Page 24 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Worse, I can’t banish the feeling that he proposed to me that way because he wanted to see me melt down, maybe so he could be the person who puts me back together like he has in the past.

“Tell me more about Edith’s fella,” Cynthia says, jolting me out of my head. She’s been giving me pointed looks all morning, although I have no idea why. Maybe she noticed the circles under my eyes. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“I suppose,” I tell her resentfully, even though there’s no disputing the fact. “He’s very physically fit.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Did he do push-ups in front of you?”

I close the dishwasher, beyond grateful that one of my least favorite homemaking tasks is done for the morning. I can’t stand the remnants of half-finished meals. It makes me queasy, even when the food’s still mostly fresh.

“Yes, Cynthia,” I say, turning toward her. She’s wearing an old-fashioned blue dress with a frilly apron over it, and her curly brown hair is gathered beneath a bonnet. Her other job is as a historical interpreter, which means she pretends to be a colonial American for tourists. Cynthia is in her late thirties—I’m not entirely surehowlate, and I don’t want to risk insulting her by asking. “He told me hello, checked in, and then immediately dropped and gave me twenty. I thought it was a little strange, but itwasimpressive. Especially when he started doing them one-handed.”

She kisses her fingers and lifts them. “From your lips to God’s ears, honey. What I wouldn’t give to sit on a man’s back while he does push-ups. Someone’s gotta get lucky.”

“Well, it certainly won’t be me.”

Her eyes widen, and she puts a hand on her ample hip. “Anabelle Whitman, does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what in God’s name happened yesterday?”

Oh God.Of courseshe knows. The trumpeter probably told her. Based on what she’s told me, the historical reenactor community is a hotbed of alcohol, sex, and sin. Shame wraps around me like plastic wrap. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“And I’d rather you did.”

Sighing, I say, “What do you already know?”

“Well…” She lifts her eyebrows dramatically. “I met up with a few friends at the Green Leafe last night, and Jeremy Jacobs said he got paid anobsceneamount of money to play the wedding march so some guy with more money than sense could propose to his girl in front of the governor’s mansion.”

“That was Jeremy?” I ask, my voice shaky. She’s spoken about him before, usually to talk about what a dumbass he is, but his name comes up often enough that I guess she must like or at least tolerate him.

“Yeah. His buddy Phil gave up his bell too. But the woman shot him down and took off. The guy tried to shake it off and pretend it was performance art, but we’re paid performers. We know when someone’s pretending.” She pauses, giving me a sympathetic look. “People got it on video, Anabelle. Maybe a lot of people. Jeremy got footage of it, too, because he’d asked his friend to record it for his portfolio.”

“You watched it happen, and this is the first you’re saying anything?” I ask in a shaky voice.

“Well, of course I watched it,” she says, her hand still firmly on her hip. “And I’ve been trying to bring it up all morning, but you treat hints like they’re mosquitos.”

“Subtlety flies right by me,” I say with a sigh. “Next time try writing it on your forehead.”

She snaps her fingers and points at me. “Will do. But don’t worry too much. I made Jeremy delete the video he had as soon as I realized it was you.”

Sure, but after they’d shown how many people? What if it found its way onto social media? The thought of all those people watching me, making speculations about me, feels like ants crawling across my skin.

Over a year, and Weston never knew me at all…

It feels like a cautionary tale, but I’m not sure what it’s cautioning me against. Opening up to people? Letting them in?

Still, there’s a voice in my head that says I never let him in, that I always felt like I needed to be on my best behavior with him. Putting on an act.

I clear my throat, trying for a reset. “So everyone’s gossiping about it?”

She shakes her head so adamantly her bonnet nearly comes off. “No, only the performers and probably some tourists. No one else knows.”

“So just dozens of people and a couple of horses,” I deadpan, feeling the truth choking me.

“Exactly. But now that we’re putting it all out there, can I be honest and tell you that I’mrelieved?”

“You didn’t like Weston?” I ask, marveling. Most peopledolike him—it’s as if it’s written into their DNA that they have to.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “If you take him back, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that I think he’s a sanctimonious prick who doesn’t respect you the way you deserve.”

For a second, it feels like she just peeled a Band-Aid off my soul and shoved her fist inside. Then confusing feelings burst inside of me—I’m happy that Cynthia’s my friend and is taking my side, but what does it say about me that I dated someone like him for so long?

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