Chapter 3
BECCA
November turned the page to December, and the air went from crisp to biting.
Huntley was still texting.
He’d always been persistent. Once he set his eyes on something, he usually got it—deals, promotions, the best table at the newest restaurant. I was supposed to feel flattered he wanted me back.
But I wasn’t stupid.
Climbing ladders—both corporate and social—was his sport.
I might have looked the part beside him, but I was more about quiet nights by the gas fireplace, green tea and honey, a soft blanket, and maybe a book.
I liked antique markets and thrifting for things with a little history.
Huntley needed everything modern, sleek, and showroom-perfect.
We’d never work, and I knew it.
So the Hallmark Christmas Channel and a steaming mug of cocoa became my new Friday night date. Sometimes Stanley even joined me, curling into my lap and snoring softly while we watched small towns fall in love on TV.
Caroline kept teasing me about my “fake mountain man boyfriend.”
“If only I could write him into my life story,” I’d told her once.
Then, on a random Monday in mid-December, my boss emailed to request a Zoom meeting—with HR.
Laid off. At Christmas.
I never saw it coming. Something about the Eastern market, automation, AI being “more efficient for the company’s bottom line.” All I heard was that I was being sacked right before the holidays.
That afternoon, Huntley’s persistence almost cracked me.
His latest text sat open on my phone: Meet me for drinks tonight. Let’s talk.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
I was at a low point.
And that was exactly when men like Huntley were the most dangerous.
The next morning, I was still in pajamas at ten, sipping tea and scrolling job boards when my phone lit up. Mom.
“Staying home again?” she asked the second I answered. “When are you bringing Stanley back?”
I groaned. “I can’t let life turn me into this, Mom. I’m only thirty-two.”
“And your clock—”
“Don’t say it.”
She huffed, then her tone softened. “I’m worried about Aunt Margie. She’s hardly visited since your father passed three years ago. She’s getting older, and I invited her for the holidays, but she refused again.”
“Maybe it’s because you have a boyfriend now, Mom,” I said gently, “and she can’t get over the fact you’re moving on from Dad.”
“But don’t I deserve happiness?” she asked quietly. “Old age is not the time to be alone.”
I bit my lip. She wasn’t wrong.
After we hung up, I sat there staring at my mug. Aunt Margie lived just outside Pigeon Forge, up in the Smoky Mountain range. Google put it at about four hours away—weather permitting.
A thought started to form.
If I went to see her, maybe I could nudge her back toward family for the holidays. And—purely coincidentally, of course—I could post a few snowy mountain pics to my socials.
Because Huntley’s best friend’s wife—someone I used to actually like—had invited me to their annual holiday party, making a point to ask if I’d be “bringing my new mountain man.”
I’d never go. Obviously, she was fishing for gossip, trying to see if he was real.
But maybe, just maybe… I could make him look real enough to I stared at my phone for a good ten minutes before finally scrolling to Aunt Margie and hitting call.
She picked up on the second ring. “Becca? Well, this is a surprise.”
We fell into easy small talk—weather, holiday plans, the way Stanley still tried to steal the tree ornaments. She asked about work, and I hesitated just long enough for her to notice.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
So I told her.
About losing my job. About Huntley’s sudden reappearance and all the ways he’d tried to wiggle back in. About how I’d been feeling… stuck.
“I don’t know, Aunt Margie,” I said. “Maybe I need a change of pace, too. Something to shake off the mundane routine.”
There was a pause, then her warm, steady voice.
“Sounds to me like we both need a little holiday cheer. And you know where to find it. My town goes full out and there’s plenty of snow.
Truthfully, I’ve been a bit down since my boyfriend Steve, passed away eighteen months ago.
Your father a few years before that… It’s been hard. ”
“Would it be okay if I drove up? Just for a few days?”
“You’re always welcome here,” she said without hesitation. “The mountains are beautiful this time of year. Peaceful, too. I could use some company.”
Peaceful sounded like exactly what I needed.
We chatted a little longer—her garden, the neighbor’s ridiculous inflatable reindeer—before hanging up.
I sat there for a minute, phone in hand, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
Tomorrow, I’d pack up my car. Stanley would go back to Mom. I’d bring along the senior center’s care packages to drop off on the way, and maybe… just maybe… I’d find that change I was looking for.
I hit the local dollar store first, clearing them out of every roll of garland, tinsel, and sparkly snowflake ornament they had. Two aisles later, I tossed in half a dozen tabletop trees—three white, two green, and one that lit up like a disco ball.
When I dropped Stanley off at Mom’s, I raided her attic for the rest—boxes of old lights, the hand-knit stockings from my childhood, even the battered plastic reindeer Dad used to stick on the porch roof. Mom just shook her head, smiling.
By the time I packed the car, it looked like I was hauling Santa’s garage sale. Tinsel peeked out of every bag, the little trees rattled in their boxes, and the reindeer’s antlers kept poking me in the arm when I reached for my coffee.
As the final touch, I pulled on an ugly Christmas sweater I’d found in the back of my closet. Bright red, too many sequins, and a giant felt reindeer head across the front. It was ridiculous. Which was exactly the point.
If Aunt Margie wasn’t feeling the holidays now, she would after I was done.
Christmas music was blasting through my speakers—Mariah at full power—while I sipped my ten-dollar holiday drink from my favorite drive-thru barista. Peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream. Worth every penny.
The heater in my little Prius was purring, my sweater was cozy, and tinsel peeked at me from the back seat every time I glanced in the rearview.
The higher I climbed into the mountains, the more the road wound like a ribbon. Snow started falling in fat, lazy flakes, dusting the trees and guardrails. It was beautiful. Magical, even.
Not that I was nervous. Not yet.
Aunt Margie’s house was so close I could practically smell her cinnamon rolls.
Then the defroster kicked into overdrive. The wipers swiped frantically. My dashboard lit up like it was auditioning for a Vegas stage show, and the hum of the heater dropped a note.
The climb was getting steeper, and my car was struggling. I hadn’t realized just how much the cold and the incline could drain the battery on an electric car. Rookie mistake.
I muttered, “Come on, just a little farther…”
That’s when a squirrel—fat, determined, and carrying a whole walnut in its mouth—darted across the road.
On instinct, I slammed the brakes.
The tires skidded. The car spun once, twice—white swirling all around me—and then came the sickening thud as I plowed into a bank of snow.
Everything went still except the sound of my own heartbeat.