Page 25 of The Crush of Christmas Past
Especially not now that she’s dating my brother.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Asher stepping out of the house, hair tousled, an oversized mug in each hand. Twin wisps of steam follow behind him as he drags his boots through the snow toward the hot tub.
Isla’s smile blooms the moment she spots him. Jealousy lances through my chest, leaving a bitter burn in its wake.
“Hot cocoa for the hot tub queens,” he croons with a wide grin.
Willow reaches for her mug. “About time you made yourself useful.”
“Ooh—extra marshmallows!” Isla cheers. “My hero!” She gazes up at him like he’s handing over the fucking moon instead of a few clumps of congealed gelatin.
It’s not like this banter is a new development—the two of them have always shared an easy, playful energy. But now,with their relationship redefined, each word and touch between them is a stab through my heart.
Asher leans over to whisper something in Isla’s ear, and her laugh slices cleanly through me. My jaw locks so tightly my molars throb. I curl my fingers around the armrests, focusing on the sensation of the cold wood biting into my palms.
Don’t look. Don’t listen.
“Quit sulking, bro,” Rowan calls out, his tone smug. “You’re more obvious than you think. Even Beckett can feel your foul mood from across the ocean and over the mountains.”
I level him with a glare strong enough to decimate.
Most people would take the hint. The little shit just grins wider.
Felix chuckles as he tosses another horseshoe, the metallic clang ringing out when it ricochets off the post. “Don’t hurt his feelings. You know Mom will kill us if he bolts early. She said we’re supposed to be grateful the King of Crotch Court is gracing us with his presence this year.”
Rowan snorts. “I think you meanCrochetyCourt.”
“He does look like a Prickly Prince,” Beckett chimes in. “A real Duke of Doom.”
I drag a hand down my face. “You three clowns done being dumbasses yet?”
“Not even close,” Felix lobs back, flipping me off.
Rowan smirks, lining up his next shot. “Stop grinching around, and we might cut you some slack.”
They’re not wrong. I’ve never been the poster child for family cheer. It doesn’t help that this month tends to drag the darkness out of me.
A familiar emptiness stirs in my chest, digging up grief I’ve spent years trying to bury. Bitter memories of my last Christmas in my old place always resurface this time of year.
I was seven, awake before sunrise, in similar company to many kids celebrating the holiday. But, contrary to other children, it wasn’t Santa I worried about.
My father hadn’t made it home yet. Every time he stayed out this late—or, rather,early—I dared to hope he wouldn’t come back.
At dawn, a slammed door shattered that dream while rattling our apartment walls. I can still hear my mom’s low, strained voice as she tried to soothe whatever triggered his latest fit of rage only to have violence and venom thunder back at her.
Instead of racing to the tree, I trembled beneath the covers, face buried into the mattress. Even with a pillow over my head and my hands clamped tightly to my ears, I couldn’t block out the sounds of shattered glass, his roars, nor her sobs.
So I squeezed my eyes and made another wish.
Take us away from him. Far, far away.
Later that morning, I was a decibel too loud for his hangover. It was the last time he ever laid a hand on me because my wish came true.
My mom didn’t even pack my things. She just shoved me on a bus to her parents’ place in Sugarpine Springs. A few weeks later, she joined me.
The best gift I got that year was that he didn’t come looking for us.
Even after twenty-seven years away from the bastard, and all the peace and stability Graham has brought into my life, the pain never dulls. It flares up every December like clockwork. If I had a choice, I’d fast-forward through the entire month without a second thought.
