Page 19 of Chilled and Thrilled

Bram looks up, frowning. “You aren’t going to see your family?”

Ah. My family. A subject I’ve been careful to avoid whenever possible, even with Honor. She seems to think we have a friendly, if distant, relationship, and I never corrected the misconception.

“They’re not really big on celebrating,” I hedge, trying to decide just how much I should tell him. “My dad is a pastor, so they’re more into the Jesus dying for our sins thing, and less into the drinking eggnog and exchanging gifts thing. Not my scene.”

“A pastor,” Bram echoes, lifting his eyes from the simmering risotto to look at me. “I never would have imagined you as a pastor’s daughter. Where did you grow up?”

“Kentucky. I haven’t been back in ages, though.” Or talked to my parents, for that matter. They send a card in the mail for my birthday every year containing a long Bible verse about the power of forgiveness. This is usually accompanied by a note letting me know that they’ll be happy to welcome me back with open arms when I realize the error of mygodless, hedonistic ways. Considering I have yet to do so, our relationship hasn’t improved.

Bram seems to be taking this in and turns his attention back to our dinner. “So, you’re usually alone for the holidays?”

“Don’t feel bad for me,” I say in a rush, because I can’t imagine anything more mortifying than Bram seeing me as some kind of charity case. “Trust me, if you met my family, you’d realize being alone is a massive improvement.”

Setting a lid on top of the pan, Bram shakes his head. “I don’t feel bad for you, I feel angry at them.”

I was angry once, too, but I got over it. After all, they are who they have always been, I’m the one who came out of the mold all messed up. Even as a young child, I was skeptical, but those doubts about the world as it was presented to me grew to full-fledged contempt when I was a teenager.

Now, safely removed from the situation, I know I must have been a nightmare to them. After raising three perfect, godly sons, Pastor Richard Nelson and his devoted wife Ivy had no idea what to do with their rebellious youngest child. For years, the Nelson house was plagued by an unending clash of wills, and I think we were all relieved when I went off to college. Only months later, the great falling out took place, and I haven’t seen any of them since.

“What do you typically do?” I ask Bram, eager to steer the subject into less emotionally damaged waters. “Are there any Vogel family traditions?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the cabinets behind him. “The girls usually go to their mother’s house in the morning, and we spend the afternoon together. There are gifts, sometimes we play a board game. Dinner is the main event. All of us like to cook, it’s something we’ve always bonded over. A few weeks before the holiday we’ll decide on what recipes we’re going to try, gourmet stuff, you know? Things too much of a bother to try normally.”

That’s incredibly sweet. I like the thought of the Vogels bustling around the kitchen together, probably with Christmas music playing in the background and a fire crackling in the fireplace. Not a traditional family, or a perfect one, but one where the people in it love each other and fit.

I know from experience that the family you’re born into isn’t always the correct one.

A little afraid I’ll say something to inadvertently reveal the hollow pit of grief and yearning that’s opened inside me, I look toward the dark window. Enough light is spilling out from the house to illuminate a solid foot of snow built up on what must be the porch. “I haven’t even looked at the news. Do you know when this will stop?”

In the glass, I see Bram look at the floor, his shoulders tense. “Not for a few days, I’m afraid. The governor has closed the roads for everyone except emergency personnel.”

Which means I’ll be here for most of Christmas Day, possibly even the day after. This will be the first time in six years I haven’t been alone for the holiday, and it’s only because I was nearly run over by a car at the start of an epic snowstorm. I suppose that’s what I deserve after single-handedly ruining at least four Nelson family Christmases.

When Bram speaks again, his tone is cautious. “You’d be welcome to join us. Next year.”

Our eyes meet again in the darkened glass and, just for a moment, we stare at each other. I feel… exposed. This is the first time I’ve talked semi-openly about my family, and it’s not comfortable to confirm my long-held suspicion that it would make me the object of pity I don’t deserve.

I fix a smile on my face that looks wooden, even to my own eyes. “Oh, I’m a terrible cook. I don’t think my instant mashed potato contribution would enhance the celebrations much.”

“Sophie,” Bram replies sternly, expression grave. “I mean it.”

I know he means it, and that makes it even worse. This man’s kindness has already gotten me mixed up too many times. If he invites me to Christmas dinner and welcomes me into his cozy, warm, loving life, I might as well hand over my shriveled-up heart on a silver platter. Then there’s the very real possibility he’ll invite his girlfriend, too, and I’ll just have to throw myself into the snow and hope for death.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him as I get to my feet, stretching just to vent some of my nervous, restless energy. “Leni told me about this dating app. So maybe I’ll have a boyfriend to bother by then. Besides, I’m sure Rebecca will be invited, right? She seemed super cool, by the way. From what I can remember.”

Insert self-deprecating laugh here.

Bram stares at me, brow furrowed, and mouth pressed into a flat line. “No. She won’t be coming to Christmas next year. That was our first and only date.”

Oh. I swallow, my heart fluttering against my ribcage like a trapped bird. What he’s saying is good, right? I mean, I didn’t want him to date Rebecca, but it was a solid motivator to cease the hopeless pining. Now, we’re right back at square one: stupid obsessed with the absolute worst man to be stupid obsessed with.

Unable to stand the silence for another second and eager to put some distance between us, I draw back. “I’m just going to go sit down for a minute. A little tired.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and cross the room to the corner of the couch farthest from him, pulling my phone from the pocket of his sweatpants as I go. For a moment, I don’t even turn it on, just stare blankly at the dark screen. Am I losing my mind? I might be. For months, I’ve been clinging to moments just like the ones weshared in his bedroom earlier, trying to read something into them, seeing what I want to see. It’s pathetic.

If he wanted to, he would, right? That’s what everyone says. Granted, there are some extenuating circumstances here, but it all comes down to one thing. Not once, in over a year, has Bram said or done anything that could be interpreted as an undeniable expression of interest.

Cold with misery, I turn on my phone and, spotting the new icon for the dating app I downloaded this morning, jab my finger at the screen. Enough is enough. I’m moving on, whether I like it or not.

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