Page 1 of Holiday Tides

one

Summer

Ilove Christmas as much as the next girl—okay, I love itway, waymore—but no one wants to wake up at the crack of dawn to Mariah Carey belting the most beloved Christmas song of all time. By the time I realize the bell chimes ripping me from sleep aren’t the hospital’s Code Blue alarm, but the celesta intro to “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” I’ve shot from the bed and slid my glasses over sleep-crusted eyes.

The relief of not waking in a closet-sized call room is short-lived when Mariah Carey iconically slow-trills the word “I.” The songstress might as well be giving a live performance in my front yard; the soundwaves are rattling the sea salt-corroded clapboard siding of my new home. Milky light seeps through the inefficient vertical blinds as my shoulder muscles tighten.

Who in the name of Pete is blasting Christmas music at daybreak on a Saturday? Being that it’s December 1st, Christmas music is fair game, but listening to this decibel should be illegal,especiallyearly in the morning.

Forgoing shoes, I shoot down the stairs. Most people would need a moment or two to collect themselves, but that’s another benefit of pediatric physician training. I can go from the dead of sleep to saving a child’s life in less than a minute. I can also eat split pea soup while a nurse descriptively details the shade of a patient’s mucus. Impressive, I know.

I don’t even bother shutting the front door after storming through it. The broken heating unit didn’t warm the interior of the cottage last night. I had to sleep in flared leggings and an old sweatshirt beneath all the bedding I brought from my apartment, and it still felt like I was camping. I even debated wearing socks to bed but couldn’t do it. Socks and sheets have no business being bedfellows.

Mariah has nearly finished her drawn-out introduction as I fight with the rusted latch on the scalloped, white picket fence separating my property from the road. The grand three-story beach house facing the ocean—which could swallow my tiny cottage in one bite—is teeming with workers in leather toolbelts. A green dumpster and two sets of saw-laden carpentry horses crowd the driveway. Several trucks with the WB Renovations insignia are parked halfway into the narrow, two-lane road. Through the organized chaos, my ears locate the large Bluetooth speaker in the open truck bed of a well-loved Chevy. But next to it…

I blink a few more times because surely I’m not seeing an elaborate hot cocoa station. The ocean breeze steals what’s left of my bed-bundled warmth as I march kitty-corner across the road. Under normal circumstances, the festive setup would make me giddy with glee. An orange five-gallon cooler has a green handwritten sign, boastingHot Cocoa. Beside it, resting on a steadying piece of plywood, are bowls—red ceramic with white snowflakes—full of mini-marshmallows and unwrapped candycanes. Diner-style shakers are filled to the brim with red sugar sprinkles and chocolate shavings.

The broad shoulders of the man currently filling his dented silver tumbler to the brim with whipped cream sway as the song finally breaks into its upbeat tempo with a clamoring of piano, sleigh bells, and drums. Like most of the workers, only a long-sleeved shirt tops his pants and boots. Puffers, jackets, and Carhartt vests litter the grass like it isn’t forty degrees outside.

This close to the speaker, each note is pounding down my throat. I’m half a second from lurching for the off button when the man stops his dancing to tilt back his head, squirting whipped cream into his mouth. Something about the way his wavy coffee-brown hair tumbles back makes my stomach bottom out.

I remember that hair, that neck. I used to stare menacingly at it during AP English over a decade ago. Three freckles dot down the center of his spine, resembling Orion’s Belt.

Unless he’s got a freckle doppelganger, the man two feet from me is Nick Watson.

My high school rival.

Curdled milk hits the back of my throat as I struggle to swallow.

Wilks Beach is the dictionary definition of small town. It’s a wonderland of surf, sand, and everybody knowing everybody. I’d been looking forward to reuniting with locals I haven’t seen since I moved away for school and medical residency. Though, if I were to run intothis particular local, I’d have preferred it to be when I was showered with my blonde bob combed instead of the Medusa-inspired style I’m likely sporting now.

Also, mascara would’ve been nice.

Adrenaline pistons through my veins, making my retreating step jerky. Nick spins, and surprise morphs his features before my name pops from his lips—lips that are currently holdingmassivequantities of whipped cream. My glasses prevent the slippery white mess from blinding me as the rest sprays over my face and navy sweater in blotches.

Perfect. Now, it truly feels like high school. Never mind that I worked my buns off to realize my dream of being a pediatrician, becoming the first in my family to not only complete college but also a graduate program. One word from Nick’s mouth and I’m reduced to an embarrassing meme. All I need now is the rest of his soccer team buddies to laugh along with him.

Only, Nick doesn’t laugh.

He wipes his mouth, saying my name a second time. “Summer. I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect—”

“Turn. It. Off.” Irritation over waking at dawn on my day off—even to a delightful holiday romp—has intensified into venom.

It takes Nick’s stupidly handsome face a few seconds to realize I mean the music.

Stupid handsome.

That was the descriptor my best friend, Kayla, and I had used for Nick Watson in high school. Because one person shouldn’t be allowed to be that attractive while also being the captain of the soccer team, in honors or advanced placement everything, and the son of the wealthiest family in Wilks Beach. The memory of joking with my best friend, knowing I can’t anymore, hits me like an icepick to the temple. I push against the moisture misting my eyes. I will not cry in front of the man who made high school miserable, who relentlessly mocked me while competing for every academic opportunity I needed to win a scholarship for college.

I willnot.

Nick’s index finger taps the speaker, and construction noise replaces Mariah’s impressive vocal escapades as my hand casually raises to flick the whipped cream off my cheek. I’m often covered in fluids that aren’t my own. Occupational hazard.Kids snot, spit, tear, and occasionally vomit all over the place. A two-year-old will cough directly into your eyeballs if given the chance. In fact, they seem to prefer doing so.

“It’s so good to see you.” His gaze darts over my whipped cream-speckled face.

“I’m sure.”

My muttered words only draw Nick closer. The impulse to grab a candy cane to cover my morning breath makes my fingers twitch.

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