Chapter Thirty-Six
Drew
Christmas Day
The lights from the tree were low and golden, the house finally quiet.
Callum and Lydia had gone upstairs in their house, Sally had passed out under an afghan on the couch, and it was just me and Melanie on the floor, backs against the sofa, a mess of wrapping paper and cookie crumbs around us.
It had been a great Christmas at my brother’s, but I could tell Mel and I didn’t want it to end.
The fire had burned down to a soft glow, and she traced a finger along the ink on my forearm, the small compass and a letter followed by a set of numbers.
“You never told me what these mean,” she said softly. “I figured maybe they were coordinates. Or a secret code for world domination.”
“Close,” I said, voice rough from laughter and something else. “They’re coordinates, kind of. Emotional geography.”
She tilted her head, waiting.
“They’re numbers from the old jukebox at The Rusty Stag,” I said. “The song selection. The one that got stuck on repeat that night.”
Her brows lifted, realization dawning. “That night?”
I nodded, smiling. “B769. Sinatra, ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’ It kept looping, remember? You were mad at it. I was mad at it. And then you kissed me anyway.”
Melanie’s eyes softened. “That song’s been following us ever since.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It felt right to mark it. Every compass points somewhere, right? That one points to you. To the moment I stopped pretending you weren’t it for me.”
For a second, neither of us spoke. The fire cracked softly, the air smelled like cinnamon and pine, and she leaned closer until her forehead brushed mine.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.
“Probably,” I said. “But it’s permanent.”
She smiled against my mouth as she kissed me—slow, sure, and just long enough for the song to start again in my head, looping like it always did.
She drew back first, her lips still close enough that her breath brushed mine. “You got a permanent reminder of me,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That’s dangerous, Benedict. What if I’d been a holiday fling?”
I tipped my head toward the tree, where the lights blinked like they were in on the joke. “Then I’d have one hell of a Christmas ghost story.”
She laughed, that soft, breathy sound that always hits low in my chest. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”
“Guess I am.” I slid a thumb along her cheekbone. “Worst fate imaginable.”
Her eyes rolled, but her smile stayed. The fire cracked, Sally snored gently on the couch, and the whole house seemed to breathe with us, warm and sleepy. Outside, snow feathered against the windowpanes, turning the glass to gold.
Melanie leaned into my shoulder, her voice drowsy. “You really never told anyone about the tattoo?”
“Callum thought it was a compass to locate my better judgment, but whenever I looked at the compass, it reminded me of you. You’re my center.”
That line hit me harder than I expected.
We sat for a while, not talking, just listening to the soft rhythm of the fire. Her fingers traced idle circles on my forearm, brushing the ink, and the rest of the world folded itself small and far away.
Finally, she stirred. “You ever think about next year?”
I tilted my head. “Next Christmas?”
“Next everything,” she said. “Where we’ll be. What we’ll be doing.” Her eyes flicked up to mine, curious but careful, like she wasn’t sure if she was stepping over some invisible line.
“Yeah,” I said, after a moment. “More than I used to.”
“And?”
“And I picture us,” I said simply. “Same mess. Same music. Maybe fewer burnt cookies.”
“Don’t insult my baking. It’s a Christmas miracle you even got cookies.”
“I like miracles,” I said. “Especially loud ones who steal my flannel shirts.”
She nudged my knee with hers. “You love my chaos.”
“I do,” I said, and I meant it more than I could ever make sound casual. “I love the way you fill up a room. The way you complain about the playlist and then hum along anyway.”
Her smile softened. “That’s my charm.”
“It’s working.”
She looked at me for a long moment, eyes shining from the tree lights, and said, “I think I want more of this.”
“Of what?”
“Us. The quiet parts. The stupid parts. The way your hand fits behind my neck when you kiss me.” Her voice dropped. “The way you make this feel like home.”
I swallowed hard, trying for a joke but finding none. “Then we’ll make more of it.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
The wind brushed the windows, the kind of soft whistle that sounds like a sigh. Melanie shifted again, curling up so her head rested against my chest. I could feel the steady weight of her, the calm I never saw coming, and something deep in me just… settled.
She murmured, “Sally’s going to wake up and tell everyone we were cuddling on the floor like teenagers.”
“Then we’ll deny everything.”
“Bold strategy. There’s photographic evidence from her phone in three… two…”
We both glanced up. Sally hadn’t moved, but her phone was tilted our way, the camera light winking faintly.
“False alarm,” I whispered. “She’s out cold.”
Melanie giggled into my shirt. “You’re paranoid.”
“I’ve met your mother.”
“She likes you.”
“She terrifies me.”
Melanie smiled against me. “That’s how you know she approves.”
The fire shifted, dropping to embers. I reached for the blanket, pulled it around us, and tucked her in closer. She sighed, content.
“I’m serious, though,” she said after a moment. “Next year. You think about what you want?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I want to fix up that old deck at the bar. Expand the patio for summer. Maybe start doing live music again—local bands, the good kind, the ones who sound a little rough but mean it.”
“I like that,” she said softly. “And I could help decorate. Add plants.”
“Real ones?”
“Real ones,” she said, yawning. “I can keep them alive this time.”
“Sure you can.”
“I can,” she insisted, elbowing me weakly. “And maybe if you play your cards right, I’ll even move to Reckless.”
“What?” My heart skipped a beat.
“It could be the mulled cider.” Her laughter was sleepy now, the sound of someone halfway to dreaming.
The silence that followed was soft and good. The kind of silence that hums with possibility. I could almost see it…next Christmas, maybe this same house, maybe somewhere new. Her mom telling stories, Lydia and Callum new parents…
She looked up at me again, eyes heavy but clear. “Play it for me tomorrow,” she said.
“What?”
“The song. At the Stag. I want to dance to it again.”
I smiled. “It’s stuck in the machine, Mel. It’ll play whether I want it to or not once I take out the Christmas selection.”
“Good,” she said, closing her eyes. “Then we’ll always find it.”
Her breathing slowed. I brushed a strand of hair from her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Merry Christmas, Mel.”
She murmured something I barely caught. “Merry compass, Drew.”
I chuckled softly, but it stuck in my throat, tangled with something tender. She was already asleep, hand curled loosely around my arm where the tattoo glinted faintly in the firelight.
For a long time, I just sat there, listening to the old house breathe and the snow fall.
The numbers on my arm caught the light, the ink dark and steady.
I remembered the jukebox, the night it broke, the way her laughter filled the empty bar.
I hadn’t known then what direction I was facing, only that she was in it.
Now, sitting here with her head on my chest and the fire giving up its last ember, I did.
I knew exactly where I was going. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic future.
It was just one full of small things that meant something.
Coffee and laughter. Music and home. The quiet certainty of knowing who to reach for when the lights went out.
I tightened the blanket around her and leaned my head against the sofa, letting the glow of the tree paint the room in soft, forgiving color.
And I realized this was where my life had led me, and I couldn’t wait to see what was next.
If love’s a compass, mine stopped spinning the night she kissed me in front of a broken jukebox. Everything since had just been finding my way back to her, one song at a time.