Page 3 of Merry'd to the Mountain Man
After I take the coats and deposit them into the den, I head back into the kitchen. I load up the serving bowls and platters and start taking them out to the table. Everyone else is already starting to find their seats, laughing, and pouring wine. By the time I come out with the last dish, the only seat left is the tiny wooden stool at the end of the table. It’s meant for a child to use, of which we have two, but it’s me, the plus-sized spinster who is expected to sit on it and hope to god I don’t turn it into kindling.
“I really don’t think,” I start to say, looking around at everyone. I’m hoping it’s clear from my expression that they aren’t going to make me finish the sentence.
“Don’t be a problem, Frankie,” Mom says sweetly, but the hard look in her eye is a warning to me to not make waves. “Just sit down.”
My jaw clenches so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t crack a molar in my anger. But as always, I do what I’m told. I lower myself gingerly on the stool, testing the strength before I put my full weight on it. It creaks loudly from the strain, and I have to breathe through the embarrassment and fury simmering in my chest.
Mom clicks her fork on her glass and lifts it. “Before we eat, I just want to say how thankful I am this year.”
Her gaze moves around the table. “For my wonderful husband, who provided this family such a beautiful home to be together in. From my amazing son, who works so hard and loves his family deeply. And for my lovely daughter-in-law, who has given us the two most precious grandchildren and grandmother can ask for.”
I wait for her eyes to find mine, wondering what kind thing she will have to say about me for once.
“And of course, I’m grateful Frankie hasn’t found anyone because then who would help me in the kitchen for the holidays?”
Everyone chuckles.
Except me.
A familiar ache clenches tightly in my chest and I stare down at my empty plate to blink away the hot sting of tears in my eyes. My appetite for all the food I spent hours helping to prepare, no longer looking or smelling at all apetizing.
The sounds of the conversation and movement around the table fade into nothing but a hum of background noise in my head. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and one clear thought in my head—never again.
Never again was I going to sit at this table and pretend I didn’t notice the way they looked right through me. Never again was I going to be the helper, the extra, the one who made it easier for everyone else to shine.
I force a smile one last time, but it’s a brittle, breaking thing.
And I made a promise—this would be the last holdiay I spent feeling small.
By the time I got home that night, my feet ached, my hair smelled like gravy, and my heart felt about two sizes too small. My apartment was dark and quiet. The kind of quiet that usually made me sad but tonight it felt like a relief.
I kicked off my shoes, dropped my overnight bag by the door, and collapsed on the couch—face first into the pillows. I’m not sure how long I laid that way, but it wasn’t until I heard the faint ping of a text message in my pocket.
I groan into the pillows before turning over and fishing it out of my pocket.
Jess: You have to see this. It’s the funniest thing I’ve read all day!
There is a link. I sigh, thumb hovering over it. Probably another meme about dating apps or men who think “owning a truck” counts as a personality.
Still, I click. I could use a good laugh right about now.
The link leads me to a classified ad of some sort, written like something out of a bad Hallmark parody.
Get Merry’d to the Mountain Man
I need a wife before Christmas. Don’t ask why.
It’s not about love—it’s about keeping what’s mine.
If you can fake “happily ever after” for a few weeks in a cabin buried in snow, you’ll be taken care of.
Warning: I come with a beard, a temper, and a woodstove that’s older than both of us.
Serious inquiries only.
I can’t help the snort that comes out of me. “He’s not subtle. I’ll give him that.”
But I can’t stop myself from reading it again. And again.
