Page 15 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“I fucking hate Christmas, Wren, but every time I walk out my door, there’s something new on my lawn from you, and I can’t seem to make myself be mad about it. Part of that is because if I time it right, I can look across the way and see you standing there with that little proud smile on your lips, and it makes my fucking day. So they’re still up, but don’t get me wrong, it’s a selfish move.”
I have to tip my head back to look at him from this distance, and he tips his down to look at me.
In that moment, I realize it wouldn’t take much for him to kiss me like this.
My mind runs through the scenario: I could move to my tiptoes, and he could bend a bit more. His arm would curve around my back and tug me in close, and then maybe he would drag me inside and?—
Okay, this is going too far. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Idoneed to go to sleep earlier.
Not that I’ll be listening to his advice any time soon.
I’m still trying to organize my thoughts and think of a way to respond to his confession, but I’m saved when a familiar voice speaks.
“Is that you, Wren?” I recognize it as Mr. O’Donnell from three houses down. It snaps me out of my daze, and I blink, turning to look at him standing on the sidewalk, his dog on a leash at his side.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“You got a second? I wanted to ask a favor of you.”
I clench my teeth and fight back a groan.
“Later, Wren,” I hear behind me, and when I turn back to Adam, he’s stepping back, that guard back on his face, but with a cocky tilt of his lips.
It’s hot.
And I freaking hate it.
Instead of giving him the validation of a response, I turn away without another word and move toward Mr. O’Donnell, even if it means I’ll probably be adding another item to my to-do list when I’m done.
At least I’m not stuck talking to Adam anymore.
SEVEN
As soon as I get back into my house and close the door behind me, I groan loudly with defeat. My mind reels trying to fit in picking up Mr. O’Donnell’s grandson from the airport on Saturday morning, which I stupidly just offered to do, in with the million other things I have to do. I mentally rearrange my calendar before texting Hallie to see if she can scoot the baking we were supposed to do on Saturday morning to Friday. She’s in, but that means I need to finish the top piece of the quilt tonight, most likely. I stupidly thought I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight, given that the exhaustion is starting to seep into my bones, but this changes my plans. I eat dinner at my coffee table, finishing up the first trimester report cards, then get into my cozy clothes before heading up to my office to sew.
It might be the fact that I’m stressed and tired, but as I cut the squares for the quilt, my mind moves to my grandmother teaching me how to make fabric blocks for quilted stockings we made for the whole family when I was nine. My heart gets that familiar heaviness at the memory, something that’s been happening more and more since the holiday decorations started to go up. This was her favorite time of year, and everything reminds me of her. She took the town decorating and the holidayfestival seriously, which is why I have taken on so many of those responsibilities myself, knowing no one else would prioritize them the way I would. I’m determined to make this the best year yet, determined to honor and memorialize her in this special way.
As I’ve done since she passed in February, I push that grief back, filling in the void with more tireless work. Keeping myself busy is the best way to fight back against the gloom of losing her.
It’s not too late when the first yawn happens, and the cup of coffee I made myself is barely taking the edge off. At around ten, the light across the way flicks on. My head lifts, remembering Adam telling me he could see me working at night. Adam enters the room, and I can’t see much of it, but I watch as he moves through it before sitting at a desk that faces the window. When his head turns in my direction, I quickly tip mine down, returning to my task at hand with a fervor. An embarrassed flush burns my cheeks, and I hope he can’t see it. In the meantime, I simply pretend I’ve been hard at work nonstop. After a while, though, I get the nerve to look up again.
When I do, I see he’s staring at me. Not just staring—he waves at me when he sees me looking back at him. I give him a half-hearted lift of my hand before moving back to my work. Ten minutes or so later, I lose the battle of will and look up again. He must see the shift in my movement, because he looks up, too. I try not to think about what that means, that he was that aware of my movement. But when he lifts a finger and presses something against the window, I lose that train of thought.
Instead, I focus on the white piece of paper with dark, messy writing scrawled across it.
Go to bed.
I roll my eyes at him, then reach for a dark marker of my own and a piece of scrap paper.
You first.
I lift an eyebrow at him, and even though my eyes are tired, I catch him smiling just a bit. Then he shrugs and stands, turning off the light and walking away. I sigh and go back to my project, but guilt wraps around my insides. When I look at my phone, I see it’s 12:40 a.m. My personal limit is one o’clock, but…how much could I really get done in twenty more minutes? And Iamtired, which makes everything take longer. I’d be much more efficient with more sleep.
And Adam went to bed as soon as I said I would if he did first.
Not that that matters.
Still, I wrap up what I’m doing, neatening up the area quickly before turning off the light in my office and heading to bed a bit earlier than usual.
