Page 79 of A Not So Merry Rescue
I raise my glass handed to me by Dax in solidarity, but I can’t force myself to drink it. In a move only Beckett could orchestrate, he turns us around, swaps our glasses, and chugs my full one, spinning us back around in a matter of thirty seconds.
“Whiplash, much?” I mutter, but I’m grateful he’s here to protect me from having to explain why I’m not drinking the toast.
“Are you okay? The Nicholas clan can be a little overwhelming.” He drapes his arms over my shoulder, inching me closer to him.
“Compared to the Gibson clan, ‘a little’ is an understatement.” I chuckle, the sound dying shortly after. “I’m good, thanks. There’s a lot of love in this room, and if my family had half of it, life growing up would have been better.”
It’s not that my parents were horrible, but affection and love didn’t come easily. They aren’t the touchy-feely type, which was harder on Clem than me. She craved it, and who better to give it to her than her twin sister? Ironically, she’s the one who still lives by our parents, but after Elias died, I needed a change of pace. When I announced I was moving to Vermont where Elias had grown up and went to college, no one but Clem tried to stop me. For her sake, I hate that we’re so far, but for my sanity, it’s better this way.
“I’m not sorry you’re here, Willa.”
It’s the only thing he says before he’s pulled away by his father for some before-dinner tradition.
His words play on repeat in my mind, my brain trying to make sense of his statement.
Does he meanhereas in tonight?
Does he meanhereas in Winterberry?
Does he meanhereas in with him?
Is it a combination of the three?
“You seem lost.” Autumn appears next to me, studying my appearance.
I blow out a breath. “Not lost. Overwhelmed. Your family dynamic differs from mine.”
“Ah. I don’t get it, but it’s understandable. Shania’s dad couldn’t handle our brand of nutty. Took off before her first birthday. For a hot minute, I thought about packing up and following him, but I couldn’t do it. I want her to grow up like I did. Sometimes I feel guilty she’s growing up without him, but it’s his loss.”
“She’s an incredible kid. You’ve done an amazing job with her.”
“Eh.” She does that so-so motion with her hand I’ve seen from Beckett. “She has her moments, but I couldn’t ask for a better kid. And even though she’s got a lot of her dad’s personality, it’s the parts I loved most about him.” Wistfulness clings to every word, the emotion palpable around us. “Don’t mind me.Much as I love Christmas, it doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. The life I thought I’d have, so different from this one.”
“Preach it, girl.” I mumble the words, not sure I want her to hear me but relating to the sentiment. It occurs to me I never apologized for my erratic behavior the other night at Beckett’s. “I’m sorry I was so skittish the other night. I’m not quite myself lately.”
She waves away my apology. “No worries. Beck explained you weren’t feeling well. How long are you in town for?”
“Until Beckett gets the part for my car.”
“Huh.”
I can’t decipher the one word, but a commotion at the door saves me from having to. The guys have returned dressed in the ugliest Christmas sweaters I’ve ever laid eyes on. To hide my discomfort, I join in the others’ laughter.
Greens and reds of all shades adorn the guys’ chests. I home in on Beckett’s. An ugly green and red argyle pattern covers his chest with the words “Don’t stare at my package” stretched across. The alternating silver and black letters seem hand-sewn onto the material. The best part is a crocheted green present, complete with a red bow, attached to the bottom hem of the sweater inches above Beckett’s package. It’s hideous. The colors and patterns don’t match in the slightest, but a huge grin plasters Beckett’s face. I can’tnotmatch it with one of my own.
Merritt hands out a pencil and a scrap of green paper to the girls. When he hands me mine, he explains, “It’s a contest. Best sweater wins.”
“By best, you mean . . .”
His grin lights up the already bright room. “The most hideous, of course.”
“Right. Got it.” I take the pencil and paper with nimble fingers, hopefully hiding the shakiness.
The women gathered at the far end of the living room, the other guys stand in a line at the front. When Merritt joins them, he speaks. “Reminder of the rules: ignore who’s wearing thesweater and vote on the ugliest one. Not about who wears it best or your affiliation with that person.” He slides his eyes my way before resuming. “May the best man win.”
From a speaker on the fireplace comes the sound ofAmerica’s Next Top Modeltheme song, and then, I couldn’t make this up, but one by one, each guy struts his stuff down the “runway”—aka, the middle of the living room floor. Each is more stoic than the last, getting into character, their chests showing off their sweater proudly. It goes in age order, so Beckett is last. With his gaze fixated on the wall in front of him, he strides across the carpet, one foot crossing in front of the other, like the models do. Why it amazes me he knows exactly what to do is beyond me.
About the middle of the room, he pauses, doing a slow and complete three hundred sixty-degree turn, the sweater covering his chest on full display. I wish I could rate his pose, his walk, his presence. Hands down, he’d win. Though his sweater is ugly, too. But I need a critical eye to assess them all fairly and unbiased.
