Page 3 of Her Christmas Beast

“So where do you live, Billy?” I finally ask, wondering if I’m embarking on a road trip to a neighboring state.

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “About twenty miles out of town.”

“Really? You’ve been so close all this time? I tried to find you, you know. You don’t go by Igor anymore, do you?” I ask quietly.

“No. Igor never truly existed. I’ll tell you everything when we get home. You deserve that. But it’s not a pretty story, Angel,” he warns, his tone regretful.

“I don’t care,” I respond staunchly. “It’s your story, and that’s what matters.”

He doesn’t say anything more and we continue in comfortable silence. The truck cab is warm and I relax into the corner, drifting off.

The next thing I know, a blast of cold air startles me awake. Billy takes me into his arms and out of the truck. He carries me towards a stunningly beautiful house made of sparkling rough-hewn pink granite uplit by delicate garden lights that also catch the twinkling snowflakes as they fall to the ground. Words fail me, so I have to tug gently on Billy’s ear to make him stop. He stares down at me quizzically.

“I want to see it,” I finally mange to get out. He sighs but humors me by coming to a halt and I take in the house. Window boxes are placed under every window waiting for spring. A giant evergreen wreath decorated in pink and gold covers the heavy oak front door. “This is my house,” I announce with awe.

“It is,” he agrees, offering up no further explanation.

It’s exactly the dream house I told him all about in excruciating detail while we waited for something or other to bake back in school. Probably several somethings. I was always extending my fantasy house and decorating it in my head. I never expected back then or now to see it in full scale and three dimensions. “But why…? How…?”

Billy pins me with a strange look. Then his lips tighten and he starts moving forward again. He sets me down gently on the landing by the front door so he can key in some magic code to unlock it. As the door swings open, soft lights automatically illuminate the interior. The color schemes inside are my favorite combinations. And a glorious fresh Christmas tree decked out in pink and gold sits in the corner, the tiny white lights twinkling from the shadows.

With the massive door shut behind us, Billy gently unwinds my scarf and takes off my coat like I’m a child. He leads me through the living room and down a short hallway to anotherdoor. It’s dark behind this one, but I can just make out the outlines of a big bed. Billy pushes me gently down on the edge and then slides my boots off. “Go to sleep, Angel. Christmas will be waiting for you when you wake up. We’ll talk in the morning.”

I’m still in shock at seeing my dream house come to life, so he huffs a small laugh and taps my shoulder until I lie down. The bed smells like him, exotic and expensive and I breathe in deep, closing my eyes in bliss. Billy covers me with the blankets and exits the room, the soft snap of the door letting me know he’s shut it behind him.

2

I wake to weak winter sunlight peeking in around the edges of heavy velvet drapes. I scrunch my face tight, trying to remember where I am. The color of the velvet, a rich plum, brings it back finally. My fantasy house dressed in the colors I loved when I was twelve. And I still do, but I’d never admit it to anyone because they’re very uncool right now. Except maybe Billy. He’s put me in a guest room to sleep until I’m a functioning adult again… or something. I swivel my head on the pillow, not quite ready for the heavy lifting of sitting up, and spy a photograph on the nightstand. Maybe this isn’t a guestroom after all. And then I sit straight up when I recognize the woman in the photo. It’s an image of me. A relatively recent one, taken at last spring’s graduation ceremony, which I always attend to celebrate the hard work of my students (and to remind them that professors are real people too).

A sharp pain hits my chest as that realization sinks in and I gulp for air. Billy knew where to find me this whole time? And he obviously didn’t want to talk to me? I… I don’t know what to make of that. Why else would he stay away? But then why would he keep my picture so close? None of it makes sense.

There’s no point speculating, I decide. It’s time to go ask the man.

But maybe I should shower first, I amend, when I spot my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I might be just a little the worse for wear. My bag was magically delivered inside the bedroom door while I was asleep. So after a hurried shower, Iquickly dress in comfy jeans and a red sweater, trying to set aside the hurt that feels an awful lot like rejection.

I drift out of the room on my stocking feet, hoping Billy has grown into a man that worships coffee like I do because Ineedcaffeine for this conversation. I find him in the kitchen sitting at a beautiful round table. His eyes lift up from the laptop in front of him, reading glasses perched on his broad nose. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” he says softly.

I smile tightly, still preoccupied with the photo that I left behind where I found it. “Billy…” I start and then sigh, chickening out for the moment. “Is there any coffee?”

“Of course. Come, have a seat.” He rises and I’m struck again at how big he is. He was a giant as a teenager, but he added at least another six inches and filled out with more muscle since high school. Nobody would describe him as pretty, but there’s a rough-hewn beauty to his features, like a weather-worn rock, that I find entrancing.

I clasp the warmth of the brown stoneware mug he sets down in front of me with both hands. Then gingerly take a sip. Sighing with satisfaction, I bolster my courage with perfectly brewed caffeine. I dart a glance over at Billy, who’s watching me cautiously. “Billy, why is there a photo of me on the nightstand?” I blurt out, bracing myself for his answer.

“Angel, I can explain…” he starts in, but I interrupt impatiently.

“Because I’m pretty hurt that you knew were to find me and didn’t at least call. Did you think I wouldn’t want to see you?” I can feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes and my nose is heading towards stuffy, never a good sign.

Billy’s eyes widen. He sets his glasses aside and stands up one more time. He gently takes the mug out of my hands and scoops me up out of the chair. The next thing I know, he’s seated deepin what must be a custom-made armchair holding me firmly against his chest.

“Baby Angel, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at how your mind works. I was worried you would think I was stalking you.” He sighs deeply and then confesses, “I didn’t know where you were. I hired a friend to find you, to make sure you were okay. I asked him only to send me a picture of you — alone — every year near your birthday.”

I blink at him, confused as to how he wouldn’t know where I was with all that. His self-deprecating smile teases his lips. “I didn’t want the details of the man in your life, Angel. The man lucky enough to hold you in his arms late at night. The one that got to hear your new ideas for how to get out of doing chores. The man with the privilege of making you scream with pleasure at night. I just needed to know you were safe.”

Now I am crying. “But there isn’t a man doing any of those things, Billy!”

“Well, I know that now,” he grumbles. He sounds so exasperated I giggle despite my tightening throat. And somewhere, somehow, I find a tiny bit of courage left, barely enough to choke out, “Why can’t it be you?”

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