Page 78 of The Sleight Before Christmas

The connection was there, something that felt it could be lasting, but I’m done trying to make him see it. Done waiting for him to respect and care for it. Even if it seemed to come so fast. I wasn’t alone in that—that I’m certain of.

He’d been warning us about it the whole time, and I’ve played ignorant, but I’m fully aware that what we had felt was rare, and if he refuses to catch hold of it, then it’s time to let it go. On that front, I agree I deserve better.

Making peace with the heartache, I’m about to turn when I catch sight of a wooden box sitting in the middle of the workbench. Walking toward it, my breath catches as it comes into view. Standing eight inches tall, the wooden jewelry box calls me like a beacon, a glittering red bow atop it. In seconds, I’m trailing my fingers over the slightly tacky wood. The fact that it’s newly painted has my heart skipping a beat. Built in the shape of a tiny armoire, the handles on the double doors are shaped into arched, carved branches. The wood sanded and highlighted by a light stain and gloss. It’s painfully apparent he spent endless hours working on it. My heart knocks with surety that so much care went into making it. Just as I’m about to pull open one of the double doors, his voice sounds behind me.

“It’s empty,” he whispers through the space, directly to my pounding heart—a heart that starts to hammer at the sound of his voice. Pulling the door open, I see two drawers with similar branch handles lining the bottom, and I turn the rotating necklace hanger on the top.

“You wear a lot of jewelry, but that’s one thing I’m afraid I couldn’t add to it.”

“It’s beautiful, Thatch. Thank you.”

“You deserve jewelry, Serena. You deserve glittering things on your beautiful ears, laying on your neck, pushed on your fingers, and I’m not the man that can give them to you.”

“If you truly feel like that’s what I want, then you don’t know me. But the trouble is, you do know me.”

“I’m sorry for the other day. I just didn’t fucking want that piece of shit to know what you meant to me. Because you know it hasn’t been fun for me, Serena, but it can’t be more.”

“Yeah,” I run my finger along the wood. “I heard you the first dozen times.”

“I’m leaving, too,” he states. “I’m leaving Nashville.”

“For how long?” I ask, tears filling my eyes.

“For good,” he delivers, and my chest starts to roar with protest. “I’m never coming back, and that’s why I was hesitant to start this up.”

“Where?” I clip, unable to look back at him as my heart rages in my chest, begging me to look at its new owner. Because I know I’m half in love with him.

“I was thinking Alaska.”

“Thinking Alaska? What do you mean thinking Alaska?”

“There’s no future for me here,” he states, his words like a sling blade to my heart. It’s then I know I’m not halfway anything. This man who’s moving to Siberia—America, is taking my fucking heart with him.

“Well, you did. You met me here every night, and you started something. I did give you an out, Thatch.”

“I know, but fuck, I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

“Yes, you did. We both did. You were there the first night. You felt it, too. And after. Once you kissed me, touched me, you knew. At least I can say I fought for it.”

“That’s because you didn’t know who you were fighting for, Serena.”

“The fuck I didn’t,” I finally look back at him, done asking the questions. His stare intent as he approaches. His scent surrounds me, weakening me as he holds me captive. It’s then I fully drink him in. His expression bleak, he looks tired, exhausted, and utterly disheveled. The sight of him only makes my heart ache more because I know it’s because of me—because of our fight and the distance in the last four days. His outsides match my insides as he rattles in front of me, warring on whether or not to release the words. I stand my ground, knowing if he’s ending this, I deserve them, while terrified of finally knowing his reasons for continually pushing me away.

“I couldn’t ask you out because I’m twenty years old and barely a step above homelessness. I sleep between a rundown motor inn and my truck and don’t have a damned thing to offer you. I’m a high school dropout who stole a car because his dad ordered him to pitch in, or he would kick him out. See, once upon a time, I was good at it. I stole everything, and when I quit, my heart and head wasn’t in it. So when I was ordered to do it, I got caught and went to fucking prison.”

Shock paralyzes me mute as he carefully weighs my expression.

“Up until a week ago, I was still on probation, and that’s why I didn’t ... couldn’t smoke that weed. I was a fucking week away from being sent back for not paying my restitution on time when I got the job with Allen. Thanks to your father andhis odd jobs, I’ve paid my way out. Now that I’m free, I want to dust this place, this fucking city, because everyone with the last name O’Neal is a reminder of the life I fled. But stealing was so much fucking easier. I’ve had to fight the inclination every fucking day since we met because I wanted to give you everything. But I fought harder because I don’t want to be that gutter rat anymore.”

“Thatch—”

He shakes his head incredulously. “I don’t know what the hell Ruby and Allen were thinking. You’re practically a debutante who comes from a well-off, somewhat affluent family, and I’m ... half of the O’Neal’s, my family, are convicted felons. The other half are wastes of human life. So do yourself a favor and pop any illusion bubble you might have about us. This was exactly as you said, fun. You’re beautiful, and I’m crazy about you, but you deserve to know why.” He whispers a thumb along my cheek. “You’re going to make some man—”

I pop him good as my chest roars with the pain, and he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Some other guy happy, Thatch? Why not leave me with ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’ How about this isn’t the right time? Want to quote a goddamn after-school special from the eighties, or how about a beer slogan? Jesus Christ, Thatch, give me a minute to try to understand the truth about you!”

The handprint on his face blisters my insides. “I’m so sorry I—” I cover the light handprint I left with my palm as tears spill over my cheeks. He didn’t even flinch when I did it, which is all I need to know. He’s been taking hits his whole life—physical and otherwise—and it’s evident as he stares back at me, lifting his chin slightly as if he’s ready for more. “I’ve never struck another human in my life. Not like that. I’m sorry.” The tears come faster. “Why are you hurting me?”

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