Silent Night, Filthy Night

Chapter 1

Cole

Anail gun jams and lets out a hiss that sounds like it’s laughing at me. Perfect. Monday and the equipment already has jokes.

I wedge my boot against the stud, strip a glove with my teeth, and reset the compressor.

Snow drifts through the rib cage of the house we’re framing, flakes settling on raw beams that still smell like pine and rain.

December at the edge of Denver is moody as hell.

It’s sun one second, the next a slap of wind cold enough to make your eyes water and your patience thin.

My phone buzzes against my chest under the flannel.

Maddie: Emergency.

The last time my little sister sent a text like that, she’d set a pumpkin pie on fire while she was home alone at our parents’ house, trying to surprise Mom by taking dessert off her plate.

We still refer to that Thanksgiving as The Great Burnt Pumpkin Incident and tease her relentlessly about how she almost left Mom and Dad homeless instead.

A call follows a few seconds later and I swipe to answer. “If this emergency involves frosting, call a bakery this time.”

“Very funny. This is important,” she chirps, cheerful as always. “You remember my best friend, Hailey Simpson, right?”

I lean a shoulder into the stud, glancing through the frame at my crew. “You mean the woman you’ve been living with since college?” I laugh. “Of course I remember her, Maddie. She was always scurrying around our house behind you with braces and a stack of books.”

Maddie laughs too. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered that she and I still lived together.” She snorts. “But anyway, yeah, she hasn’t looked like that in a long time.”

“Okay… and what about her?” I ask, confused as to how this has anything to do with me.

“Oh, right! Well, she just landed her dream job in Denver!”

“That’s good. Congrats to her. You calling to brag for her or—”

“Volunteer you actually,” she barrels on. “She doesn’t really have the money for movers after spending it all on her master’s this year, so we’re driving a U-Haul that’s packed to the roof and towing her little car behind it. You’re the muscles when we get there, big brother. Congratulations.”

Of course. I laugh again, shaking my head. “At least I’ll get to see you out of it.”

“And it will be the highlight of your week.” She quips but then pauses, her voice softening. “Hey… are you still not coming home for Christmas?”

Out past the skeletal frame, the foothills sit under a low ceiling of pewter-colored clouds.

The air smells like a snowstorm might be rolling in.

My chest tightens. I haven’t made it a habit of going home for Christmas—not since the holiday season was ruined by my ex.

It’s a truth my entire family avoids, everyone tiptoeing around asking if I’ll be home this year.

“We’re behind on a couple projects,” I say truthfully. “The damn weather’s so unpredictable out here. Probably stay in Denver this year.”

She goes quiet for a beat that lands heavy. “Mom’s gonna pout.”

“She always pouts.”

“Just—think about it?”

“I will.”

“Lies.” There’s a soft smile in her voice, the one she uses when she knows she’s right. “Anyway, okay. So. Hailey. We went out last night and it was so fun but also bittersweet—it’s our last Chicago Christmas party together before she moves.”

Her voice is upbeat, but I know she’s sadder than she’s letting on. I don’t think I’ve heard a single story over the last ten years that didn’t have Hailey in it. They’ve been practically inseparable since high school. Maddie’s happy for her friend, sure, but I can hear the loss under it too.

“Oh yeah? You guys behave?”

“Of course. What kind of question is that?”

“You know what I mean—did the guys behave?”

“I’m not twenty-one anymore, Cole. I can handle the boys.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” I laugh, picturing Maddie shoving her finger in some guy’s face, reminding him she’s got a brother who could bury him in drywall dust.

“Even Hailey let loose. She never does shots, but she was the one double-fisting them last night. I’m proud of her for doing something fun instead of hugging a cardboard box and crying.”

“Proud of drinking?”

“No, proud of living, Cole,” she huffs. “She’s excited, but she’s terrified. New city, new job, no family, no best friend. And you’re in luck because I told her my grumpy brother would make it feel less scary. You’re basically the Denver welcome wagon for her.”

I snort. “I don’t think welcome wagon and me belong in the same sentence.”

“Don’t be modest. You’re a grump with a heart of gold. It’s your brand.”

My phone pings, another message from her. I frown. “Why are you texting me while you’re talking to me?”

“It’s a picture from last night. We were doing a shotski of eggnog with our friends.”

I peel off my glove and thumb open the message. There’s a line of six people holding a ski with shot glasses fastened to it. I don’t recognize anyone except Maddie. Then I look to her right.

The woman next to her is stunning. Her smile is wide, lighting up her whole face. My eyes drop for half a second. She’s wearing a low-cut sweater that shows off her full cleavage and I glance away like she might catch me.

“Cute,” I mutter. “Looks like you had fun.”

I go back for another look, expecting Hailey to be tucked somewhere in the background. But she’s not. Then it hits me. I look at the woman again, squinting to make sure. Yup, she’s the woman I just checked out. That shy kid who used to blush if I said hello is gone, replaced by a sexy little vixen.

Maddie keeps talking. “Anyway, we roll out Saturday at four a.m. sharp. We’re driving straight through because we both hate road trips.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“Don’t worry, we have built some amazing playlists and have a decent snack budget so it should be tolerable. Anyway, I’ll text you along the way. Love you. See you Saturday!” she sings and hangs up before I can argue.

The wind whistles through the empty window frames, snapping a loose plastic tarp.

Silence rolls in thicker than the clouds.

I tuck the phone back into my pocket and stare at the house skeleton in front of me, the one my guys are supposed to finish before Christmas.

Beyond the frame, the mountains fade into a gray cloud bank and my mind does what it does whenever my mind and the jobsite go quiet.

It wanders right back to small-town Illinois.

Flat fields, water towers, and nothing to do but get in trouble. A town where everybody knows your parents’ names, your GPA, and who posted your mugshot to Facebook the night the cops hauled you out of Ryan Keener’s garage.

I can still smell the ditch weed and cheap beer.

Still hear the way the fun died when the cruisers rolled up and hauled me off in handcuffs.

I can’t remember which arrest number it was that night, but I know it was my last. Between skipping school and getting into fights, I kept the cops busy.

It was stupid stuff, petty misdemeanors the cops would just roll their eyes at, but the second I decided I was grown enough to steal a car is when the fun ended for me.

I barely graduated. My guidance counselor told me there were “still opportunities” if I applied myself. Dad said nothing for two days and then handed me a catalog from the community college like it was a life preserver. I stared at it and thought, I’m going to drown anyway.

So I ran away.

Colorado wasn’t a dream so much as a direction. Eighteen, pocket of cash, truck that could die at any minute, and a number a guy gave me for a framing crew in Lakewood.

My first month out here I slept in my truck so I could save everything I made.

The second month I upgraded to a mattress on a studio floor of one of the other construction guys and ate ramen until my tongue burned.

I kept my head down and my focus on learning everything I possibly could.

My days consisted of nothing but framing at dawn.

Demo on weekends. Hauling, sweeping, cutting, and pretty much any other bitchwork the older guys didn’t want to do.

It wasn’t just a lesson in building; it was a lesson in humility.

Within three years I was running a crew, and by five years I’d started my own company, Bristol Custom Homes. I look at the beam in front of me and lay my palm against it like I’m taking a pulse. As silly as it sounds, all of this saved my life.

I think about Hailey moving out here. I know what it’s like to start over alone. To unlock a door to a place that barely has furniture and tell yourself it’s home because you paid the deposit. To walk into a grocery store and realize you don’t know where anything is.

A gust slaps my cheek. I blink, my eyes watering from the wind. My knuckles ache with cold. Somewhere a tarp snaps like a flag.

Christmas nudges the edge of my thoughts, persistent and unwanted.

I should go home. I know it. The hutch I’ve been working on at night for weeks would be a lot easier to drive home rather than crate and ship.

I’d love to see Mom’s face when she opens it anyway.

It’s the style she’s been talking about for ages.

Shaker lines, pegged shelves, dovetailed drawers that slide like butter.

I picked the stain to match her dining table, the one she won at a church auction in ’98.

I can already see her running a hand over the top like it’s something holy.

She’ll put the wedding china in there and pretend she isn’t crying when she thanks me.

Go home, man.

But then she pops into my head. The entire reason I gave up on this holiday a long fucking time ago.

Five years ago, two weeks before Christmas, there was a ring box on my counter and a note that said I can’t do this.

No speech. No reasons. Just a hole where a future used to sit.

People like to talk about closure like it’s a package that arrives if you wait long enough.

But it never came and instead, I let it leave me jaded with a family that learned to pretend the holiday didn’t exist when I was around.

I rub my thumb over the ridge of my palm and look toward nothing.

Maybe I go this year. White lights in the square.

Mom’s casseroles. Dad trying to force the family into caroling with the neighbors again.

Maddie kicking my leg under the table every time one of our parents says something ridiculous that we want to talk about later among ourselves.

Or maybe I do what I’ve done the last few years. Just stay put, volunteer at the Christmas Market, and work.

I square my shoulders, scan the site one more time, and listen to the wind thread through the studs with a low whistle. The mountains have vanished into white and I want to get home before the snow makes its way any closer.

I climb into my truck and sit for a second, watching the sky close in. The snow has started to fall. I feel the guilt of skipping another Christmas clutch at me, the disappointed tone in Maddie’s voice when she asked if I was coming home.

I tell myself to focus on what’s in front of me.

The weekend. Seeing my sister. Helping her and her best friend haul boxes.

Christmas can stay where it always does, on the other side of the line I drew five years ago.

I don’t need lights or casseroles or carols to remind me of what’s missing.

I’ve got enough ghosts this time of year.

I start the truck, crank the heat, and tap the steering wheel until the defrost kicks in. This week, I’ll keep my head down. Finish the job. Help Maddie. Help Hailey.

Then, if I’m lucky, I’ll make it through another December without letting Christmas find me.