Page 52 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas
THIRTY-THREE
JILL
Owen was waiting for her at the cabin when Jill returned from her walk. Her cheeks were red with windburn, and her nose dripped like a leaky faucet, but she felt refreshed and resolved after the walk.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
There was no other choice.
She shook off her coat and kicked off her boots.
Owen was curled in a chair in front of the fire with a flannel blanket draped over his legs and a writing notebook in his hand. He shut it and jumped to his feet, stuffing the notebook under the blanket like he was trying to hide it from her.
“Where did you go?” she asked cautiously. “Are you okay?”
“Where were you?” He answered her question with a question.
“I went for a walk. I needed to clear my head.” She moved toward the fire, turning her palms out and toasting them like the marshmallows last night. “We should talk. Can we talk?”
Owen cleared his throat and twirled a strand of his hair, a nervous habit Jill had witnessed on rare occasions. Owen was usually calm and steady. It took a lot to rattle him. The last timeshe’d seen the hair twirling was with her parents. No surprise. Some days, when she was around her parents, she wanted to yank out her hair strand by strand.
“I’m sorry I shut down. It’s been a lot.” He made circles with his sock on the hardwood floor, not meeting her eyes. “But your parents, Jill? You want to live off your parents?” He drew in a breath and held it for a second. “You’ve been so adamant about not wanting to take money from your parents, and we both know how they feel about me—I’m a screwup, a worthless artist who isn’t good enough for their only daughter. They think I’m a loser, Jill. You want to move to San Francisco and work a nine-to-five? This is out of the blue. It’s a lot to digest. I guess I just thought maybe we were, you know, finding our own way, the van, our art. I thought we were happy.”
“We are, we have been, but it’s been seven years, Owen. I’m thirty. You’re thirty-three. At some point, we need to grow up, don’t we?” Jill turned her back to the fire, letting her legs thaw out. If this was how he felt about taking up her parents on their offer, he really wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.
Her heartbeat skittered erratically.
She had to tell him.
Stop stalling.
“Things are, uh…” She broke eye contact, wrapping her arms tightly—protectively—around her stomach. “Changing.”
“You’re in your head. It’s probably coming here, seeing your friends. I get that thirty is a milestone, but we’re hardly old, Jill. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to let you go, but I’m not sure I can live under the shadow of your parents. They already don’t approve of me. What changed? How did we from the van to moving to San Francisco, into a placeyour parentsown? What’s next? We live off their income?” He shook his head. “I don’t think that will end well. That’s all I’m saying. I thought you likedwhat we had. Just you and me against the world, yeah? What happened to that?”
You and me and a baby.
Jill quivered, her body trembling with fear as she tried to force her mouth to say the words.
Just say it, say it!
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again, but nothing would come.
It was like the words were lodged in the back of her throat.
Across the room, Owen watched her. “Tell me the truth. Is it more than just your parents?” His voice was soft and distant. He looked at her with his wide golden-brown eyes, peering into her like he could tell she was holding something back.
“More than just my parents?” she repeated, stalling. She carefully lowered herself, sinking onto the tile hearth. Flames crackled behind her as if trying to ignite her courage.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” Owen’s voice was so low now Jill almost didn’t catch the last part. “You’re tired of me.”
She blinked, stunned. “No. No, it’s not that. Owen, it’s, it’s—I’m.” Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. “It’s, God… I don’t know… I have no idea why this is so hard to say.”
