Chapter 11 Anna
ELEVEN
ANNA
Itrail my fingers along the frozen steel frame of my dad’s beloved Road Runner. Around the gleaming silver bumper, and the forest green scoop. Over the crystal-clear headlights, and as I make my way along the body, I stroke the doorframe that was once marred by a jagged, grating scrape.
It’s all better now. Repairs have been made. The damage, rectified. The torn whitewall tires, just the two on the left side, replaced, and the mirror—the one I picked up off the side of the road a full three weeks after it first detached—now sits proudly back in place.
Wild, flirty laughter echoes all the way from Mel and Nick’s house, thundering footsteps as the duo race around their home and count down until their wedding… so soon.
Good for her. She deserves nothing but the best.
Unlocking the driver’s side door and breaking the thin icy seal, I drag it wide open and lower onto the rich leather seat, careful not to spill my hot chocolate or track muck onto the original floor mats.
It’s freezing in here, spookily silent beside the shuffle of my legs as I tuck myself in, then the click of the door as I pull it shut to keep the biting wind out. Finally, I simply settle back in my seat and inhale the heavy scent of thick, warm cocoa.
I’ve bought a jar every single December for the last four, hoping each new year would be the one I make a batch at least half as delicious as how my dad used to do it.
It shouldn’t be so difficult. It’s literally fucking cocoa—the instructions are on the label!
But there’s some secret, I guess, a strictly kept code only the worthy know, because in the four years since Garreth Maxwell died, each attempt only drew me further away from the unique flavor I was terrified I’d never taste again.
And then Dean Warner crashed into my life, helped himself to my kitchen, and simultaneously shattered and soothed my heart with a single sip.
He’s one of the worthy.
My breath catches as, in my peripherals, the front door opens and Dean steps onto the porch in sweatpants and his thick black coat.
Tears make my vision blurry, and that annoying sheen of self-pity makes my stomach churn.
Still, I swipe my eyes and draw a steadying breath, and for the entire thirty seconds he takes to decide where he’ll go, my brain vacillates between please don’t leave, and please God, run now while you still have a chance.
The universe was intent on destroying Christmas for me two decades ago, striking my mother down and fracturing the two hearts left behind.
My dad and I picked up the pieces after she passed.
We threw ourselves into our love for one another, and since Mom adored Christmas to the point of obsession, we blindly appointed ourselves the founders of our local Christmas festival and, most importantly, the tree lighting ceremony.
It was how we healed. How we grieved. How we honored the woman who knew the magic Dean speaks of.
Sixteen years later, in this very car, on the same stretch of road I met Dean on—rushing home from work, eager to make it to the festival on time—my father hit a patch of ice and another good life was lost.
That was my second warning.
Now, here I am, wallowing through another December, and just in case I forgot my lessons, the universe thought she’d send me a little reminder through Dean.
The poor unsuspecting bastard.
Sniffling, I swipe my cheeks and glance across as the passenger door cracks open, the ice breaks and falls away from the car, then Dean folds at the hips, ducking his head low.
Despite my abhorrent rudeness every second we’ve known each other, he still manages a wide, beautiful smile.
“Hey.” His eyes sparkle, white fog racing from between his lips. “Mind if I join you?”
I drop my chin, lowering my eyes to my lap. “Sure.”
I don’t know where the man gets his energy and good mood—God knows, being hit by a car would leave me bedridden for months—but he rubs his hands together and slides into the passenger seat.
Happy grunts, noisy shivers. His jacket makes swoosh-swoosh-swoosh sounds as he folds himself in, then he drags the door shut, locking us in so the scent of him and cocoa mingle in the freezing air.
“Is it good?” He presses his back to the door, lifting his knee so it rests on the bench seat between us.
“My mom used to make me cocoa every single morning in the winter. Didn’t always get marshmallows though.
” His lips curl into a crinkled, charming grin in my peripherals.
“She said they were for special occasions only.”
“Like, Christmas morning?”
“Like, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings.” Snickering, he cups his hands and breathes warmth between them. “She was a sucker for my puppy-dog eyes, especially nearing the end of the week.”
“So, you were always this…” I bring my gaze across and stop on his unabashed grin. “Persistent?”
“Always.”
“And you’re still in a good mood, even when the women in your life are mean and snappy and rude?”
His eyes glitter playfully. “Looks that way. My mom was never mean, though. Not sure she ever snapped at me once in her life.”
Shame, shame, brutal, cutting shame washes through my belly.
“Just me, then.” I swipe my nose and pretend I’m not a complete mental case between December first and thirty-first every single year.
“I swear I’m not always such a bitch.” I tilt my head back against the headrest and swallow the guilt pulsing in my blood.
“From January through November, some might even say I’m the light of the party. ”
“I don’t think you’re a bitch.” He surprises me, grabbing my hand and holding it between us.
My breath races because of the contact, my palm tingles because of the gentle stroke of his finger.
“I think every single human being on this planet comes with a story. We’re not thirteen anymore, we’ve had our hearts broken, we’ve seen the ugly shit life throws at us, which means when we meet another human, one we might even secretly be attracted to—”
I flatten my lips and meet his dancing eyes.
He chuckles. “We bring baggage, Anna. We all do. Even the most well-adjusted, least-traumatized, nuclear family types whose parents did nothing to screw them up.” He drags the tip of his finger along a deep line buried within my palm.
“I know we only met a few days ago, and there was that brain-rattling episode we both participated in—”
“Oh God,” I choke out, laughing and whimpering at the same time. “What a mess.”
“It took me a minute to get the lay of the land, so to speak. To understand how you tick, and to accept you have your own beliefs surrounding Christmas.”
“Dean—”
“I’m sorry for messing up your house. I’ll pack it all away just as soon as we go inside, and I won’t speak of it again.”
“My dad used to take most of December off work so he could dress up as Santa every year and listen to little kids make their wishes.” I draw a shuddering breath, filling my lungs until my chest expands.
“We weren’t rich or anything, not even close, but he’d save his vacation time all year long, so an entire month without pay wouldn’t sting so bad when the bills came in.
He’d scrimp and collect every penny he could, making it stretch as far as possible so our month of no income wouldn’t become a reason for anxiety.
Every January, when the sales were on and toys dropped to half what they cost in December, he’d snatch up as many as he could afford and hand them out the following Christmas. ”
Sniffling, I drop my focus and stare into my mug. “I don’t want to turn this into a whole woe is me thing, since we hardly even know each other and you have no desire to hear a lame sad story.”
“I wanna hear.” He gently tugs on my hand, grinning when my eyes come across. “I’ve been trying for days to get you to talk to me. What does a man have to do to get a woman’s attention? Step in front of a semi-truck?”
I choke out a dumb, watery snicker. Shaking my head from side to side, I exhale a soft sigh. “I’m gonna tell you, and you’re gonna promise not to turn it into a big deal.”
“Fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t want you to pity me. And if you stare at me across a room later with that look in your eyes, ya know, the one where you feel sorry for me and you’re worried I’m gonna spontaneously cry or whatever…”
He crosses his heart, gritting his way through the painful movement with his bad arm.
“My mom died a long time ago.” Say it fast. Say it without emotion. “Which isn’t a huge deal, since everyone’s parents eventually die. I loved her and missed her a lot, and she was obsessed with Christmas, so my dad and I went a bit nutso celebrating every year after.”
“Hence,” he murmurs, sliding his finger along the heel of my thumb. “Your dad cosplaying as ol’ Saint Nick every year.”
“Right. We believed in the magic too.” I swallow the croak nestled deep in my throat. “We believed in it so much, we couldn’t help but spew that shit all over town.”
He snorts, the sharp exhalation of air tickling my arm. “Logical progression after loss, and I have zero pity or spontaneous tears for you. Continue.”
I roll my eyes. But damn, he makes it easy to say the things I need to say.
“I think you’ll be sorely disappointed when this is all done. You think being hit by my car is some kind of divine intervention and I’m an angel sent to sprinkle Christmas dust all over your head, but really, I’m just a sourpuss Christmas grump.”
“But—”
“And worse, I’m a cliché. Nothing but a big fat soap opera banality with zero substance. My mom, a devout holiday enthusiast, died just a couple of days before Christmas when I was nine years old.”
“Bummer.” He speaks in monotone. Simple, bland, and falsely uninterested. “I’m still not feeling sorry for you.”