Page 43 of My Secret Santa Dallas

As I write this letter, I keep staring at the note you had left on your bed, praying that you are okay. I don’t know if you are aware, but I tried to follow you but lost your trail. By this time, I hope you are wherever you are, safe, sound, and ready to tackle your dreams.

I can only hope that one day you’ll return, and we can work on tractors with you, be at a Super Bowl party together, or listen to you gripe when your Mom volunteers for the church bake sale.

I miss you, Dallas, but believe me when I say there is no bad blood between us. I wish you all the good things in this world, and if the evil days come by, I wish you’ll weather them and push forward, too.

All the love,

Dad.

If I hadn’t known how to feel about this before, I sure didn’t know what to do about it now.

With the subsequent three letters, I tracked the same forgiving feeling coming through the pages from the first letter; Dad sometimes rambled, like the stream of thoughts in his head was coming through his pen. But he had never blamed me or told me I was at fault.

It still felt like a gut punch and a cauterizing brand at the same time. Dad may not have been able to reach me byphone, snail mail, fax, or hell, skywriting— and I was at fault for that, too— but he’d reached into my heart with these letters.

Training my gaze out the windows, I looked out into the night. It was moonless, but that didn’t stop me from seeing the snowfall; it was getting thicker by the minute. By morning, I guessed we’d have about a foot and a half of snow on the ground, and the town would torpedo into Christmas mode.

I heard the creak of the steps behind me, but I didn’t turn around to look, not even when I heard the kitchen cupboard open. Marie was probably putting something to brine or marinate, as the guys never came into the house beyond nine. It was one in the morning.

Dropping the sixth letter, I reached for my glass of whisky only to find it empty— but then saw a slim hand drop a glass of whisky on the table and pluck the empty one away.

Before Blair could walk away, I grabbed her wrist— my hand was comically large around her wrist. My thumb ran over her inner wrist, and I felt her shiver. I didn’t know what to do when I pulled her in to brush my lips over hers.

At any other time, I’d want something else, but not now. I just wanted some simple comfort, and the small kiss I got from her was just that. I didn’t need sex. Not now.

“Why are you up?” I asked.

“I’m working on another proposal,” Blair said. “And I can’t sleep. So, when I can’t sleep, I work. And no, before you get on it, it’s not to lowball anyone. It’s the Portman charity run for New Year's.”

“Oh,” my head quirked. “Who would want to run on New Year's Morning? Shouldn’t they be in bed, recovering from near alcohol overload?”

She laughed and cocked her hip on the back of the couch. “Some do. Have you ever been to Georgia at the peak of winter? January? Men are jogging in the rain shirtless.”

“Insanity exists.” I snorted. “Do you participate in these things? Do you run?”

“Nope.” Blair shrugged. “I do give the winners their medals, though.” She then nodded to the letters. “I’ll leave you be.”

“Is work really what’s gotten you up?” I asked. “Today, at the church, you looked upset.”

The corner of her mouth tightened. “My brother was pissing me off, telling me that I had to come back home for our annual ball and hospital drive. I told him I want no part of that circus, so he can go and kick rocks.”

I snorted. “What is your brother’s deal?”

“He’s a pseudointellectual sciolist narcissist,” Blair shrugged.

“Translation?”

“He’s a pretentious prick who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”

Snorting, I waved to the letters. “Well, it seems you were right. There is no tribe coming with the torches and pitchforks. I still have a ways to go, but at least the guilt is lessening.”

She slid her fingers into my hair. “Good.”

My head lolled back, arching into her touch. “Are you prepared for the town tomorrow? I can guarantee the townspeople have spun the Christmas dial to a thousand. It's Christmas crack on steroids.”

Blair grinned. “Good. I can observe the natives in the wild.”

“You’re something else,” I snorted. “Go to bed before you lose fifteen hours of beauty sleep.”

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