Page 71 of Mistletoe & Magic
Sloane steps inside, snow dusting her coat, hair perfect as always.
My body reacts before my head does. A tight pull under my ribs. Jaw locking. The small, useless urge to check the exits. Because Sloane is the shape of an old bruise on all of our hearts and my muscles still flinch when she is near, ready and waiting to protect Junie and myself from her hurt. I remember the late nights that never ended, apologies that did not hold, and of a door that closed and stayed closed.
I glance past her without meaning to, a reflex that is all spine and instinct. Where are Junie and Ivy? I clock them, and they are fine. For now. Until Sloane breaks promises and hearts like she always does.
Her eyes flick over the place like she is taking inventory.
Her perfume hits, clean and expensive, and the past tries to slide its hook between my ribs. She represents a life I buried on purpose.
This is not what Junie needs right now. Not what I need. I need boundaries that don’t bend. I need my daughter to feel the ground stay under her feet. I need Ivy to know there is no contest here, no door cracked for old ghosts.
My mom mutters dryly under her breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Guess the spell didn’t work.”
Ivy blinks, polite and confused. “Oh—hi. Sorry, we’re closed and just having a family party. Can I help you with something?”
Sloane’s gaze sweeps the room until it lands on me. “I’m looking for my husband,” she says coolly, “And my daughter.”
My chest locks tight. “Ex-husband.” My voice is flat, hard. “And you are supposed to call first.”
Junie hasn’t even noticed yet, too busy showing Pete her picture she colored. But then she looks up, sees Sloane, and goes still. She glances at me, shrinking back toward the rug. She looks very uncomfortable.
Sloane’s eyes flash, and she doesn’t even acknowledge Junie. “Why isn’t she happy to see me? What did you tell her about me? You did this, Remy.”
“That’s enough,” I say, standing. “We’re not doing this here.”
I take her outside, the winter air biting hard against my face, and shut the door behind us.
“Why are you here?” I demand, my voice low but sharp. “You haven’t come around for a year and a half, and now you just pop in like nothing? Do you have any idea what that does to Junie?”
Her chin lifts. “I don’t care. That’s my kid. Not that woman’s.” She jerks her head toward the window where Ivy is visible inside, gathering Junie close.
I say nothing because I have learned with Sloane, who is the master of manipulation and argument, that anything I say will be twisted. So, seeing Ivy is what set her off. She wants to make herself out to look like the victim and not the person who abandoned her child for the past year and a half. She hasn’t seen Junie since she was four. She’s five and a half now. That is ridiculous.
My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. “You need to leave.”
“I have rights,” she spits.
“Yeah? And you don’t exercise them,” I fire back.
Her lips curl. “I can take you to court.”
“Do it.” My voice is steady, deadly quiet. “Go ahead. I’ll fight you so hard, Sloane. I’ll win. And you know it.”
Her face pales, because she knows that I’m right, but I don’t stop. “I have never kept her from you. You kept her from you. You made this choice every single time you didn’t show up. Thirteen times you did that to her. Do you know what it was like to see her cry and be sad afterward every single time?”
She swallows hard and looks away, but I can see the anger simmering under her skin. “I have been busy with a huge trial.”
“Get out of here,” I tell her, stepping back toward the door. “You don’t get to blow up her life just because you feel like it. Like it’s a hobby for you.”
She hesitates, then turns on her heel and stalks to her car. “I’m staying in town. I will see my daughter.”
I stand there long after her taillights disappear down the road, my boots planted in the snow. The night is so quiet I can hear my breath, harsh and uneven. My fists are clenched so hard my knuckles ache.
Every time she shows up or doesn’t show up, she digs into old wounds, rips them wide open, and then leaves us to clean up the mess. And she doesn’t even care. She never has.
I tip my head back and stare at the sky. Snow drifts down lazy and soft, landing on my eyelashes, melting before I can blink it away. I feel like I am vibrating under my skin, fury and heartbreak and exhaustion all tangled together.
It would almost be easier if she were cruel outright. If she said she did not want Junie and stayed gone. But she comes in just often enough to remind us she exists, to remind Junie that she once had a mother who chose something else over her. And that’s just not something a five-year-old understands.
