Page 65 of Take Me Home for Christmas

Back at work. Where we’d be colleagues.

The boyfriend was turning into a pumpkin, and he was taking the car.

Leaving me alone. Again. Betrayed, again. Not to mention carless.

My choices were to stay here with my family when I felt like a crashed train, or what? Hitch a ride with Brax for two hours? Absolutely not.

I refused to stand there while he pulled away, so I headed straight back into the house. But I still heard the crunch of his tires on the snow, heard the car motor slowly fade away as he drove down the driveway. He left me wondering if everything he’d said and done was as fake as the fake boyfriend that he’d pretended so well to be.

Chapter Twenty

Brax

I had two miserable hours on the road to think about how much I sucked. At one point, I turned on the radio to the 24-7 Christmas carols, and “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was playing. I shut it off immediately. But it just underscored how I’d ruined Christmas Eve, the one time of the year when absolutely no one should fight. I thought about Mia standing there, looking so empty, her nose turning red, shivering in the cold.

I’d done that. I’d caused her pain. Again.

My excuse was that these past few days, I’d been processing what Brunner said. Thinking about it. Or really,avoidingthinking about it was more like it. And I’d gotten so wrapped up with Mia that I’d forgotten all about it.

The moral sketchiness of the job was pretty revolting, frankly. But I’d still wanted it, hadn’t I?

That job was my connection with Atticus. It meant something to me down to my core.

I’d made sure to never fall in love or do relationships. That had made life so much simpler—it would have made thisdecision simpler. But I had been doing a relationship, hadn’t I? And it had felt amazing.

I love you. We can work this out. Something I’d never said before. Something I hadn’t said this morning.

Maybe Jenna was right. I believed in myself in other ways, but in relationships, I couldn’t seem to do anything right.

I arrived at work to find that the pediatric emergency room was not enjoying a quiet Christmas Eve morning. Every room was full, and a team was admitting a child to the PICU for asthma management. I stopped to talk to the child’s father, who looked exhausted and terrified, and took time to explain what was happening and to reassure him they were in good hands.

But inside, I felt off-balance. I saw the fright in that father’s eyes. I was overly emotional, and I had to somehow tamp my emotions down in order to do my job.

The staff had draped the desk with red and green light strings. I knew there would be a plethora of candy and cookies in the break room. Plus, everyone had brought in covered dishes for a lunch spread to make the most of working on a holiday. Still, in this place, life and death converged, and festive could go only so far. And today, I definitely didn’t feel festive.

I was feeling too much about everything. The eight-year-old boy who broke his ankle ice skating. The little six-month-old who cried all night with an earache. The twelve-year-old who ate shrimp and broke out in hives. The toddler who ate too many Christmas cookies and had a tummy ache. They’d all be fine, but I felt out-of-proportion worried about everyone.

It struck me that loving someone must feel a lot like that too. You couldn’t help wanting that person to thrive and be happy and be their best selves, no matter what the price. All you wanted was to try and take away their pain and suffering and help them through hard times. And to just…be there.

Love was a gift that people gave each other unconditionally. Not because they deserved or earned it, but because they wanted to give it.

Mia had done that for me. She’d opened me up in a way no one had been able to before. Now it seemed I felt everything at full volume, without being able to turn it down.

The thought of losing her broke me.

It was so much easier when I had held everyone at arm’s length and not felt anything.

Mia

I decided from the moment I took my very first step back through the front door that I wasn’t going to spoil the day. Tossing off my sopping wet slippers, I ran upstairs and pulled on a long, thick sweater, some sweats, and warm socks. I reminded myself that my goal was to give my mom the best Christmas ever, and I would do that, even if it killed me.

I took a deep breath against the pain in my chest. It hurt so much, I could barely breathe. I wanted to cry, but I had to be strong. I had to see this through.

Following the scent of fresh coffee into the kitchen, I found my dad setting out mugs and the electric griddle. Maybe my mom loved everything about Christmas, but my dad was king of family breakfasts. He was apparently planning today’s with zeal, judging by all the ingredients he had spread out all over the island. I forced a smile and kissed him on the cheek. “Good morning, Dad.”

There. I’d managed a full sentence without crying. One sentence at a time, right?

He poured me some coffee and set it down on the island near me, assessing me over his bifocals. “Good morning to you too, sweetheart. You’re up early.”

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