Page 40 of A Very Addicted Christmas

I take the sweater. I can’t speak.

A fist is now in my throat.

His eyes are full of tormented things, and he cuts his gaze to the rattling window. And quietly, so very quietly, he whispers, “Goodnight, Donnelly.”

And he leaves. He leaves with his glass of water and without another sound.

I’d think I hallucinated the exchange, but I have the patched sweater to prove I didn’t. As I return to the candle, to blow it out, more footsteps patter along the creaky floorboards.

I wait to extinguish the light.

My face contorts seeinghim.

Frustration and anger simmer inside me as O’Malley, of all people,crests the threshold of the kitchen. Am I inA Christmas Carolor what? The Ghost of Christmas Past just left, and now I’m facing Christmas Present? If that makes me Scrooge, then fuckthat.

I’m nothing like Scrooge.

The holidays might not have loved me most of my life, but that didn’t stop me from trying to love them.

“Late-night chitchat with my client?” O’Malley says, his pink lips quirking atmy client. He looks like a young Cillian Murphy, but O’Malley’s face is more punchable.

I still remember our fight outside of the pub. Feels like yesterday, but it’s been about a week.

“And you care because…?” I ask with the tight lift of my shoulders. “I’m all you think about. You have a hard-on for me. You’re obsessed with what I’m doing and wherever I am.”

O’Malley lets out a noise of annoyance.

Good.

I’m glad he’s annoyed. He’s a locust to me, and I want himnotto dig under my skin.

He meets my gaze and says, “Fuck you.”

“Appreciate it,” I say casually like he’s not bothering me, but he is. “I’d been all out of fucks.”

I want to leave him behind and just end tonight on a bittersweet Christmas note. Got my sweater fixed. Didn’t punch anyone (personally, can’t say the same for Thatch). I’m not back in Philly. Which is strange to still be happy about that, but I am.

I really am.

Right as I step forward, O’Malley cuts off my path and reaches for the cupboard above and behind my head. Forcing me to inch backwards, my back hits the counter, and I shift the waxy candlestick to the side, careful that it doesn’t tip over.

It’s still lit.

O’Malley’s chest bumps up against my chest. And for a brief, split-second, I do wonder if he has a thing for me.

He’s staring into me. I can’t read him that well.

“I’m straight,” I tell him, since I'm wondering if he thinks I’m not.

His jaw clenches. “Fuck.You.” He wrenches open the cupboard above my head, knocking the wood into my skull.

Fuck.I wince.

And I bang my shoulder forcefully against him as I shove past. He stumbles a little. Anger boils my blood, and I could so easily wrestle him to the ground. Pick a fight. Throw a few punches.

Won’t make me feel any better. I know that, so I take a few breaths and try to calm the fuck down.

O’Malley grabs a basket of med supplies we’ve all pooled together. After picking out a bottle of pain meds, he doles a few pills in his palms and returns the basket to the cupboard. It’s only when he leaves do I realize that he’s limping.

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