Page 139 of From Air

“I told her I wished he was dead.”

“I one hundred percent understand why you would feel that. I would feel the same way. But that’s her father.”

“He’s a fucking murderer!” I grab Gary’s shirt and shove him against the wall.

“Whoa! What the hell?” Two other guys run into the room and pull me off Gary.

“His wife died,” Gary says without raising his voice. He says it so matter of factly that it makes me nauseous.

“You don’t kill innocent people because a bear attacks your wife.” I struggle in the grip of the two guys holding me, but they don’t release me.

“Love makes us crazy.” He nods toward me. “Look at you. And she’s still alive.”

“This isn’t about her. It’s about my family.” Again, I try to yank myself free.

Gary straightens his shirt. “Of course it’s about her. Your family’s dead. Nothing will ever be about them again. And I know that makes me an asshole for pointing out the obvious. But you need to stop being the victim. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can have your own goddamn life.”

Chapter Forty-Six

Maren skips into the kitchen wearing her Santa hat. “We’re caroling tonight. Get ready.”

Will and I don’t take our attention away from Sunday-night football.

“Do you want peppermint marshmallows or regular marshmallows in your canteens of cocoa?”

We don’t respond until she steals the remote and shuts off the game.

“What the hell, Mare?” Will dives toward her to retrieve the remote.

“No. I promised Evette we’dallgo caroling with them tonight. So get your asses off the sofa, and be ready in five.” She slides the remote down her shirt and into her bra.

“I love that you think that’s going to stop me. I’ve seen plenty of tits. Your tiny ones won’t even faze me.” Will smirks.

Maren flips him the bird before strolling into the kitchen.

I haven’t spoken with Gary since our incident at work. We’ve managed to stay out of each other’s way. It’s best if I stay home.

“I’m not feeling well. Headache.” I rub my temples.

Maren opens the drawer by the fridge and pulls out a bottle of pain-relief pills. “Take two, and get your ass ready.” She tosses me the bottle.

I shoot her a scowl and slap the bottle onto the counter.

She winks. “Good boy.”

Fifteen minutes later, Maren’s driving our grumpy asses to Gary and Evette’s. There are at least a dozen people gathered in their front yard.

“Merry Christmas, my lovelies,” Evette chimes, in her long white coat and red Santa hat, handing us LED candles.

Someone bumps my shoulder, so I glance left.

Gary holds out his gloved hand. “Truce? I handled everything like a dick. You’re my guy, and I just want you to be happy. And I so badly wanted that happiness to be her. I’m sorry.”

I stare at his proffered hand.

Maren kicks the back of my knee. “What would Jesus dothree days before Christmas?” she mumbles. Of course she knows about our fight. Nothing’s a secret around here.

I shake his hand. “Truce.”

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