Chapter 13 #2
The cold air, the sound of voices rising together, the way the lights reflect off the snow as we wander from house to house, then business to business… Well, I don’t know that I’ll ever be a true holiday lover, but I’m not a Grinch anymore.
Thanks to Holly.
I pull out my phone, snapping a picture of Elliot, Nancy, and Ashton silhouetted against the light display in the window of the yarn and fiber store, where the local knitting club has gathered. I smile as I imagine what Holly will say when I send it later.
I expect she’ll be proud, and that I will not find that condescending or offensive, the way I would have even a week ago.
Falling in love really is a miraculous thing.
The Reindeer Corners Inn, our final stop, waits at the end of the street—gingerbread trim crisp, turret sugared with snow, big windows pouring light across the snow-covered lawn.
Inside, the lobby is full. The guests are packed in tight beneath a soaring tree with cocoa in hand, the children craning for a better view as we approach.
We arrange ourselves in a wide semi-circle, song sheets rustling in the breeze as Monica counts us in.
Halfway through “Silent Night,” however, a flash of movement catches the corner of my eye.
I glance to my right, toward a narrower pane of glass by a side door that I’m guessing leads to the guestrooms. The light is dimmer there than in the lobby, but still bright enough to make out the familiar brunette who steps into view.
It’s Holly, I realize with a start.
My first thought is that she finished her photo session early and swung by to catch the end of the caroling on her way home. Probably with her friend who works at the inn.
Then, I see him, the tall man, stepping up behind her.
He moves in close—very close—before bending to murmur in her ear.
She turns, tilting her face up to his as he continues to speak. His expression grows serious, almost anxious, as he takes both of her hands in his. Holly’s expression softens. She nods, murmuring something that apparently makes the worried man feel better.
So much better that he pulls her in for a fierce hug, cradling her against his chest like he never wants to let her go…
I know the feeling.
It’s a good feeling, unlike the “elevator in freefall to hell” sensation howling through my insides at the moment.
The carol continues around me—”all is calm, all is bright,”—but it’s a lie. Nothing is calm or bright. Heat floods my face, followed by a cold, sick feeling in my core that quickly starts to spread.
Of course.
Of course, there’s someone else.
Why the fuck did I assume there wasn’t? We’ve barely been “dating” for four days, and we never made any promises to be exclusive. As far as she knows, I’m only in town through New Year’s Day, with no intention to return in the near future.
She doesn’t know I’ve been plotting ways to make the distance more manageable or that my feelings for her have grown so intense, so quickly. Why in the world would she limit her romantic options for a man who’s only sticking around for a few weeks?
She wouldn’t.
She shouldn’t. I’m a reasonable man. I understand that I have no right to consider a woman my “territory” simply because we’ve kissed and begun to establish a connection.
But why did she lie?
She didn’t have to lie…
That’s what guts me, what makes the sick feeling spread from my stomach to my chest, to my throat as the man pulls back from the hug to smile down at her.
She grins back, dimples popping, and I suddenly can’t.
I can’t, not for another second.
“Where are you going?” Elliot whispers as I back away through the crunchy snow.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I mutter, my voice is hollow. “I’m not feeling well again, but Bran should be here soon. He can drive you back.”
“Okay.” Elliot’s brow furrows with concern. “Text when you get home, so we know you’re all right.”
I nod, though I already know I’m not going to be “all right” for quite some time.
I turn and walk away, my movements stiff, brittle. Behind me, the carolers finish “Silent Night” and launch into an upbeat rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” their cheerful voices soaring.
The sound makes my ribs clench even tighter.
I aim myself down the street, moving fast, heading back to the dark field where we parked, then to my grandfather’s home, where I can lock myself away and do some serious self-reflection.
I’ve been a fool.
That much is obvious, but it’s important to pinpoint why.
How.
To realize exactly where I lost my way, so that I can correct course in the future.
Thirty minutes later, I’m alone in the mansion I longed to return to so desperately as a boy.
Especially that first winter in the city with my father.
At eleven, how I ached to be in Vermont, playing with my siblings, surrounded by softness and warmth, and looking forward to the annual trip up to the widow’s walk.
The Christmases of my tween years—working beside my father or left alone in our penthouse while he hit the town with the woman of the moment—were miserable to say the least.
But by fourteen, I’d begun to realize I was actually the lucky one.
Better to learn the truth early. Better to learn that there is no reason for hope and no one is coming to save you when you’re young, so that you can be properly prepared for the cruel indifference of the world.
So that you can learn to shield yourself before it eats you, or the people you’ve promised to protect, alive.
The study is dark, chilled, but I don’t flick on the lights or turn up the heat. I simply pour three fingers of whiskey from the decanter and ease into the leather chair by the window, watching the lights flicker in the village below.
The first sip burns, but it’s a good burn.
A clarifying burn.
Holly truly isn’t to blame. She probably only lied to avoid a confrontation with an angry man. That’s what people really mean when they say “grumpy,” isn’t it? It’s just a softer way of saying that a man is angry, unpredictable, maybe even dangerous under the right circumstances.
Men are often dangerous to women. Men hurt women in serious, devastating, and often permanent ways every single day. I can’t blame Holly for being cautious.
No, the only person I blame is myself.
For dropping my guard so ridiculously fast. For mooning around the mansion like a teenager with a crush in front of my siblings. For dancing the night away with Holly in the village pub, proving to everyone just how desperate I secretly was to be cared for.
To be loved…
My throat locks down, threatening to trap my last sip halfway down.
I force myself to relax and pour myself another drink, hoping it will take the edge off the shame threatening to reduce my internal organs to pulp.
In another hour, maybe slightly more, Bran’s headlights sweep across the pines as he turns up the driveway. I should go greet my siblings. Or hurry up to my room and shut the door to make my “sick again” lie more believable.
Instead, I stay in the dark study, alone with my whiskey and my walls.
I rebuild them brick by painful brick, until they’re even higher than they were before. Thicker. Reinforced with regret and mortared with shame.
This time, they’ll hold. This experience has been invaluable, really. It’s proven that I was right all along. Hope is for fools and those under the protection of someone willing to do whatever they have to do to keep their family safe.
Hope is not for men like me.
Neither is Christmas.
There is no “magical season” for those who see the world as it truly is. Once you’ve awakened to the chilling reality that even a wealthy man is only as safe as his ability to outplay the even wealthier, more evil men at the top, you can’t go back to dreaming of sugarplums and happily ever after.
My only real mistake was forgetting that, even for a moment.
And I won’t forget again.