Page 28 of Mad About Yule

That was one of my favorite things about my life in Portland—nobody cared what I did. My coworkers wanted me to get my job done, my friends wanted me to pay for rounds at the bar now and then, but everybody else? Crickets. I’d gotten used to the anonymity. Here, my life is in a fishbowl, on display for the whole town to pick over choice by choice.

“Yeah, about that. Where did everyone get this story Hope was engaged? I asked her about it and wound up sounding like an idiot.”

Mom’s gaze turns thunderous. It’s been a long time since I last saw that scolding look. “Griffin Thomas. You asked her about that? What’s the matter with you?”

Her scolding cuts, especially since I don’t have a good excuse. How many times had I endured lectures growing up about not sharing stories about other people? “I was curious. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t true?”

“I raised you better than to go around repeating gossip.”

“Again, I didn’t know it was gossip at the time.” Hearing it from four different people around town isn’t quite the same as a secret whisper sharing unverified intel.

Even if it had turned out to be unverified intel.

“I’m surprised you paid any attention to that in the first place. You’re not one to go in for small talk.”

“I’m not.” Being trapped making small talk makes my eye twitch. The twitch has become a problem since I moved back here, getting worse all the time. More than one person has suggested I have it checked out. “Usually I just ignore gossip.”

“I see. But you didn’t ignore it when you heard gossip about Hope?”

Even if my ears had perked up like satellite dishes tuning in whenever I heard her name through town, I won’t dignify that with a response. Especially not with Mom about five seconds from laughing at me as it is. I need to keep her on track.

“Why did everyone think she was engaged if she wasn’t?”

That question rattled around my head all day, splintering off into more questions I don’t have answers to. Did she refuse a proposal over the summer? Did she recently break up with the guy—or get dumped? She only said she has no fiancé or boyfriendnow, she didn’t offer any info about her past.

Not that I really want to know. The thought of some mystery fiancé had left a bad enough taste in my mouth, I don’t want any details about the guy. If he had, in fact, existed. Preferably, he hadn’t. Just a figment of the town’s collective imagination.

Mom narrows her eyes like she can see straight inside my skull. I try to clear whatever guilty thing my face is doing.

“Explaining that would be gossip.” Mom sets her smirk on high. “You’ll have to go to the source.”

“I’m not going to ask Hope about her personal life.”

“Sounds like you already did.”

I blow out a breath. “Dinner’s not worth this.”

I stalk out of the kitchen, Mom’s laughter trailing behind me. I can blame Caleb for her increased interest in my dating life. Ever since my brother got married, Mom has taken that as an invitation to poke around and drop hints.

There’s been nothing to share since I left Portland—I’ve been too much in my head to think about dating. Right up until I reconnected with one Christmas-loving Homecoming Queen. Who may or may not have gone through a big break up a few months ago but is certainly single now.

And mad at me. That part’s pretty key.

I need something to do. A task to accomplish and check off a list, and most importantly, get my mind off of Hope’s mysterious love life.

I peek inside the wood stove in the living room and dump half a bucket of pellets into the hopper so Mom won’t have to do it later tonight. It’s become my habit in the winter months, a small thing I can do for her around the house. She doesn’t let on she needs help very often, but I do the few things I can.

Then, I make a mistake. The same mistake I’ve made dozens of times over the last year. I never learn.

Against my will, my eyes land on Dad’s acoustic guitar where it sits on a stand in the corner. My chest seizes up like all my organs are deadweight, pinning me in place. I take slow, stuttering breaths, trying to keep everything under control. Below the surface. Not out in the open, where I can’t be sure I’ll get that grim genie back in its bottle.

Sometimes I actually manage it now, and I can’t tell if I’m more grateful or disappointed in myself. I can’t live with the crushing grief forever, but moments when I can keep it in check come with a layer of guilt, like it somehow diminishes my love for my dad. Makes me less of a son when I can just breathe through it instead of needing to duck into my old bedroom and let the tears flow.

“You okay, honey?” Mom asks softly. She’d come up beside me, and follows my gaze to the corner. Reading my mind, she runs a comforting hand along my back. “Nobody played like your dad.”

“Nope.” The lump in my throat makes it impossible to say more. His riffs off of 70s rock songs used to fill this house, the soundtrack that played softly behind all my childhood memories.

“He left picks everywhere.” Her strained laughter makes me look away. If she tears up, that will get me tearing up, and my goal tonight is to stay in one piece. “Inside the house, out on the deck, in the car—I can’t tell you how many went through the wash, clinking around in the dryer.”

---