CHAPTER TWO
Eight Days Until Christmas
Barrett
“Who are you?” I demand, brushing my hair behind my ears.
“Sergei.” He looks me up and down. “Mikhailov.”
“That’s my suitcase!” I exclaim with irritation.
“I know,” he replies in a thick Russian accent.
I blink at him and his lack of explanation. “Then why do you have it?”
“I’m supposed to pick you up. Brett said she told you.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Right now, I still think some leviathan with eyes just as icy as his demeanor tried to steal my suitcase. This is the point where I dig my phone out of my pocket and finally look at the rest of my texts.
brETT (3:09PM): Omggg I’m so sorry, I fell asleep because I was up all night with Ev!
Col’s still at work and there’s no way I’ll get there in time, but our friend, Sergei, is closer and said he can pick you up.
I sent him a pic of you so he knows what you look like.
He’s a really tall Russian guy with long blonde hair and he looks like a lumberjack.
You can’t miss him. Don’t worry, he’s a good guy.
Honestly, you’re probably safer riding with him than my sleep-deprived ass…
When I glance back up, he’s still staring at me with the seriousness of a heart attack, waiting for me to comply.
Brett’s right, Sergei does look like a lumberjack.
He might even be taller than Colson, which I didn’t think was possible, and his French braids and blonde shadow of a beard make him look like he stepped out of a Viking documentary.
And what am I to do? Apparently, now he’s my ride up the mountain.
When he offers his hand, I barely have to hang on as he lifts me off the floor with barely any effort.
I officially introduce myself, to which he eyes me suspiciously and I follow him out the automatic doors into the sub-zero wind.
I clench my teeth and pull my hood tight beneath my chin as we trek toward the short-term lot.
Sergei, however, doesn’t bat an eye at the same wind that burns my cheeks and eyes.
Finally, we reach a black Toyota Tundra outfitted with flood lights, a back rack, and multiple truck boxes.
Sergei tosses my suitcase in the back seat and I climb inside as fast as I can.
I should text Brett that I found Sergei—or rather, he found me, but I’m so over the entire journey, topped off with Caleb’s douchey behavior, that I can’t fathom looking at my phone again for fear of what I’ll discover next.
Instead, I stare out the window and take the opportunity to space out to the dull roar of the stereo.
And I do mean roar. Apparently, Sergei is a fan of metal.
“You’re not very talkative, are you?” he finally asks about 30 minutes into the ride.
“I talk for a living. So, when I’m not working, I just like the quiet.” I glance at his stoic face. “Seems like you like the quiet, too.”
“You’re the therapist, yes?”
“Do you need one?” It’s my usual response, which qualifies as both a joke and a surprisingly effective marketing technique.
“Are you always this wound up?” he asks, giving me pause.
“What do you mean, wound up?” I squint back at him.
“Therapists are supposed to be a calming influence, no? I help you with your luggage and then you start yelling and jumping on me like a squirrel on a nut.”
Instantly, heat blooms across my cheeks.
“You’re the one who appeared out of nowhere and walked off with my suitcase!” I snap. “Not even a hi, I’m your ride, and don’t worry, I’m not a psycho!”
“You’re wound up now,” Sergei says with nonchalance.
My eyes bulge and I set my jaw.
“I was detained by airport security because they thought I was a serial killer, some unhinged woman chased me through the airport throwing her shoes at me, I barely made my connection, and the severe turbulence nearly resulted in a crash landing, and then—” I stop right before divulging Caleb’s weirdo texts. “Yes, I’m a little on edge.”
Sergei’s skepticism is unwavering. “Therapists can’t be serial killers.”
That’s all he can say?
“Technically, Hannibal Lecter was a therapist.” I also like throwing this one out there.
But he doesn’t miss a beat.
“How do you like your meat cooked?”
Before I can respond, we take a sharp left and turn onto a gravel drive flanked by a wall of trees.
Soon, the house I’ve only seen in photos with its wood siding, wide front porch, and snow-covered roof appears before me.
I didn’t realize we were so close. Then again, time flies when you’re disassociating.
I’m so excited that I nearly forget about my horrific journey. I’m about to jerk open the back door of the Tundra when Sergei beats me to it and lifts my suitcase out of the back seat.
“Thanks,” I say as I meet him at the front of the truck. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He arches his brow, but says nothing, so I don’t argue further.
He looks like he could toss me and my suitcase off this mountain with a flick of his wrist. I follow him up to the porch adorned with rainbow Christmas lights and an evergreen wreath on the door.
Not five seconds after he rings the doorbell, the door flies open and I glimpse Brett’s wild mane of strawberry blonde ringlets.
“BARRETT!” she shrieks and leaps onto the porch.
I’m overcome with excitement, even as a tiny pang of sadness pierces my heart. We haven’t lived in the same city for a year and a half, and even though we text every day, it still feels like we should be going out for Thursday dinners and watching our TV shows together.
“How are you?” I ask when I finally manage to peel myself away.
“Exhausted,” she replies, motioning for us to come inside. “This is the most lively I’ve been in months. I probably need to go lie down now. But, seriously, I’m just glad you’re here!”
The house is warm and cozy and smells of vanilla and spice.
A tall Christmas tree lights up the corner in front of the window, covered in ornaments and warm white lights.
Colson is lounging on the sofa, settled back into the cushions with a baby curled up like a little tree frog on his chest. I hurry over and sit down next to him, overcome with the absolute adorableness of Ev’s chubby cheeks and wisps of red hair as she snoozes away.
I think I’m starting to get misty-eyed again.
But then I laugh to myself as I take in the scene.
If you’d told me back in college that I’d be sitting next to Colson Lutz—my best friend’s stalker—in their mountain hideaway while he holds their sleeping baby, I would’ve laughed in your face.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly jealous of Mark Holloway, the therapist I referred Colson to once they got to Colorado.
To be a fly on the wall during those sessions…
“Barrett,” Colson rumbles.
“How’s the little sprout?” I ask as I lean in for a hug.
“Perfect,” he replies. “She sleeps really well, just at the wrong times.” He glances across the room at Brett and lowers his voice. “Ev was sleeping most of the night but now she’s reverting and it’s killing Brett. I don’t know what to do.”
I shoot him a look. “You could get up with her.”
“Tell Brett that,” Colson grins. “I have a whole shelf of formula in the pantry, but she won’t hear it, not even for night feedings.”
I admire Brett’s conviction, ironclad in science and the power of breastmilk. But Colson’s right, she looks exhausted even while carrying on an animated conversation with Sergei, who’s still holding my suitcase.
“Sergei’s a lifesaver,” Brett declares, then looks up at him. “You’re staying for dinner, right?”
“I’ll accept it as payment,” he nods.
“We’re getting takeout,” she says to me. “We have a really good Lebanese place in town that you’re going to love.”
My mouth is already watering. In my panicked trek through two airports, I forgot to eat anything. And now I’m starting to identify with Ev as she wakes and starts gumming Colson’s chest. Brett crosses the living room, gently lifts her off his chest, and then takes a seat next to him.
“Sorry, baby,” Colson straightens up. “For all my stellar qualities, even I’m no match for you.”
I know Brett, and I know she’s probably drowning in guilt because she also refuses to ask anyone for help. This is the only reason I would ever dream of saying what I’m about to say.
“Colson’s right, you’re a freaking Super Woman. But I know you must be exhausted. Would supplementing with formula help at all?” I ask with feigned ignorance.
“Yes,” Brett sighs as she adjusts Ev against her chest. “I just haven’t gotten up the guts to use it. I don’t know…I know it’s dumb, but it would feel like I’m tapping out, like I failed.”
I know it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but it hurts my heart to hear it all the same.
“You wouldn’t be failing at anything.” Colson presses his nose into her hair. “We need to take care of you, too.”
“What if I did it?” I chime in.
“Did what?”
“I told you I’d help you while I’m here. But clearly, I’m not lactating, so this is the only way I can help you get more sleep. And you need to sleep. Plus, it’ll probably help Ev sleep longer, too.” At least, that’s what I’ve heard.
And who is Brett to argue? After the last couple of years, with what happened with Bowen and then following it up by giving birth, she needs a reprieve. And it takes her nearly a minute to respond.
“Alright,” she finally agrees. “But promise me that you’ll wake me up if it doesn’t work.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
Except I totally won’t, because now I’m committed. Ev will sleep, Brett will sleep, and a few days of spotty sleep won’t kill me. I guarantee that this will be the greatest Christmas gift of all.
“Oh,” I chirp as I rise from the sofa and start across the room, “thanks for bringing my suitcase in, Sergei.”