town into putting up were still twinkling: wreaths on lampposts, garland over shop doors, a giant red bow on the bakery’s sign.
The world looked perfect. Picture-postcard perfect.
And somehow, I’d never felt lonelier.
I rubbed the back of my neck, exhaled, and whispered to the empty room, “Guess it’s just you and me again, Stag.”
The jukebox clicked again, cycling to another Elvis tune, one even sadder than the last.
I laughed bitterly. “Oh, come on, man. Twist the knife, why don’t you.”
I didn’t turn it off.
Instead, I leaned against the bar, listening as the voice crooned about missing someone who wasn’t coming home.
Outside, a truck rumbled past, the tires crunching against the snow. A couple walked by, bundled together, their laughter muffled through the glass. The sight tugged at something small and quiet inside me.
I’d always told myself I didn’t need that—didn’t need anyone. The bar was my life, Reckless River my home. But lately, it didn’t feel like enough.
Lately, I’d started imagining something different.
A kitchen light in the morning. A second mug on the counter. The sound of someone laughing from the other room.
And every time, it was her.
Melanie.
Even when she wasn’t here, she was everywhere. In the smell of coffee. In the echo of a sarcastic joke I wanted to tell her. In the way my chest ached when the day ended and I realized I still hadn’t stopped thinking about her.
I turned off the lights one by one until only the bar’s Christmas tree glowed in the corner, and the lights flickered above the boxes of booze I was counting.
“Blue Christmas,” I said under my breath, shaking my head. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Instead, I just stood there, staring at it, feeling stupidly hopeful again.
Because as much as I told myself it was over, as much as I promised I wouldn’t wait, some part of me still imagined the door opening, her voice cutting through the quiet, saying something sarcastic like, You’re really bad at phone calls, you know that?
But the door stayed closed.
The only sound was Elvis, singing low and sad.
You’ll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white…
The wind outside was howling like it had a grudge, and I was halfway through tallying inventory when the front door blew open hard enough to rattle the windows.
A gust tore through The Rusty Stag, whipping papers off the counter and sending a handful of cocktail napkins sailing like snowflakes across the floor.
I muttered a curse and went to shut it, but before I could reach the door, a familiar voice drifted through the cold.
“Miss me?”
I damn near tripped over a barstool.
There she was with hair tousled from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold, and that half-cocked grin that always made me forget how to breathe.
Melanie.
She was standing in my doorway like some kind of Christmas fever dream.
For a second, I just stared. I was half convinced the lack of sleep and too many Elvis songs had finally broken me.
“Melanie?”
“In the flesh,” she said, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind her. A fresh swirl of snowflakes came with her, melting on the floorboards. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Close enough.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “I—what the hell? How’d you get in here? I know I locked that door.”
She lifted a small silver key and dangled it between her fingers, the metal glinting in the low light. “Lydia gave me hers.”
I blinked. “Of course she did.”
She grinned wider, unapologetic. “She said if I changed my mind, I’d know where to find you.”
“That woman’s gonna be the death of me,” I muttered, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
Melanie glanced around the bar like she was reacquainting herself with it, her gaze lingering on the twinkle lights still strung above the shelves. The air between us crackled—warm, charged, dangerous. I took a step closer, still half in disbelief.
“You said your car was dead,” I said. “How’d you get up here?”
She brushed snow from her hair, giving me a sly look that made my heart trip. “Money talks.”
“Money talks,” I repeated slowly. “You bribed someone to drive you?”
“Technically, I paid someone for a same-day delivery service.”
“You made yourself sound like a package?”
She smirked. “If it gets me here, I’ll take the label.”
I stared at her, equal parts exasperated and awestruck. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
“Completely reckless.”