Chapter 22
I clutch the rungs so tightly my fingers tingle both with strain and the cold. I wish I was wearing gloves, but I need all the dexterity I can get. I hate heights, but this is the only way to ensure Mom doesn’t break her ankle. My breath comes out in little gasps, creating frosty wisps.
“Did you know hanging Christmas lights leads to twenty thousand emergency room visits a year?” I say as I begin climbing up the creaking ladder. “I spend so much time suggesting people stay off ladders. Nothing like not taking your own advice.”
“Someone should tell folks in Harmony Hills… this place lives for its holiday lights,” Liam replies. “But we will not be adding to that number today, Libby. Promise.”
Glancing cautiously over my shoulder, I see he’s got one boot positioned against the ladder’s base and is using both hands to hold it steady. “This ladder is not going anywhere. I’ve got you,” he adds.
His voice is calm, assured, and I instantly feel less scared.
He’s not going to let the ladder slip—even with his bum hand.
I’ve got you. Another shiver moves through me, unrelated to the temperature.
I lessen my grip just enough to stop the tingling in my fingers.
“Appreciate it. Can you pass me the lights?”
There are already hooks along the roofline, from years past, so all I need to do is string the lights from hook to hook, one section at a time.
I’m maybe halfway up the ladder now, and hold on with one hand while reaching down with the other for the lights.
It’s a stretch, my shoulder and neck muscles protesting, and then our fingers touch.
Our eyes lock, and I can tell he’s feeling this thing between us as fiercely as I am.
I have a sudden urge to blurt everything out.
The time travel, the truth about Austin, this undeniable energy between Liam and me that I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever.
The words are at the back of my throat, but then Liam breaks eye contact.
His hand drops from mine and returns to hold the ladder again.
Then I remember he believes I’m in a relationship.
Because technically I am —I have a “beau.” And Liam Young, with his perfect dimples and generous heart, is not the sort to step over a line like that.
After about twenty minutes I’m more comfortable going up and down the ladder, Liam has, as promised, kept it steady, and there have been no hiccups with the Christmas lights. They look perfect, and I know Mom will be pleased.
Ever since our locking-eyes moment, we have done a good job at keeping the mood light and cheerful, not veering into any topics of conversation that are overly personal.
Work stuff (it’s odd to talk about the job I no longer have), rescue-farm stuff, our favourite Christmas cookie (whipped shortbread, we agree).
Then the weather, always a popular topic in these parts.
We finish by wrapping a couple of strands around the porch posts for added cheer.
We carry the ladder—me on one end, Liam the other—to the side of the house, then walk back to the porch steps. “Thanks again,” I say, rubbing my hands together to warm them.
“You’re welcome, again ,” Liam replies, dimples shining with his smile. We’re standing just over a foot apart, and I should create more space between us, but I don’t want to. I like being close to Liam—he makes me feel safe, and like I can handle anything. Plus, those eyes… those dimples. Sigh.
“Glad I was able to help. Even with this.” Liam lifts his bandaged hand.
“Remember, keep that dry. Doctor’s orders.”
He nods, and I glance at the clinic’s front door. “I should check in with Miss Betty. To see if I can do anything else for her while I’m here.”
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you,” Liam says. He turns to go, then pauses. “See you Monday night?”
“Monday night?” I’m trying to remember what day it is. Friday? I think. Yes, Amelia’s working, and we’re having Friday-night French toast for dinner.
“For the party? And Christmas chili night?”
“The party. Chili night, yes,” I reply, though whether I’ll still be here—in Christmas past—in three days’ time in anyone’s guess. Also, I had better figure out what this party is about and STAT.
As I’m contemplating my next move to get more information, Liam takes a step towards me and hugs me. It’s friendly and warm, but I’m not expecting it and so my arms stay at my sides.
I inhale the heady scent of his shampoo, or aftershave, or whatever it is that makes him smell so damn good. He releases me just as I’ve managed to get my arms to work, attempting to return the hug, but I’m a second too late.
“Sorry, Libby,” he starts, as I stare at him slightly slack-jawed. He bites his lower lip, looking mildly concerned. “I’m a hugger. I forget not everyone else is.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m a hugger, too!” I reply, but my shrill tone isn’t convincing. I wish I could explain that my behaviour has nothing to do with the actual hug—which I quite enjoyed—but because I’m endlessly one step behind since waking up in another timeline.
“Trust me, it’s not you, Liam. I’m—” I sigh deeply, try to smile, but I can’t. “I’m having a week , that’s all.”
Liam cocks his head. “Everything okay?”
I’m flustered by the attention, by his considerate tone.
Being a physician often means putting myself last, because the people I look after are having far worse days.
A pounding headache from lack of sleep or the upset of a breakup is nothing compared to a scary case of pneumonia in a child, or a grandmother’s stroke, or a family involved in a devastating car accident.
Unexpectedly, I start crying, which is embarrassing though unavoidable. A mini breakdown was inevitable, based on the chaos of what’s happened in the past couple of days, but I would prefer to be having it alone. Without an audience—especially this audience.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble, willing my eyes to stop tearing up. I wipe at them with my gloves, try to laugh off my poorly timed show of emotion. “It appears I am, in fact, having a meltdown. My life is sort of falling apart at the moment.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Liam says. He puts a hand to my shoulder and smiles warmly, his green eyes holding mine. “The holidays can be tough.”
I sniff, and nod. My nose starts running, and I long for a tissue. As though reading my mind, Liam pulls a small packet from inside his coat pocket. The tissues have snowmen on them, and I hiccup and chuckle all at once. This is getting more embarrassing by the second.
“These are almost too cute to use,” I say, sniffling again as I pull out one of the tissues. “Everhart’s?”
“The only place I shop,” Liam replies. “So look. We don’t know each other well, but can I tell you something?”
“What’s that?” I’m stuffed up, but have thankfully stopped crying.
Liam leans towards me, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I suck at baking, and apparently at washing dishes. But I’m an excellent listener. If you’re interested.”
Oh, Liam—you have no idea how much I wish I could take you up on that.
I look down at my hands and the tissue I’ve balled up, noting the tiny paper flecks on my black gloves. “What do you do when things don’t turn out how you hoped? When everything you thought was real… isn’t?”
Shifting my gaze to Liam’s face, I see he’s taking my question to heart, and he nods his understanding. “Been there. Most recently with my ex, Jaclyn. It wasn’t fun.”
“Relationships are not easy,” I reply. Then the next words are out before I consider the implications. “Austin and I broke up.”
His eyebrows rise. “Sorry to hear that. I’m guessing it was recent?”
“Sort of,” I say, all the while knowing this confession is a terrible idea. In this wacky timeline everyone, including my family and Austin himself, believes we are very much together. “It was coming for a while. One of those death-by-a-thousand-paper-cuts sort of things.”
I almost laugh, thinking about paper cuts, and toilet paper, and the ridiculousness of our actual breakup.
“Everyone says not to sweat the small stuff. But everything that happened with Jaclyn made me realize the small stuff—those daily choices—are what matter most,” Liam says.
“How so?” Despite how unsettled I currently am, my curiosity about what happened with Liam and Jaclyn is piqued.
“I mean, you need to choose that person again and again, every day. Which sounds like a lot of work, maybe, but I think if you’ve found the right person, it only gets easier to handle the small stuff. And the big stuff, too.”
I almost start crying again. “I don’t think I’m great at choosing the right person the first time.”
Liam sighs. “I can relate. And it has nothing to do with Jaclyn, or who she was. It was about me, not understanding who I was, if that makes sense?”
“It makes sense. So much sense, actually.” And it does. Throughout my nearly two-year relationship with Austin, I had moments of doubt, but also plenty of excuses to brush them aside.
Now, when I think back to the two of us, I am not sure how we got past the honeymoon phase of dating.
The things I thought made us a good match—our career ambitions, our understanding of what it means to work in medicine, his love of city life and my desire to escape my small town, our physical chemistry—worked on paper.
But there were many red flags I ignored, like his hunger for status, his lacklustre interest in family, and his need for control.
Our values and goals weren’t aligned, not even at the start.
I wanted to make a difference, whether it was in my emergency room, or somewhere else, like with Doctors Without Borders.
I longed for community, I see that now—to be a part of something bigger than myself.
Austin expected everything and everyone, including me, to revolve around his goals.
Our trip to L.A. made that crystal clear.
These realizations land without a moment to catch my breath, and I go weak in the knees. I reach for the porch step railing to keep myself from falling.
“Whoa, Libby.” Liam’s grabs me by my waist as I stumble. “Why don’t we sit for a second?”
He brushes off the bottom step to clear the fine dusting of snow, and my heart pitter-patters at the sweet gesture.
“Thanks—I’m okay,” I reply. We sit on the bottom step. Liam sets elbows on his bent knees and looks my way, waiting until I’m ready to talk.
“So when you’re having a bad day, what do you do to make it better? Looking for tips, in case that wasn’t clear,” I say.
He sets a finger to his chin, miming deep concentration. “Hmm. First, I have a good cry—obviously.”
I laugh, hold up the disintegrating snowman tissue. “Check.”
“Then I eat something. Food is the best distractor. My go-to is heaps of nachos with extra jalapenos and sharp cheddar, or my granddad’s cinnamon-raisin bread, toasted, with butter and honey from the farm.”
“Those are solid choices. And after the food coma wears off?”
He gives me a smirk. “I sing Christmas carols.”
“Christmas carols? You mean if you’re trying to cheer up during the holidays?”
Liam shakes his head. “I mean, anytime I’m trying to cheer up. Holidays, springtime, summer, fall… doesn’t matter. They just make me happy.”
He says this so easily, without disclaimer. “They just make me happy.” Well, if I wasn’t already charmed.
“Which is your favourite carol?” I ask. “For mood-boosting.”
“That’s tough,” Liam replies. “?‘Jingle Bells’ is a solid contender. So is ‘Up on the Housetop,’ ‘Deck the Halls,’ ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’…” I nod with each one, agreeing with his choices. “Maybe we should try it?”
“Try what? Singing?” I shake my head. “You don’t want to hear me sing. We’ll both be miserable.”
“You can’t be worse than me. I am a truly awful singer.
I failed the vocal portion of music class in elementary school.
” He mimics a stern, teacher-like voice.
“ Liam works hard in class, but is unable to hold a tune. He is unfortunately not musically inclined, and would be wise to pursue other academic endeavours in the future .”
“They did not say that!” I laugh.
“I’m paraphrasing, but the teacher was not wrong.”
“Well then, we can be truly terrible together. Because I think that might cheer me up,” I reply, feeling lighter by the second. I’m beginning to learn it’s hard to be sad, or upset, when you’re with Liam. “Besides, I don’t believe you’re that bad—let’s hear it.”
“This is a safe space, right? No judgement?” Liam asks.
“No judgement,” I reply.
He clears his throat in dramatic fashion, then starts singing. “?‘You better watch out / You better not cry…’?” He pauses, raises an eyebrow.
“Touché,” I murmur.
“You better not pout / I’m telling you why,” Liam sings. He may be great at many things, but this is not one of them: he’s so out of tune it’s almost hard to tell what the song is, if you didn’t know the lyrics. But he gives it his all for the next verse, his voice rising, and I join in.
“He’s making a list / And checking it twice…” Our voices mingle together, and I’m only marginally better at singing than Liam is.
Soon I’m grinning ear to ear, feeling warm and flushed and happy. The tears are long gone, until I laugh so hard I cry when Liam tries to hit a falsetto note on the final chorus.
“I told you I can’t sing,” Liam says. “But where are we, on a scale of cheerfulness? One being bah humbug, and ten being Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.”
“I’m a solid nine,” I reply.
“Then my work here is done.” Liam raises a hand, and I high-five it.
For a moment we sit quietly, side by side on the step, the warmth of our bodies comforting in the chilly air. Then he asks, “What’s your position on Christmas trees? Real or fake?”
“Real. There isn’t another option as far as I’m concerned.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” Liam says with a definitive nod. “So I know you’re good with needles. But how are you with a hacksaw?”