Page 18 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

She nodded. “There’s a certain timelessness to these stories. They make you think about what truly matters.”

Our eyes met. The tension was palpable. “Speaking of what matters,” I ventured softly, “I know last night was…well, awkward. I just…I guess I want to say I’m here. And I’m willing to listen, or just read with you, if that’s easier for now.”

Her expression softened, and she tapped the page thoughtfully. “How about we read aloud? Like we used to.” Her voice was quiet, as if we were sharing a secret.

My chest warmed. “I’d like that.”

We took turns selecting passages, our voices weaving through the quiet air. She read a humorous scene fromA Christmas Carol, and I read a sentimental paragraph from a collection of Christmas poems. Occasionally, we paused to comment on the language, the era, or the themes of generosity and hope. Laughter sprinkled through our conversation like powdered sugar on freshly baked cookies. Outside, the wind hadstilled, and I imagined the world holding its breath, giving us this pocket of time.

As we read, I leaned forward to turn a page and noticed her shiver slightly. A draft, perhaps from an old window frame or a gap in the wainscoting, brushed past us. Without thinking twice, I stood and fetched another blanket folded neatly over an old leather ottoman. I draped it around her shoulders, my fingers grazing her arm as I did. Her eyes flicked up to mine, and in that moment, the distance between us collapsed. The faint vanilla scent of her shampoo and the feel of her warmth beneath my fingertips sparked something elemental inside me.

She whispered a soft thank you, and I swallowed hard. The small Christmas tree’s lights glittered, reflecting in her eyes, and for a heartbeat I thought I could see our past, present, and future colliding in that amber glow.

I didn’t plan the kiss. I leaned in, guided by instincts honed years ago—instincts that recognized her as my anchor, my true north. When our lips met, it was gentle at first, a question rather than a demand. She answered by leaning closer, the tension in her shoulders melting. The world beyond these walls disappeared: no old grudges, no storm, no city lights, no deadlines. Just her, and me, in the middle of stories.

The kiss deepened, and time suspended. I tasted peppermint chapstick and the subtle sweetness of the mulled wine we’d all had earlier. Her hand came up to rest lightly against my chest, and I felt my heart hammering in response. The small tree’s ornaments tinkled softly, perhaps stirred by our movement, or maybe by some friendly ghost of Christmas past.

When we finally parted, we were both breathless, as if we’d run miles through snowy fields. I searched her face for reassurance, for the sign that this was right, that we could reclaim what we’d lost. But her eyes were filled with complexity—longing, fear, surprise, and something else I couldn’t quite name.

“Bailey,” I began softly, “I…”

She pressed a finger to my lips, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered, voice trembling slightly. “I don’t know what happens now. Our lives are so different. You in Chicago, me back in Seattle. There’s so much uncertainty…I don’t know what I want anymore.”

I caught her hand and held it gently. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” I said, hoping to soothe her doubts. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Maybe we can just let ourselves feel this moment and we’ll tackle the next when it comes?”

She inhaled shakily, as if weighing my words. “That’s the problem. We’re in a snow globe, sealed off from everything real. What happens when the roads clear and we drive away?”

The question hung between us feeling a fragile crystal bauble ready to shatter.

I wanted to promise her the world—that I’d upend my life, move back home to be with her. But I knew that might scare her, that she needed time. Before I could formulate a careful response, she drew back, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

I nodded, heart aching. “I understand,” I said, though my pulse hammered with urgency. I wanted to tell her we’d already wasted so much time. But one step at a time. I had to give her—us—room to breathe.

She stood up suddenly, the book left forgotten on the armchair. “I’m going to just get some air in the hallway,” she said lamely. She backed away, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Bailey…” I began, reaching out a hand.

She was gone before I could finish, disappearing past the heavy library door, her footsteps echoing faintly in the hall.

I exhaled slowly, raking a hand through my hair. She was scared, and I couldn’t blame her. In many ways, we were strangers now, with separate histories carved into our skin. Yet the love we’d shared once still lingered, and I was sure it was as bright as ever, for both of us. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be reacting like this. I’d have to convince her that the world beyond these snowdrifts had a place for us—together.

I sank back into the armchair, staring at the small tree in the corner. I had to show Bailey that I wasn’t the boy who ran away anymore, nor was I the hardened lawyer who’d forgotten how to laugh. I was someone who could love her right now—today, tomorrow, and every Christmas after that.

Beyond the door, I heard Edna’s laughter and Theodore’s voice rumbling softly, perhaps teasing her over the card game. On the radio in the distance, Nat King Cole crooned about chestnuts roasting. The mansion felt alive with possibilities, and I hoped that was true. I thought of Theodore’s earlier words, his regret-laden memories. He’d warned me, indirectly, that waiting too long or hiding behind pride would lead to a lifetime of “what ifs.” I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Before the clock struck midnight on Christmas Eve, I would find a way to reach Bailey’s heart and show her that no matter how different our worlds had become, we still fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Standing, I paced the length of the library, pausing by a window. Outside, the snow had tapered to a gentle whisper, leaving the landscape blanketed in silence. In that hush, I felt the weight of the moment like a mantle on my shoulders. Was the magic of Christmas working a subtle alchemy within these forgotten walls? Perhaps miracles could come true, after all. If one was lucky enough to believe in them.

I turned my gaze back to the door, imagining Bailey in the corridor, perhaps pressing a hand to her chest, calming herself. She was torn between old love and new fears. But I could guide us toward understanding. I could remind her that we had been each other’s sanctuary once, that we could be again.

Leaving the library, I ventured down the hall, intending to find Theodore and Edna, to rejoin the laughter and warmth. They might not know it, but their rediscovery of each other encouraged me. If they could reclaim something they’d lost—if they could find joy amid old hurts—then maybe Bailey and I had a chance too.

Chapter Seven

BAILEY

I woke on Christmas Eve day to a peculiar kind of quiet. The storm hadn’t ceased entirely, but its ferocity had gentled, and the wind thankfully no longer rattled the windowpanes like an impatient guest. Instead, I heard only the soft hiss of snow drifting down, a hush that made the old mansion feel like a silent, snowy globe, turned upside-down by fate where the snowflakes, all mixed-up, were left to settle. The low winter light filtered through the frosted panes of the window, painting the room I’d claimed as my own in muted blues and grays.

I took my time getting out of bed. The thick blankets and quilts had trapped my warmth through the night, making it hard to resist their pull. Finally, I rose and dressed, feeling like the previous days had been a whirlwind of old memories resurfacing with a bite sharper than the cold and feelings bubbling up like kicked-up snow. But something had shifted…The house seemed kinder today, more welcoming, as though it sensed that Christmas was near and was determined to set things right.

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