Page 68 of Merry Me
“Hey, kiddo,” he said with a smile, before looking me over and frowning. “Whoa. That’s a face.”
I gave him a sheepish half-smile. “What kind of face?”
“The kind that says you need girl talk, chocolate, and maybe a small controlled fire in the woods,” he said, stepping back to let me in. “Possibly in that order.”
Despite myself, I let out a quiet laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
He ruffled my hair like I was still a kid. “Well, your mom’s in there with a mug of tea and terribleReal Housewivescommentary. I was just headed down to see if MeMaw is hustling anyone in the lounge again.”
“She already took down a bridesmaid and a groomsman,” my mom called from inside.
His face lit up like a man who knew he’d married well. “I love that woman.”
Then he looked at me for a long moment, eyes soft, warm with that fierce kind of love only a dad—the real kind—could give. “You okay?”
I nodded. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the full truth.
He didn’t push—just wrapped me in one of those rib-cracking hugs, the kind that made you feel safe enough to fall apart if you needed to. Then he gave my mom a wink and headed down the hall with a casual, “If I’m not back in an hour, MeMaw’s won my credit card.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
And then it was just me and my mom…and everything I was finally ready to ask.
She sat on the bed, wrapped in a robe and a blanket, tea in hand and a Housewife mid-monologue on the muted TV, waving a champagne glass like it was a weapon. Mom looked at me, eyes warm and knowing. “What’s going on, sweet girl?”
“I just…” I tried to find a light version of the truth. Something casual. Something that didn’t feel like the world cracking open.
But all I could say was, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Even though I hadn’t exactly tried to sleep on account of the fact that I’d been avoiding anywhere that Easton could be after the whole Santa office thing this morning.
She turned off the TV and patted the bed beside her. “Come here, baby.”
I sat, curling my legs beneath me. We sat there for a moment in silence, and I could still feel the warmth of my dad’s hug wrapped around my middle. My mom waited patiently beside me, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her mug as if she could feel the weight of what I wanted to say.
I stared down at my lap.
“I think I push people away before they get the chance to leave me,” I began.
Her fingers paused mid-circle, resting against the ceramic like the thought had frozen them in place.
“I know, it’s dramatic. But it’s like—I get this warning siren in my chest the second someone gets too close. Like my heart’s yelling,Abort! Abort! Pull the ripcord before we crash.”
My mom didn’t interrupt. She just listened. Like she always had.
“It’s like I think if I break it off first,” I continued unsteadily, “it’ll hurt less. Like I’m somehow in control of the damage.”
“And does it?” she asked gently. “Hurt less?”
I shook my head, tears already stinging behind my eyes. “No. It just hurts longer. Quieter. And I still end up alone.”
Her hand reached over and squeezed mine. “You’ve always been strong, Nat. But somewhere along the way, I think you started thinking that being strong meant being alone. And it doesn’t.”
“I keep thinking about him,” I said after a long pause. “About my—abouthim.”
My mom didn’t need clarification.
Her expression didn’t change. She simply nodded, folding her hands in her lap. “Terry.”
