Page 33 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Sara’s not wrong, but most of what I’ve said and done in the past twenty-four hours was under the influence of a dreadful combination: my concussion, the medication, and some straight-up denial.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” I say. “But I was mostly trying not to think too hard about the reality of the next two weeks. Everyone gone. Me stuck here alone.”
“You’re not alone.” Sara says this, but the echo of her words to her mother ring in my head.
You have no idea how much I wish I were home already.
I swallow hard. “I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you can try later and get through to your family.” Her chin trembles. It’s slight, but I notice. So I take another step backward, putting even more distance between her and the wave of protectiveness overtaking me.
“Sure, maybe.”
Sara blinks, like she’s fighting back tears. At least I’m far enough away from her now that I can’t reach out and touch her. Which is good, because that’s all I want to do. And at the same time, I find myself wondering if she might’ve felt the connection between us too. Still, that’s a dangerous question. One I shouldn’t be asking myself.
“After the evaluator comes, we can go to the market.” She nods, establishing a strategy. “I can get a turkey. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce. Sweet potatoes. We’ll make our own Christmas dinner early.”
“Won’t be the same.”
She draws in a stuttering breath, then she exhales. Soft and slow. I want to suck the words back in, but they’re already hovering in the air above us. At the very least, Ishould tell her I don’t actually think she’s responsible. That she shouldn’t be mad at herself, because I’m certainly not mad. At least not at her. I’m mostly angry with myself. For being so easily influenced by her presence.
“Sara.”
“What?” She looks up at me with sadness in her eyes, and my heart’s a freight train plowing straight off a cliff.
“It’s not your?—”
ZZT.
Her whole body leaps like she’s been zapped with a cattle prod, but it’s just her phone buzzing.That’show much I put her on edge. Slipping her phone from her pocket, she quickly checks the text.
“It’s the evaluator,” she groans. “He’s canceling our appointment.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sara
Car trouble.
That’s why Ryan Detweiler postponed his visit until tomorrow. Monday morning, ten o’clock. And while I’m sure the glitch was unintentional, the man’s timing couldn’t be worse. We were already cutting things close trying to secure Platinum Stay’s approval before the gala. Christmas Eve is only three days away. So the sooner my mom can add the lake house to the silent auction, the better.
Then there’s the fact that the evaluator interrupted Three and me.
For a moment there, out in the yard, we seemed to be on the verge of enjoying ourselves—putting the past behind us and letting the present be not so bad. But in the end, a few snowballs couldn’t erase the fact that I ruined Three Fuller’s Christmas.
I mean, sure, I’m with him for now, but as soon as this evaluation is over and he gets the all clear from the doctor, I’ll be heading back to the city. And Three will be stuck in Abieville on his own.
Home alone for the holidays.
To distract him from the inevitable—and stock up on enough food to feed two people for the next few days—I drag him to the market on Main Street. All the street lamps are wrapped in garland. Jingle bells hang above every door. The midday sky is bright and sun-drenched despite the cold. Still, Three plods along beside me, one tall shadow with hunched shoulders.
His mood doesn’t improve inside the shop, although the owners have done their best to turn the place into a Christmas wonderland. Thousands of paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling. Strands of red and green garland swoop over the end caps of each aisle. The bases of the fruit and vegetable bins are wrapped up like presents. It’s all very fun and festive. But it’s also a reminder of exactly what Three’s missing.
The holidays with his family.
Ho ho ho.
As I steer our squeaky, half-full cart toward the canned goods aisle, a jubilant rendition of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” starts playing over the sound system. The choir warbles their request for figgy pudding, and I hazard a peek at Three. “So what areyourthoughts on figgy pudding?”
