Page 17 of Make You Mine This Christmas
“He’s my best friend. Well, they both are. There’s nothing more to it,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ll go grab some sheets and we’ll get the chair pulled out. The base slides out, so it’s pretty firm and comfortable, no sharp springs or flimsy mattress.” He turns to go get bedding.
I make my way further into the room and over to the bookshelves, wanting to take a closer look at what means so much to Austin he would want to display it. I expect the pictures of Cole and Blaire and ones of his mom. Pictures with people I don’t recognize—people who entered his life after I left it.
And then there are the other photos. Photos of Austin dressed as a Pilgrim to help out at a Thanksgiving food drive. Holding up the finish line tape at the county marathon, on the same Main Street we just drove down. Dressed as a scarecrow with his arms around two other people wearing big grins and Sullivan’s Farm T-shirts, the sky cornflower blue in the background.
I keep looking and see the paper clippings, the plaques for outstanding service or recognition of achievement. All from things he’s done to make his community and the town he lives in better.
He comes back into the room behind me, and I hear the squeak of the chair as he pulls it out to make a bed. I take the coward’s way out, not turning around before I speak, but right here in front of me demonstrates what I so royally screwed up last night.
“This. This is why I couldn’t let you come with me to New York,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. He’s silent and still for a while, his movements halted.
“What is?” His tone is wary, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. And suddenly, I have to turn around. I have to look at him.
I do and gesture to the shelves now behind me. “You are this town, Austin. You’ve worked in every business on Main Street, are a key link in the phone tree, and are the first person every old lady calls to clean their gutters, fix a light bulb, or change a smoke detector. And now what you’ve done with the festival and bringing the towns together? I needed to go, but I couldn’t be theonlyreason you left too.”
He swallows, and I watch it travel down his throat. “But what if I wanted to be more than this town? What if I wanted to be there for you, see what we could be together?”
I shake my head. “You needed to want that for you. Not because of me. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I had taken you away from this town, the people who needed you, just because I didn’t want to lose you. So, I left.” Emotion clogs my voice, and my vision of Austin, white as a ghost, blurs with unshed tears in my eyes.
He clears his throat. “I, uh, I have to go check something.”
And this time, he’s the one to walk away without looking back.
Chapter 11
Austin
Fucking Cole and his tendency to be right all the fucking time.
I wipe tears from under my eyes, hiding in my room. Hearing Brody describe me, the way he sees me. Or at least saw me. No one’s ever framed me in such a positive light. I’m not the guy who can’t decide what he wants to do or can’t hold a job. Instead, to him, I’m the one who will do whatever the next need is. Go wherever someone needs me.
I think back to the first time I met Brody. He came to Winterberry Glen in the first place to work as a paralegal at Johnsons and Sons. They ordered lunch from the deli I worked at back then. His piercing blue eyes. His shy smile and tendency to blush. Holding himself with confidence among his coworkers, but kind in his interactions at the same time.
Pretty sure he was into men but not wanting to out him as the new guy in town, I hinted, but let him take the lead. Suddenly, I ran into Brody everywhere. At the gym before work, at the town hall for Bingo Night with Mrs. Krazinski, who he rented a room from, in the grocery store. The checkout aisle is where he finally took me up on my weeks of hinting and asked me out, flushing red the whole time.
Johnsons and Sons specializes in Mergers and Acquisitions and flew under the radar despite its strong reputation having its roots in a small town like Winterberry Glen. Brody tried to explain it to me on our first date. Even though I worked hard to get him to ask me out, I was nervous to be on a date with someone as hot and smart as he was. Realizing he had forgotten I’d lived in this town my entire life and gave him the opening for his explanation by asking if he was particularly interested in M&A, it endeared me to him right away knowing he was nervous too.
Shaking myself free from memory lane, I realize I’ve been away for a while, and it’s time to be a grownup and go face my ex. I busy myself finding clothes for Brody to change in to. I’m taller than he is, so even though our body shapes differ, I’m able to find a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt that should fit him without a problem. My movements stop after I open my drawer of boxer briefs and realize this area might not work for us to share. I snag a Christmas-themed pair, deciding I’ll let him make that call and carry the stack of clothes across the hall to his room.
Except Brody’s not in his room. The bed is the rest of the way made—great job hosting, Austin.I set the clothes on the bed and hurry back toward the living area. Surely I would have heard the front door open if he had left.
When I round the corner to the kitchen, I find him with the fridge door open, wearing the look of someone who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“Sorry, I didn’t plan to actually touch anything. I thought I might see what you had in the way of making dinner.”
“You can cook?” I ask. “Sorry,” I wince. “I didn’t mean to sound quite so surprised. When you were here before, you lived on?—”
“Protein shakes and chicken and rice. I know.” He straightens up and looks me right in the eye. “I have a lot more time to myself to cook now and”—he pats his stomach—“a better and healthier relationship with food, too. So, yes. I can cook.”
Wanting to ask why he’s not a lawyer, knowing his career change is why he has so much more time chokes me. It wants to come right out of my mouth. Brody smiles a knowing smile and holds up his hand.
“I know. You want to know why I have more time to cook. I want to tell you. Ineedto tell you. But maybe only one life-altering story per night?”
In all my focus on getting him some clothes and panic when I didn’t see him in his room, the bomb he dropped barely fifteen minutes ago faded away. It pulses back now, but I’m able to ignore it in the name of food.
“What did you find in the way of dinner?” I ask, walking across the kitchen and opening a cabinet drawer preemptively, knowing what he’ll say.
“A whole lot of nothing. Half a jar of pasta sauce, maybe?” he says, but his voice is without judgment. I set another jar of pasta sauce and a box of pasta on the counter.
