Chapter Thirty-Two
Drew
Hurt made me quiet in all the wrong places. My head roared and my mouth forgot how to speak.
I stacked glasses that didn’t need stacking and wiped the bar until it shone like a confession.
The stone was already clean. Didn’t matter.
My hands needed a task, and my brain needed a muzzle.
Every time I blinked, I saw Melanie’s mouth go tight…
polite, brittle, the kind of smile people use when they’re trying not to bleed in public.
If I hadn’t treated this place like a revolving door once upon a time, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
That was the loop: my greatest hits of idiocy.
Years of flirting for sport, mistaking kindness for connection, intimacy for timing.
I never lied, not really—but you can still leave wreckage without meaning to.
Then Melanie happened, and everything in me that used to reach by reflex just… stopped. I didn’t want the game anymore. I wanted the one person who made sarcasm sound like hope.
And then Janey walked in like the ghost of my bad reputation. Timing like a cruel joke. My past laminated, framed, and asking for hashbrowns right in front of the woman who made me want to grow up.
I told Melanie the truth. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t invite it. But truth doesn’t matter when the picture lies better than you can explain.
A gust rattled the windows. The snow outside thickened, erasing the edges of town. The Stag sat in that lull between the afternoon rush and whatever came next. Callum’s subtle warning—one loud clang of a pan that meant I’m here if you want to talk, but I won’t make you.
My phone chimed with a weather alert.
BLIZZARD WARNING. Roads closing by evening. Power outages likely.
Good. Something to do. Work was the only thing that didn’t argue.
I texted Lydia.
You setting up the center?
She wrote back.
Already here. Cots, blankets, batteries, cocoa. Bring muscle.
I smiled and texted.
On my way.
She answered with three hearts, a flexing arm, and a Santa hauling a generator. Classic Lydia.
Callum popped his head out from the kitchen. “That the bat signal?”
“Community center needs help.” I grabbed my coat from the peg. “You good to hold down here?”
“Yeah. Take the space heater and the cords. And Drew?”
I paused at the back door.
“I saw what you didn’t do,” he said simply. “For what it’s worth.”
My throat tightened. “Mel didn’t.”
“She will,” he said, no hesitation. “She’s mad at your past and herself. Give her a little time.”
“A blizzard’s more than a little time.”
“Then it’s the right amount,” he said.
Outside, the wind stung like penance. Snow swallowed Main Street, leaving two narrow ruts and ghosts of Christmas lights buried under white. I drove slow, the truck chains clinking a steady rhythm.
The community center’s windows glowed like a beacon through the storm. Inside, the place already buzzed with Lydia’s brand of controlled chaos.
“Look who decided to show up!” she called, clipboard in hand, sweater reading Sleigh the Day in glitter. “You’re my favorite Benedict—today.”
“Put it in writing,” I said, setting the heater down.
“After you move those cots. East wall, heads toward the stage. Blankets by size. Cocoa station by the outlets. And for the love of Christmas, if Mr. Halvorsen won’t wear his hat again, no cookies.”
“Copy that.”
Riley arrived next, arms full of hats and mittens. “Hey, Blue Christmas,” she said. “Here to brood or lift things?”
“Both,” I said.
“Perfect. I’m short one grumpy Santa.” She winked. “By the way, Melanie’s in the corner with Lydia tying bows like she’s personally strangling every ribbon in town. Just thought you’d want to know.”
My pulse stuttered. “Noted.”
The gym turned into a storm shelter in motion—volunteers hauling cots, teens unloading bottled water, Mrs. Mowley setting up a “comfort library” of dog-eared romance novels and worn mysteries. It smelled like cocoa, wet wool, and effort.
I focused on motion. Lift, carry, fix, repeat. The rhythm dulled the ache. I kept my head down and my hands busy until I couldn’t anymore.
Because there she was.
Melanie, in a gray sweater and red scarf, hair escaping from her hat, cheeks flushed from cold and work.
She stood by the folding table, helping Lydia stack cups near the cocoa station.
Every few minutes, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall again like it didn’t believe in resolve.
I told myself to focus on the extension cords. I even made it three full steps toward the wall before Riley appeared with a box of marshmallows and a smirk. “Maybe start by saying hi. Just an idea.”
“I’m busy.”
“Sure. With your emotional avoidance project.” She dropped the box in my hands. “Deliver these to the cocoa station, Braveheart.”
Traitor.
I crossed the gym, feeling her before she looked up.
Melanie saw me and immediately found something else to adjust—a mug, a napkin, her entire posture. Lydia caught the shift and gave me that warning look that said be careful with my friend or I’ll bury you under a snowbank.
I stopped beside the table. “Delivery.”
Melanie didn’t look up. “Riley said you’d bring marshmallows.”
“Yeah. Apparently I’m versatile.”
“Good for you,” she said, her tone sharp enough to slice a ribbon.
I set the box down and watched her tie another bow, this one a little too tight.
“That one didn’t deserve to die,” I said quietly.
Her hands stilled. “I’m working.”
“I can see that.”
“You should… go lift something.”
“Already did.”
She finally looked up, and the air between us crackled like static before a storm. Her eyes were tired, but not unkind, just full of all the words she didn’t trust herself to say.
I wanted to tell her I hadn’t lied, hadn’t slipped back into who I was. That she didn’t have to forgive me, just believe me. But Lydia swooped in before I could open my mouth.
“Hey,” she said, sliding between us with a smile too wide to be innocent. “Drew, cocoa needs refills. Mel, come help me with the sign-in table before I faint from stress.”
Melanie hesitated, then followed her toward the door, not looking back. I let her go, because she needed space and I needed to stop making things worse.
The hours blurred after that. The gym filled with families and noise and the hum of survival.
Lydia orchestrated like a general with a heart of gold.
Riley manned the cocoa station, keeping everyone sugared and laughing.
I worked the door and the generator, checking pipes, clearing snow off the back steps, hauling water, keeping people busy, warm, alive.
Each small task chipped away at the hurt.
Around four, Melanie passed me in the hallway with a stack of towels. She muttered a quiet “thanks” when I held the door open, and the way our shoulders brushed sent a jolt straight to my chest.
Later, I found her kneeling with two kids, helping them color Christmas trees on scrap paper, her hair falling forward as she laughed. For the first time since morning, I let myself smile.
When the power went out at seven, the room gasped, then cheered when the generator caught. The gym glowed amber under battery lanterns. Lydia sent me for cocoa refills, and as I passed the tables, a voice stopped me cold.
“Do you need more blankets?”
I turned.
Melanie stood in the doorway and her voice carried just enough warmth to sound like a peace offering.
Lydia, ever the instigator, pointed at me without turning around. “Ask the man pretending he isn’t thrilled you’re here.”
Melanie’s mouth curved, almost a smile, the kind that happens right before someone decides if they’ll fight or forgive.
“Do you need more blankets?” she asked again.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Yeah, I do.”
She didn’t look away.
Neither did I.