Chapter 13 #2
He takes a breath, gathering himself, then continues: “My dad wasn’t around as much that year.
My mom made excuses. He was busy at the store.
We did the festive things without him. And then on Christmas Eve, he didn’t come home.
He didn’t show up on Christmas Day either.
When I asked where he was, my mom burst into tears.
The day after Christmas, he picked me up—and there was a woman in the car.
Turns out, my dad found someone new. Younger.
He spent Christmas with her, and every Christmas after.
They had two kids—my half-siblings. And my mom was never the same. ”
He looks at me. Despite the cold, my free hand is clamped over my mouth in shock. “King of Christmas, my ass,” he says, eyes sharp and sad all at once.
“Oh my God,” is all I can whisper.
“I know you feel like you missed out,” he says, jamming his hands into his pockets, “but for some of us, Christmas is an annual reminder of a very dark time.”
I don’t know what to say. I stand frozen, stunned.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. My fingers twitch with the urge to take Eben’s hand, touch his face, and slide my arms around his neck.
“Don’t be,” he says. He starts walking, turning down a dirt path that leads to the rose garden. I follow. “Being here with you is nice, even if it is a secular light display. Doesn’t make it any less magical.”
“I’m partial to a few Dickensian carolers myself, but the fear of being abducted by tiny snow fairies is a close second,” I say, huffing into my freezing hand—the one not hugging a paper cup of lukewarm Swiss Miss (it was better last year, I swear).
“Are you cold?” he asks, side-eyeing my sad attempts to warm up.
“Always.” I bury my free hand deeper in my pocket and shiver.
“Where are your gloves?” He asked once already, and I ignored him. This time, there’s a hint of disappointed-dad vibes. My chest puffs up. I am a grown woman, and I can forget my gloves if I want to.
“Where are yours?” I volley back.
“I don’t need them. Here.”
He plucks my hand from my coat pocket and tucks it into his coat. His warmth floods my fingers, then races up my face and, fine, other places. Good God, how is this man not married?
I love her more than anything.
I swat away the fear that he’s already taken. That’s just me being paranoid. I hope.
His thumb brushes my knuckles; my knees go soft. I will myself not to swoon. Collapsing on our first date is not ideal.
He leads me to a gazebo that shoots slow-moving, colorful lasers into fog. The music here is more ambient techno. Couples snuggle on benches with churros and spiked ciders, giggling and sneaking kisses with the illusion of privacy.
We claim the last empty bench, my hand still tucked safely in the warmth of his coat pocket. I look around. Eben leans over to whisper in my ear.
“This is weird,” he says. I giggle. It is weird, but I like it. His breath skims my cheek, and a shiver shoots down my spine that isn’t from the cold.
I look up; he’s looking down. I flush, gulp down the last of my hot chocolate, and set the empty cup on the bench.
“Your turn,” he murmurs near my ear. “To answer my question.”
Why did you decide to volunteer at Forest Park?
I stare into the fog, not ready to meet his eyes, not even sure why his question hits so hard.
There's a lot in my past I haven't shared with anyone—except maybe Ally.
My heart ticks faster, like it's urging me to open up, but vulnerability has never been easy for me. The truth is, leaving the Heralds wasn’t just an escape; it left behind a vacuum of love and belonging I haven't yet filled.
Eben's warmth beside me is comforting, and when he squeezes my hand, I find a little courage.
“Well…” I take a long breath. “My grandma worked like a CIA agent to make sure I had a few secret Christmas memories as a kid, so I wouldn’t feel left out, which to her was the worst thing you could do to a child.
We celebrated quietly in her basement, and she broke all my parents’ rules to make it happen.
She used to say, ‘Sometimes parents make dumb decisions.’ I think that was her way of overruling my mom and dad without feeling bad about it. ”
“So now you’re sentimental about both Christmas and old people?”
I laugh, grateful for his abridged summary of my life.
But the smile fades as something heavier washes over me.
“Sometimes I worry I'll never find that feeling of home again,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Not like with my grandma on those secret Christmases. I can surround myself with shiny baubles and trees and lights, but the fear of never belonging is always lurking.”
Inside his pocket, his hand traces my knuckles, back and forth.
I flex my fingers in invitation, and he takes it, interlocking until our palms meet.
All my awareness funnels to that point of contact.
His broad hand stretches my tiny fingers wide.
His thumb strokes the center of my palm.
I close my eyes and ride the sensation of warmth and friction between us.
My whole body tingles with how good it feels—our fingers twined together in his pocket.
Somehow better than any sexual encounter I’ve ever had.
When I open my eyes, I can feel him watching me. I gather my courage and look up. The lights reflect in his gaze, but there’s something else there too—the promise of more. Of belonging… with him. My heart skips.
“Melody,” he murmurs. I see his breath; it ghosts across my face, my nose, my lips. “Can I kiss you?”
I swallow and nod, suddenly nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve kissed anyone, and I want to get it right. I run my tongue over my lips, and Eben’s eyes track the movement.
With his free hand, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then traces my jaw from ear to chin. His thumb slides across my bottom lip, parting it as he leans in. The moment is perfect—until my cult-induced Spidey sense kicks in.
I yank away like I’ve been electrocuted.
“Melody?” Eben asks, but I can’t answer. I can barely breathe.
Ten feet away, looking directly at me, is my family.