Page 116 of Booked for the Holidays
“What’s wrong, son?” My dad takes a seat next to me.
“Life shit. It’s a woman. I think I might… I think I might love her.”
“Ah.” He chuckles. “The best kind of headache. Did I ever tell you the time I asked your mother’s best friend to the school dance instead of her?”
“No. I haven’t heard this one before.”
“I liked your mother of course. Knew I was going to marry her the second I laid eyes on her. I didn’t want to come off too strong, though, so I asked her best friend to the dance. Your mother was furious. When I got to the statue on campus where I was supposed to meet my date, she wasn’t there. Your mom was. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, ‘We’ll have the rest of our lives for you to act like an idiot, but tonight you’re dancing with me.’”
“Holy shit.” I grin. “Mom is badass.”
“Indeed she is. She wasn’t wrong, though. I was an idiot a lot of times in our relationship. I still am, sometimes. But you know what? She loves me because I’m an idiot. Because I make mistakes and mess up. Whoever this woman is—and I have a feeling it’s someone who knows how to make damn good pumpkin pie—you have to ask yourself this: Is the thought of life without her better than even the worst days with her there? If it isn’t, you need to go and talk to her. And make this right.”
The only thing I’m positive about is Bridget. I want her to tease me mercilessly about my age. I want to roll my eyes at her jokes. I want her to make me blueberry muffins and I want to hold her in my arms and kiss her every morning and every night.
If this is how I feel after only a few weeks with her, how much better could my life be in a year? In five years?
I suck in a breath. I know what I need to do. I know what I need to say.
“Do we know when the doctor is coming in?” I ask, standing to peer out the hall.
“Are you in a rush?” Mom asks, frowning.
“No. Yes. Kind of.”
“What in the world do you have to do at nine o’clock at night?” she presses.
“He has to go get his girl!” Mac squeals. “For real, this time. He’s not going to hide her anymore!”
“Eternally grounded,” I interrupt. “Forever. Until you’re 65.”
“Worth it.” Mac sticks her tongue out at me and flops back onto the pillows. “Whatever it takes to get you off your butt. Tell the doctor to hurry up, Dad. We have places to be! People to ask to join our family! Screw the cast!”
FORTY-FIVE
BRIDGET
Four days before Christmas,and it’s raining.
Not just raining. Pouring.
A massive storm is rolling through town and last-minute shoppers have to put their errands on hold until the bleak weather subsides. With gloomy clouds and small puddles of water catching in the divots of the sidewalk, the avenue is forlorn. Empty, save for a lone umbrella-clad patron fighting a losing battle with a gust of wind.
I watch the scene unfold from the loveseat in the window of the shop. My eyes drift from the parasol spectacle to the raindrops rolling down the snowflakes on the glass. The white shapes stand out, bright and bold amidst doom and despair. Not even Greta is rolling by on her scooter, searching for a sniff of gossip. I laugh to myself, the older woman a catalyst for the last six weeks of my life unfolding differently than expected.
I didn’t just enter the contest and hang up strands of lights. I fell in love along the way, with a man who’s not sure he can give himself to me fully. Attention always a little bit stolen, responsibilities always superseding emotions likefunandrelaxed.
Theo texted me yesterday, letting me know Mac was okay. The messages were brief, stilted, enough to let me know his guilt had settled, if only temporarily. A photo of the pink cast over her arm was also sent my way, and it made my heart trip and sputter like a car in need of a repair. We didn’t have a conversation aboutus, and how I might factor into his—their—life completely. I also didn’t ask. It’s not for me to decide. It’s up to him.
I close the book in my lap with asnap.I haven’t turned the pages in an hour. Standing and stretching, I fluff the pillows bedazzled with polar bears and candy canes, arranging them into a neat line. We’re less than twenty-four hours away from the judging, and the next time I walk in here will be for the chance to wina hundred thousand dollars. The culmination of blisters, paint-stained floors, scuffed knees and the lingering smell of burnt latkes will soon,hopefully, be worth it.
I drape my purse over my shoulder, cursing myself for not bringing an umbrella or rain jacket. I’m going to be drenched when I pick Ziggy up from daycare. Slipping out the front door and locking it behind me, I hustle down the pavement. Parking was a nightmare this morning, and I was forced to find a spot around the corner three blocks up. Four seconds outside, and I’m already soaked.
That’s when I hear a noise behind me.
“Bridget!”
Spinning, I squint through the sheets of rain. I find Theo charging toward me, a man on a mission. His hair is plastered to his face. His glasses are halfway down his nose. He’s moving with a purpose, resolute footsteps almost echoing through the air.
