Chapter 16
Rachel
Ibarely manage to grab Cayce before his small fingers reach the dancing flames. My heart slams against my ribs as I pull him away from the cast iron fire stove nestled in the corner of Jocelyne’s cabin living room.
“Hot,” he protests, squirming in my arms. “I just wanted to see—”
“No touching.” I press my face into his dark hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with the sharp winter air still clinging to him. “Yes, it’s hot. That’s why you can’t touch fire, baby.”
Around us, the cabin buzzes with the controlled chaos of arrival. Bags crowd the entryway like sleeping animals, winter boots leaving dark puddles on the wooden floors. Martine’s voice carries from the kitchen, directing Surinder about proper placement of the groceries.
Of course, the way I placed stuff wasn’t good enough.
Anjali’s kids—or should I say, her adults—are loudly catching up with Jocelyne, sharing news from CEGEP and university.
And I stand here, clutching my son, trying to remember how to breathe.
“But Daddy says I’m brave,” Cayce argues, still fixated on the flames. “Like a dragon.”
The mention of Karan sends a fresh wave of anger through me. He should be here, helping me wrangle our adventure-seeking son. Instead, he’s probably still hunched over his computer in Montréal fixing someone else’s mistakes.
“Even dragons can get burned.” I set Cayce down but keep hold of his hand. “Why don’t you help me unpack? Then maybe we can make hot chocolate.”
His face lights up at the suggestion. Those happy eyes remind me so much of Karan that it hurts. Both twins inherited their father’s expressive brown eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners when they smile. Usually, these similarities warm my heart.
Today, they sting like tiny daggers.
“Can I have marshmallows?”
“Three,” I say firmly, already anticipating Martine’s protest that he should have more because it’s Christmas.
If Martine had her way, my sons would walk away from this cabin with diabetes and insomnia.
We head toward our bags, and Corey appears from wherever he was hiding, drawn by the mention of hot chocolate.
Both boys start pulling things from their backpacks, which creates more chaos, but I can’t bring myself to stop them.
Their excitement, their pure joy at being here, is the only thing keeping me from screaming.
The fire crackles behind us, throwing dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, snow falls in thick flakes and coats my rental car. The ferry crossing feels like a distant nightmare, but its effects linger in my tight shoulders and pounding head.
Two weeks. I just have to get through two weeks of this. Two weeks of Martine’s hovering, of Surinder’s disapproving looks, of pretending everything’s fine for the kids.
Two weeks until I can ask their father for a divorce.
The cabin’s familiar scents of pine and woodsmoke fill my nose as Karan’s nineteen-year-old cousin Aisha sits on the couch near the fire stove.
“How’s my favourite baby cousin?” she asks Cayce, who is all too happy to rush toward her to play.
“Rachel, honey.” Martine’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Where are you putting the boys’ snacks? They should be somewhere accessible.”
I close my eyes briefly and count to five in my head. “The blue basket on the counter, like at home.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t the top cabinet be better? Then they won’t be tempted all day.”
Before I can respond and argue that she literally just said the snacks should be accessible, she’s already rearranging everything. The sound of containers being shifted makes my jaw clench.
“Mommy, look!” Corey holds up a framed photo he’s found, his small fingers smudging the glass. “Is that you and Daddy?”
My throat tightens as I look at the image. Karan and me, maybe six years ago, standing in front of this very fireplace. His arms are wrapped around me from behind, his chin resting on my head. We’re both laughing at something off-camera. Our joy shines, even through the slightly faded photograph.
I was pregnant in that picture, though the bump was hardly visible. Our smiles held all our hopes and dreams.
“Yes, baby.” I take the photo from him gently. “That’s us.”
“Daddy looks different,” Cayce observes, peering at the picture. “His tummy was bigger.”
Karan did lose some weight this year. I never cared about his weight, but now, it’s yet another worry on my shoulders. Another sign that this job is leeching the life out of him.
A loud crash from the kitchen saves me from responding. Anjali has dropped a pot while unpacking with her husband Suresh.
“Sorry!” she calls out, but she’s giggling. Suresh joins in while Aisha rolls her eyes at her mother’s clumsiness.
“Auntie Anjali has butter fingers,” Aisha tells my boys, and soon their laughter mingles with everyone else’s, turning the cabin into a symphony of joy I wish I could join.
“Children should help in the kitchen,” Surinder comments from his perch by the window, his tone heavy with meaning. “It teaches responsibility.”
I bite back a retort about how my children are five and already dealing with enough changes. Instead, I focus on unpacking their clothes, knowing Martine will probably rearrange those too when I’m not looking.
The snow falls harder outside, thick flakes obscuring the view of the bay of beautiful Cull’s Harbour. Somewhere out there, a ferry cuts through dark waters, carrying more holiday travelers toward their own complicated family gatherings.
I wonder if any of them are also planning to end their marriage when it’s all over.
A day and a half crawls by in a blur of forced smiles and careful navigation around Martine’s ‘helpful’ suggestions. The twins’ excitement grows with each passing hour, their questions about Daddy’s arrival becoming more frequent, more urgent.
When I finally hear the crunch of tires on snow, my whole body tenses.
The boys freeze mid-play, their heads snapping toward the sound like synchronized puppets. Then Cayce drops his toy dragon, and Corey abandons his puzzle.
“Daddy!” They bolt for the door as it swings open.
A blast of frigid air sweeps in, carrying snowflakes and the scent of winter. And there he is, filling the doorframe. Snow dusts his dark hair wrapped in a bun and catches in his beard, his cheeks red from the wind.
Our eyes meet over the boys’ heads as he scoops them both up, one in each arm. Despite everything, my breath catches. He looks exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but he’s still heartbreakingly handsome.
Still the man who’s owned my heart since I first laid eyes on him.
“Oh, my boys… I missed you so much!” His voice is rough with emotion as he hugs our sons close.
They cling to him like little monkeys, talking over each other in their excitement to tell him everything he’s missed.
“The ferry was huge!”
“We saw whales!”
“Grandma let us have chocolate for breakfast!”
That last one makes Karan's eyes find mine again. A question forms in them, an acknowledgment of how much has happened in his absence. I look away first.
“Rachel.” He sets the boys down but keeps his hands on their shoulders. “I’m so sorry, again. I hope I can—”
“Your bags are still in the car?” I cut him off, unable to handle his apologies right now.
Not when I can smell his cologne—the same one I gave him for our anniversary—mixed with cold air and something uniquely him.
It’s going to distract me from what I have resolved to do.
He nods, and I grab my coat from the hook. “I’ll help you bring them in.”
“Oh, I can—”
“It's fine.” I’m already moving past him, careful not to brush against him in the narrow entryway. “The boys need to finish their puzzle anyway, so you can help them with that.”
The cold hits me like a slap, but it’s better than staying inside. Better than watching him with our children and remembering all the reasons I fell in love with him. Better than seeing how easily he fits into this family gathering, like he never left us stranded at the airport.
Because of course his family is proud of him for being a hard worker.
The snow crunches under my boots as I make my way to his rental car. Behind me, the door slams shut, then his familiar footsteps sound out as he follows me into the gathering dusk.
Once back inside, the stairway to the guest rooms is impossibly narrow. It forces us closer together than I’ve been to Karan in weeks as we carry his luggage to our room. His suitcase bumps against each step as I back up the stairs, guiding it while he lifts from below.
“Careful,” he murmurs when I stumble slightly, his hand brushing mine on the handle and sending an electric shock through my system.
The touch catapults me back fourteen years, to our first Christmas here. We’d snuck up these same stairs after everyone was asleep, giggling and drunk on cheap wine and youth. Karan had pressed me against this wall, his kisses tasting of peppermint, the fire for him burning deep in my belly.
Now, the memory sits like lead in my stomach.
We reach the landing, and I step aside to let him maneuver the suitcase into our room.
Our room.
The words feel wrong now, like trying to squeeze into clothes you’ve outgrown.
The space is exactly as I remember it. A queen bed is pushed against the wall, handmade quilt in shades of blue and grey, a small window overlooking the bay. And nothing was wrong with the room for the last two nights I’ve slept in it.
But now, seeing Karan set his bag next to mine, everything feels different.
Smaller. More confining.
My wedding ring catches the late afternoon light streaming through the window. A shiver runs down my spine.
“Rachel.” Karan’s voice is soft, hesitant. “Can we talk?”
Before I can answer, thundering footsteps on the stairs announce the arrival of our sons. They burst into the room like a tornado, climbing over the bed and each other to reach their father.
“Daddy! Come see the fort we made!”
“No, first you have to see my drawing!”
“But you promised to read us a story!”