Chapter 7
SEVEN
As soon as I get back into my house and close the door behind me, I groan loudly with defeat.
My mind reels trying to fit in picking up Mr. O’Donnell’s grandson from the airport on Saturday morning, which I stupidly just offered to do, in with the million other things I have to do.
I mentally rearrange my calendar before texting Hallie to see if she can scoot the baking we were supposed to do on Saturday morning to Friday.
She’s in, but that means I need to finish the top piece of the quilt tonight, most likely.
I stupidly thought I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight, given that the exhaustion is starting to seep into my bones, but this changes my plans.
I eat dinner at my coffee table, finishing up the first trimester report cards, then get into my cozy clothes before heading up to my office to sew.
It might be the fact that I’m stressed and tired, but as I cut the squares for the quilt, my mind moves to my grandmother teaching me how to make fabric blocks for quilted stockings we made for the whole family when I was nine.
My heart gets that familiar heaviness at the memory, something that’s been happening more and more since the holiday decorations started to go up.
This was her favorite time of year, and everything reminds me of her.
She took the town decorating and the holiday festival seriously, which is why I have taken on so many of those responsibilities myself, knowing no one else would prioritize them the way I would.
I’m determined to make this the best year yet, determined to honor and memorialize her in this special way.
As I’ve done since she passed in February, I push that grief back, filling in the void with more tireless work. Keeping myself busy is the best way to fight back against the gloom of losing her.
It’s not too late when the first yawn happens, and the cup of coffee I made myself is barely taking the edge off.
At around ten, the light across the way flicks on.
My head lifts, remembering Adam telling me he could see me working at night.
Adam enters the room, and I can’t see much of it, but I watch as he moves through it before sitting at a desk that faces the window.
When his head turns in my direction, I quickly tip mine down, returning to my task at hand with a fervor.
An embarrassed flush burns my cheeks, and I hope he can’t see it.
In the meantime, I simply pretend I’ve been hard at work nonstop.
After a while, though, I get the nerve to look up again.
When I do, I see he’s staring at me. Not just staring—he waves at me when he sees me looking back at him.
I give him a half-hearted lift of my hand before moving back to my work.
Ten minutes or so later, I lose the battle of will and look up again.
He must see the shift in my movement, because he looks up, too.
I try not to think about what that means, that he was that aware of my movement.
But when he lifts a finger and presses something against the window, I lose that train of thought.
Instead, I focus on the white piece of paper with dark, messy writing scrawled across it.
Go to bed.
I roll my eyes at him, then reach for a dark marker of my own and a piece of scrap paper.
You first.
I lift an eyebrow at him, and even though my eyes are tired, I catch him smiling just a bit.
Then he shrugs and stands, turning off the light and walking away.
I sigh and go back to my project, but guilt wraps around my insides.
When I look at my phone, I see it’s 12:40 a.m. My personal limit is one o’clock, but…
how much could I really get done in twenty more minutes?
And I am tired, which makes everything take longer.
I’d be much more efficient with more sleep.
And Adam went to bed as soon as I said I would if he did first.
Not that that matters.
Still, I wrap up what I’m doing, neatening up the area quickly before turning off the light in my office and heading to bed a bit earlier than usual.
The next morning, I dig through the box of extra decorations and gasp excitedly when I spot the box of unbreakable ornaments.
On my way out the door, I hang them on the small bush outside Adam’s house before heading to my car.
As I reach for the driver’s side door, he steps out onto his porch, taking in my handiwork with a small smirk on his lips.
I remember what he told me about his keeping the decorations up being a selfish action, and warmth fills my belly against my will.
When his gaze moves to me, he lifts an eyebrow.
I give him a sassy little wave, then get in my car and drive off, grinning the whole drive to school.
Work is a bit easier than the day before, with no one biting anyone else and no parents emailing or calling me with complaints, thankfully.
When I get home, I open the front door, push it open with my shoulder, and toss my bags onto the couch, but pause when I see something on the floor.
Closing the door behind me, I bend to grab it before standing and unfolding the paper.
It’s a plain piece of computer paper with magazine clippings of letters writing out a message and a Polaroid picture glued to the bottom half of the paper.
A photo with a figure I instantly recognize.
My nutcracker.
Fulfill our demands or the nutcracker gets it, the paper reads. The photo is a Polaroid of my pastel-colored nutcracker with the town newspaper with today’s headlines in front of it.
I can’t help it: I giggle.
I giggle. This man has stolen my property and is threatening to damage it, and I’m giggling. And planning what kind of decorations I can put on his lawn next.
Maybe the sleep deprivation is truly getting to me. My mind drifts to his insistence that I take care of myself, and the humor seeps out of my body.
He said I work to make everyone’s holiday magical but have no time to enjoy it myself, and for a split second, the tiniest hint of frustration I hadn’t realized had been locked away flares to life.
For a moment, I question if he’s not right, if I’m doing this for everyone else at the expense of my own happiness.
But I quickly lock that thought away and throw away the key.
What does he know? I take care of myself just fine and am enjoying myself.
I enjoy helping out those around me, especially during a busy, stressful season like Christmas.
Who cares if I’m a bit tired and have slightly less free time in December if it means everyone around me has the most magical holiday season possible?
My mind once again drifts to my grandmother and the dozens upon dozens of memories I have of her pitching in to help out around town.
“It’s important we all do what we can, especially this time of year,” I remember her telling me when we were wrapping up gifts for the toy drive late one night.
I was probably twelve at the time, and I was staying at her house to help prepare the finishing touches for the holiday festival that she had been planning for as long as I could remember.
“But you’re doing all the work, Grandma,” I had said.
She shook her head and gave me a soft, patient smile. “No, sweet girl. I’m doing what I can. I’m happy to give a little extra time to those I care about. It makes me happy. It makes those around me happy. Can’t see any reason not to do it, if that’s the outcome.”
I’ve always taken that to heart, helping everyone and anyone, often before they even ask for help.
Adam wouldn’t know community and cheer if it slapped him in the face. Of course, he wouldn’t see the value in sacrificing a little sleep for that.
At eleven thirty p.m., I’m pinning together quilt blocks when I feel eyes on me and look up, catching Adam staring at me across the way.
A blush burns over me, and I become self-conscious, thinking of him looking at me, so I keep my head down for a full ten minutes, refusing to let myself look up.
When I finally let myself glance up, his head is down, but it lifts as if he was watching for me.
He points at a piece of paper taped to the window.
Go to bed.
I can’t tell if it’s the same one from last night, but I shake my head at him and wave a hand at him before starting to sew more squares together.
The next time I look up, he’s gone, the light is off, but that note is still there. It puts a rock in my gut, though I ignore it. Soon after, my bobbin tangles, and I sigh, then decide to leave it for tomorrow and head to bed a bit early at quarter after twelve.
But it has nothing to do with Adam’s note.
Not in the least.
When I get home from work the next day, there’s another note slipped under my door, and excitement fills me as I pick it up.
No, not excited.
Being excited to read a hostage note for a nutcracker would probably denote that my mental state is crumbling.
Take down the decorations or else.
Today, the photo is of the nutcracker next to a hammer.
I let out a laugh, then fold up the note and place it on my kitchen table with the other one.
In retaliation, I add a couple more glittery lollipops to his yard.
I spend the evening prepping cookie dough for the bake sale, cleaning the kitchen, and wrapping up schoolwork before taking a shower and slipping into some comfy clothes.
I baked and set aside four cookies for myself—a little treat for making it to the end of the day—and then grabbed the plate before heading upstairs to my office to work on some decorations for the upcoming school-wide holiday party.
A co-worker was supposed to do it, but she asked if I would mind taking it over for her, and she would cover Valentine’s Day.
I agreed, knowing I already have all the stuff to make some simple decorations and garlands.
When I settle in, Adam’s office light goes off across the way, the note taken down sometime between last night and now.
I push away the strange jolt of disappointment before throwing myself into working on some of the decorations for the holiday party in two weeks.
I’m about halfway through one of the big banners when the light flicks on.
Without my mind’s permission, my eyes pop up, looking at the window across the way. He’s entering the room, wearing a well-fitting short-sleeved shirt that, even from this angle, I can tell hugs his biceps perfectly.
Nope, no Wren. We don’t care about his arms, remember? He’s bossy and rude and hates Christmas.
Unfortunately, I’ve always been a sucker for good arms.
His eyes are locked on me across the way.
Instantly, I put my head down and continue with my sewing, pushing fabric through the machine and trying to concentrate.
Eventually, I crack and then glance up. He’s sitting at the desk, head down, but he must notice I’m looking once more, because his head pops up as well.
Then he reaches over, grabbing for a paper and pressing it to the window.
Go to bed.
I shrug, then shake my head before looking down at my project again.
Ten minutes later, my curiosity wins once more, and I look up.
This time, his head is no longer tipped down; instead, he’s sitting, gaze locked across the way with his arms crossed on his chest. When he sees me looking at him, he reaches over once more, pressing the note to the window again.
Go to bed.
Underneath, he’s added another word in his thick, no-nonsense handwriting.
Now.
I check the time, seeing twelve thirty on the clock.
I can’t let him win, even if my eyes are starting to lose focus and my work isn't as neat as it used to be.
I shake my head, and he glares at me, then pulls the paper down, scribbling on it.
Add lights to the wreath.
I read it once, then rub my eyes before reading it again. Lights to the wreath? I tip my head to the side, exhausted and not fully understanding, and he looks like he’s about to sigh before letting the sign drop and writing another.
If you go to bed, this one reads.
He’s bribing me.
And unfortunately, I’m totally about to fall for it. I don’t want to give too much away, I shrug, then grab a piece of paper of my own.
Lights on your porch?
A long moment passes as he reads it, his face clearly displeased, before he writes something and presses the paper to the window.
Don’t push it.
I fight a smile, knowing it was probably a lost cause but not wanting to seem too eager about his offer. Lights on the wreath would mean that, at the very least, the entire street has lights.
A huge win, I think, as I write down my response.
I was going to bed anyway.
Even from across the way, I can see his eyes roll, which is why, when I clean up and turn the lights off, I’m grinning. It stays on my face as I clean up and get ready for bed, and when I finally do, it’s still playing on my lips.