Chapter 20
My mind hasn’t been this disharmonious since the Mavericks’ impromptu Christmas caroling jaunt.
It happened five years ago, and I’m still haunted by their tone-deaf version of “Blue Christmas.” But this morning, I’m in no mood for Christmas songs.
After church, I need to teach Mom how to access Pap’s online medical portal to get prescription refills.
I also intend to grab the tub of antique ornaments Gran gifted me in her will.
I’ve been slow in getting them, but I want that reminder of her right now.
Oh, and I need to figure out what to text Leo without sounding dumb.
I left the Secret Santa folder at his place, and I’m not going back to his house. Him and his backward hat, and gray sweatpants, and perfect words. And even more perfect kissing.
When I woke that Christmas morning, a large box, covered in green paper and topped with an enormous bow, sat beside our tree.
I wanted to tear the gift wrapping to shreds but also savor the moment.
Because this—this!—was my every wish, my every expectation, and, somehow, I knew my life wouldn’t be the same after I opened it.
Last night, I had that same sensation. Leo’s kiss is my SE400.
The weight of his hands on my back, the pressure of his lips, the tightening of his arms around me was everything I didn’t know I was missing.
Those minutes made me see that every kiss before fell way short, like some dollar-store version of the real thing.
Okay, not that there were many prior kisses.
I don’t have Tilly’s long list of exes. Am I being dramatic in saying that Leo not only ruined every past kiss, but every future one if he’s not the other participant?
Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that—just like opening that present years ago—things aren’t going to be the same for me.
Especially now, since I destroyed the experience with my rashness, leaving Leo in a state of confusion.
When church lets out, I head straight to Pap’s and pull in the driveway. Mom’s already opened the garage door for me. After ditching my high heels at the entrance, I find Mom in the kitchen making lunch.
She smiles brightly. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” I stoop down and pet Oggy behind the ears, but he seems more interested in what Mom’s cooking. “It’s jumpstart jumper day.”
“It’s what?”
Oh, that’s right. She wouldn’t get it. I scored this wool jumper from the ’70s at a flea market across the state.
I only wear it when I need a mental boost, so Gran coined this my Jumpstart Jumper.
I’m not saying that the vintage outfit cures brain fog.
But also, I’m not saying it doesn’t. Though today, I’ve had no such luck.
“Never mind,” I mumble, not having the energy to explain.
“You hungry?”
“No, thanks.” I haven’t had an appetite since last night’s steak dinner.
With Leo. Who kissed me, and I ran from the room like the floor turned to lava.
I don’t understand why I got so triggered.
I shouldn’t have flipped out. Yeah, it was an amazing kiss, but it’s not like Leo proposed marriage.
We aren’t even dating. Maybe after I teach Mom how to access Pap’s prescriptions, I should just call him to get it over with.
Or leave the country. Perhaps buy property in a remote land and raise bunnies.
That’s how it is with me, chasing one illogical thought after another.
Although, is raising bunnies truly an outlandish idea? Because it’s kind of growing on me.
“Oh, guess what?” Mom flips over her grilled cheese. “I figured out how to navigate that portal thingy. So I refilled Pap’s prescriptions.”
“Great.” Yep. Wonderful. I’m no longer needed.
I can go home, and my mind can replay my life choices on an unending loop before going to Tilly’s for our scheduled girls’ night.
I’m already dreading telling my best friend.
Though I don’t think she’ll be overly surprised at my making things awkward between Leo and me.
While she’s the beauty queen, I’m the vibe assassin. We’re good at what we do.
I venture into the living room to say hi to Pap, but he must be resting upstairs. Mom enters with her plate and bottled water.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay long,” I say as she sits in the recliner. “But I want to grab Gran’s ornaments. Pap told me the other day he set them by the door to the garage. I didn’t see them.”
“Oh, you mean the tub of Christmas bulbs and decorations?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I moved them to the utility room. I was shining them up for you. Some were grimy.”
No.
No, no, no. “What do you mean shining ?” But I can’t wait for her reply.
I bolt into the small utility room, and my heart sinks at the sight of the blue bottle.
“Mom, please tell me you didn’t use Windex on the Hummels?
” I drop to my knees beside the tub and pick up a Christmas bulb lying atop packing filler, finding my answer.
“They were dirty, honey.”
“Then you use a very, very diluted dish soap and water solution. Not Windex. Never Windex.” I gape at the peeling paint. It’s ruined. I can’t help the burning in my eyes. How many more are?—
Oh, no.
I start unpacking wadded newspaper sheets and plastic bags used as cushioning material, horror filling me with each rapid heartbeat. “The Garrick. Mom, did you touch the Garrick?”
Her blue eyes widen. “I-I’m not sure what that is.”
“The nativity set. It’s in this tub.” It’s worth more than anything I own. But more than that, it’s tethered to core memories, making it valuable beyond any dollar sign. “Did you clean that?”
“No.” She shakes her head rapidly. “Just a few of the bulbs.”
I exhale in relief and release the Walmart bag I was strangling. At least the Garrick’s safe from Mom’s cleaning binge.
“I’m sorry.” She puts the Windex in the cupboard above the washer and gives an apologetic smile. “I didn’t know.”
A tight band stretches between my shoulder blades. “But you could have.”
She looks at me. “What, honey?”
“You could have known. You could’ve known that you never use ammonia on antiques.
And that I wear this jumper when my mind’s foggy.
” I sweep a hand over my person in an exaggerated fashion.
“That I freak out in front of crowds. That I hate raisins and feel strongly they’ve no right to be in cookies.
Mom, you could’ve known all of this … if you hadn’t left. ”
Her fingers flit to her parted mouth, but I’m not done.
“Was I not worth staying for? Me? Your only daughter. Your family. I got to see you for a few weekends and holidays. That’s it.
” I press a hand to my heart, but it’s too late.
It’s crumbling, and there’s not enough fight in me to hold it together.
“I stupidly thought I might have more pull when I became an adult. You’d answer my texts, give the occasional call.
But you didn’t want a relationship. It took Gran dying—dying! —for you to come home.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “I know.”
“I don’t think you do. You can’t begin to know the damage it’s caused.
” I can’t enjoy a kiss with a guy without getting triggered that he’s going to leave.
Something that should be no big deal is huge to me because of her.
She always left. And I always stood there, helpless, watching her pull away from the drive, never knowing if or when I’d see her again.
An uneasy gnawing in my stomach would hit me every time.
A feeling I’d only had in those moments.
I blink, my haunted thoughts of the past smacking me in the present.
That exact sensation struck me last night.
That’s why I panicked like I did. It was because of mommy issues.
“I know I’m emotional, and it’s probably best to talk when I’ve a cooler head.
I’m not angry. Well, I kind of am, but I think I need answers more than anything. ”
My cell rings. It’s Jared, the one who sent over Leo’s ceramic tree. “I have to take this,” I tell Mom and duck into the hall, needing space. “What’s up, Jared?”
“A lead on your set.”
“Really?” I jolt my head back and knock a sconce off the wall, the bulky candle landing on my foot.
Though I feel nothing. Either my adrenaline’s pumping from my exchange with Mom, or my body’s still numb from last night.
I’m not used to this much drama. Which is probably why I’m not overly optimistic about this call. “The Vallerton?”
“Yeah, my aunt’s got it.” Then Jared says that.
Game changer. “You’re going to say Midge, aren’t you?” Jared comes from a huge family who all deal with antiques. Midge is the scariest of the bunch, but she’s also good at what she does.
“The very one. So you know the urgency.”
“I do.” Midge Saunders is an old-school antique dealer. She doesn’t do any business online, no website, no social media pages. What she does have is a customer base that trusts her. Gran trusted her. If Midge has a Vallerton, I know it’s authentic, but I also know how she operates. “Thanks, Jared.”
Just to be sure, I verify Midge’s store address, hours, and contact information before disconnecting.
I punch in the number Jared gave me for Midge’s store and prepare to barter, beg, or offer my own version of Let’s Make a Deal .
Anything to persuade Midge to break her own rule and hold the Vallerton until I can get there.
A busy signal pulses against my ear. Because of course she has a landline.
With a sigh, I return the sconce and candle to their proper place and find Mom in the living room, her grilled cheese untouched. “I have to go.”