Page 124 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Mortification roils through me. “Okay. So. Anyway. Thank you. Yeah, I said that. I’ll see you on Thursday. Not for hot chocolate but when I come to pick up Aidan.”

An alarm goes off in my head, practically chanting,Exit, exit, exit.

He displays that little half smile again, and I have to wonder if he’s laughing at me. People do that sometimes. Because I’m too literal. Because I’m almost as socially awkward as Aidan. Because when you strip away the mask of manners and professional dress, I don’t know what to do with myself. At least I came here in my work clothes. At least I have that to cling to.

“Goodbye, Mary,” he says. “I’ll get hot chocolate with you anytime you like.”

Then he puts the truck in reverse and leaves.

My mind is working overtime—anytime I like? Did he mean anytime Aidan likes?—when I hear a woman calling out, “Holy Christmas crackers! Someone left a little kid in this car. Are you okay, kid? Micah, why isn’t he saying anything? Does he have enough oxygen?”

Which is my cue to run back to the car. The woman is tapping on the window as if Aidan were a goldfish, and he is, understandably, cringing away.

“He’s fine, ma’am,” I say, trying to tamp down my annoyance. “The car is on, and he’s six.”

“So you’re saying he could just drive away if there’s a problem?” she snaps, turning on me in a cloud of brown hair and perfume. She’s getting in my face, and I feel a familiar slick of discomfort on my palms. “I don’t know where you come from, but kids around here don’t drive at age six.”

“Here,” I mutter, pushing past her. “I come from here. And he’s just fine.”

Maybe if I keep telling myself that it’ll be true.

I hear her mumbling something about young people these days, even though she looks to be my age, or maybe younger, but then I get the door closed, and it’s just me and Aidan.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I don’t like that woman,” he says, grazing his lips with his nails. “Can I have my blanket?”

I fetch it from the trunk, ignoring the woman, who calls out, “Leaving him again, huh?” which twangs an uncomfortable song on my nerves. Because one parent walked out on Aidan, and I’m going to make damn sure I’m always there for him, even if I have to staple our sleeves together. The rest of the evening passes without any sort of mishap, although Aidan kept his weighted blanket on the whole way home. I pack him off to Maisie’s, stopping in for long enough to kiss the baby—Mabel is another redhead, bless her; our father would be tickled by that—before continuing on to Molly’s house.

It’s a bit of a fixer-upper that never got to the fix-up stage, but Molly and her two roommates seem to love it. I’ve only met them once or twice. They seem nice, though, like the kind of friends you could call at two in the morning if something happened. I’venever really had friends like that. The only people in my life like that are Molly and Maisie, but I don’t think I’d ever call either of them at two in the morning.

The thing is, I’m the big sister—I’m supposed to take care of them, not the other way around. I remember my mom making a point of that one day after Molly darted into the street when she and I were walking the family dog. She almost got hit by a car, and Mom grabbed me by the shoulders and said it was up to me to keep her safe because I was her big sister.

Too bad I’ve always sucked at being a good one.

I immediately head around back, as Molly instructed, just in case one of her roommates has a guest over. An acquaintance in college told me that someone will hang a sock on their doorknob to tell their roommates they’re getting busy, and I don’t want to walk in and see a bunch of socks. I think I’ve blushed enough for one day.

Only one person’s waiting in the back, though, and it’s not Molly.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, glancing around as if Molly might be hiding under the picnic table. “Molly told me to come back here.”

Her scary friend, the one with the pink hair and nose ring, nods. “She did. Because I told her to. This, Mary O’Shea, is your intervention.”

“Intervention?” I ask. “I’ve never even smoked a blunt. Heck, I’ve only been drunk twelve and a half times.”

“Exactly,” she says with a healthy dose of disgust. “Does that sound like a person who’s living life?”

“Actually, it does,” I say, keeping my distance. My heart is racing, although I’m not sure why. “It sounds like someone who’s doing a good job of not dying.”

She shakes her head with something like pity, and to my shock, I find myself taking a step toward her. Then another. “The fact that you think they’re the same thing says it all.”

“One of those twelve and a half times was on Thanksgiving,” I admit. “So, I don’t actually remember your name. Or know why you’d think I need an intervention.”

“I’m Nicole,” she says, not offering her hand for a shake. “And you should probably sit down. This might take a while.”

I glance around again. “Does this mean Molly’s not coming?”

“She and her roommates went out for dinner.”

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