51. Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-One
JULIAN
The house is dark as I descend the stairs—the only light being the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. A mountain of presents are stacked beneath it.
When I enter the kitchen, I find Maisie sitting on one of the barstools, staring down at a full glass of water.
“Thinking of drowning yourself?” I quip and she jumps at the sound of my voice, placing a hand to her chest. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She shrugs, waving me off. “All good, art boy. Have you, too, come to wallow in self-pity?”
“I came down for water, actually,” I say, grabbing a cup from the cabinet. When I hear her sigh, I add, “But I’m always down for a pity party.”
She breathes a laugh. “I knew I liked you.”
I open the fridge to pour water from the Brita. She might sound easygoing, but I can sense that’s not the case. Something is telling me there is a lot more to Maisie Dupont than most people know. She doesn’t seem the type to let people in and on that front, I can relate—painfully so.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, walking over to take a seat on the stool next to her.
Letting out a deep breath, she mentions, “You mean after getting shit-faced and throwing up on one of Santa’s reindeer? Peachy.”
I wince as I recall the memory from earlier today. Andrea had checked on her as soon as we got back from Salt and said she was much better now. I could tell there was something Andrea may have been leaving out.
“Andrea told me what you did about the photos and videos.” She smiles at me. It’s both genuine and distant. “It meant a lot to her and me, so thank you.”
“Does that mean you’ll stop calling me art boy?”
“Nope.”
“Damn it.” I feign agitation as I take a sip of my water.
She snorts and we both let the silence stretch between us.
As much as I want to go upstairs and crawl back into bed with a very naked Andrea, I know she wouldn’t want me to leave Maisie alone until I know for sure everything is fine.
“You and Carter seemed to have laid down your arms for a second there,” I say, putting out a feeler to gauge her reaction. “Any chance it could be permanent?”
Her face pinches. “Carter is the equivalent of a flea.”
“Did something happen between you?” I ask, my brows furrowed in confusion.
“Like what?”
My mouth pulls downward as I lift a shoulder. “I’m asking if there’s a reason you hate a guy who clearly cares about you.”
She scoffs. “He does not care about me.”
It’s hard to tell if she’s playing innocent or if she honestly doesn’t see the way he looks at her. “He does.”
She reaches out, her fingers white-knuckling her glass. “If he really cares about me he’d man up and act like it.”
“I think you terrify him.”
She tosses me a disbelieving look. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious. Carter’s usually easy to talk to about anything—anything but you.”
Tossing her hair over her shoulder in a flustered manner, she huffs. “Don’t know why that would be.”
All right, so she’s a tough nut to crack then. I’m not going to push her to talk about something that clearly makes her uncomfortable. To level the playing field, I decide to tell her, “I’ve never been good at holidays.”
“Really?” she asks, brows raised in surprise. “You seem to have been enjoying yourself at the festival.”
“Andrea has a gift for making a lot of things feel easier.”
She nods in agreement. “She tends to always be exactly where she’s needed. It’s kind of her thing.” There’s a small smile that sneaks past her hardened exterior. “When did it become real for you?”
“It never wasn’t,” I answer honestly.
Where I expect to find skepticism, I only see approval. “That’s the right answer. So, is Christmas the worst for you?” At my nod, she continues, “Me, too. Thanksgiving is a close second.”
Recalling the things Andrea told me about her parents, I say, “It must be hard for you to have to split your time.”
“Hence why I ended up on a flight to Maine with the devil himself.”
I chuckle. “Whatever he’s done can’t be that bad.”
“No,” she admits quietly. “It’s more complicated than that. I just—he sees me differently than most and I can’t stand it.” Pressing her elbows onto the counter, she fists her hair. “I can’t talk about it, not even to Andrea. ”
“I’m neck-deep in trauma, so if you ever need someone to listen, I’m here. I’m not much of a sharer myself, so I get it.”
Her eyes soften with sadness. “What was it like when you were younger?” she asks softly.
“Let’s just say I would rather my parents have gotten a divorce.”
She presses her lips together, nodding. “I’m sorry. Have you ever wondered how things could have worked out differently if they made different choices?”
I shake my head. “It was lonely and terrible mostly, but every second of it led me to everything I’ve accomplished today.
It led me to my people; the ones I’ve been searching for my entire life.
I’d never wish what I went through on anyone and yet, I can’t imagine my life being any different.
If it were, I may have never met Andrea Sommers.
She makes me forget my scars exist.” The beat of my heart changes at the thought of her as if readying itself for her attention.
“She’s color in all my darkest parts. I can’t imagine a different life because I don’t want to.
Not if it strays from the path leading me to her. ”
She waves her hands at her glistening eyes, blinking rapidly. “You just earned like a million points in my book. I’m so mentioning this in my maid of honor speech.”
My throat goes dry. “I’m not sure if she feels the same way.”
“Are you kidding?” She scoffs. “You brought life back into her.”
“I did?”
With a shake of her head, she states disappointedly, “I never took you for a blind man.”
I chuckle. “I do have my moments, unfortunately. . .but you really think so?”
She grins. “I forgot what it looks like when someone’s in love. Ugh, it’s not contagious, is it?”
“Would it be so bad if it was?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“The end of the world, quite frankly.” She taps her fingers against the counter with a huff. “Well, I no longer feel filled with self-pity, so I should probably go to sleep before it comes back.”
I smile, grabbing both of our glasses before standing.
I go around the counter to pour the water down the sink.
Sensing her lingering at the bottom of the stairs, I say, “You know, for the record, Carter isn’t a terrible guy.
Sure, he has his moments, but he’s good.
Better than most, actually. He just isn’t keen on always showing it. ”
“I know,” she says softly. “That's why I hate him.”
I open the dishwasher to set the glasses on the rack. “Do you really?”
My question is met with silence and it gives me the real answer before she does. As we both head up the stairs, I can feel conflict rolling off her in waves. It isn’t until we go to part ways at the top that she speaks again.
“Julian,” she calls out quietly, careful not to wake the others. I turn to look at her, waiting patiently. She swallows thickly. “Carter saved me once. He just doesn’t know it.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “The truth is, I don’t hate him; not even a little bit.”
Before I can respond, she walks into her room and shuts the door.