Page 12 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Snow by nine,” he says. “We’ll beat it.”
“I’ll drive first shift,” I tell him, shouldering my pack.
“Figures,” he says, and there’s amusement in it.
I shove my phone in my pocket, run a last scan of the cabin without thinking—windows, locks, stove off, dogs accounted for. Charlotte appears in the kitchen doorway with a robe and her baby bump and the kind of knowing smile only best friends can wear without getting punched.
“Be safe,” she says, hugging Asher, then me. Quietly to me: “We like her for you.”
“I noticed,” I say.
Melanie appears at the edge of the hall, blanket draped around her shoulders like a cape. We just look at each other for a beat. I wish for a lot of things in that second that don’t fit into a go-bag. Most of all I wish for more time that isn’t borrowed.
“I’ll call,” I say again, because it’s the only promise I can make that won’t break.
She nods, smile brightening into something mischievous because she’s her and she can’t help making the air around her lighter. “Don’t make me post a thirst trap to get your attention.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” I say, and earn the laugh I wanted.
Asher bangs the door with his shoulder, and cold air rolls in. I step out onto the porch, breath ghosting in the early chill. The ridge is a line of ink, the sky a wash of white waiting to fall.
I glance back. She’s standing there with the blanket and the dogs and the mountains at her back, and for a second it feels like a photograph I’ll keep in my head—sharp, composed, perfectly lit.
“See you,” she says.
“See you,” I echo, and head into the kind of morning that always comes for men like me. The engine turns over. The tires bite road. Work is a straight line when I’m driving it.
That’s the simple part.
The complicated part is how, two miles down the mountain, I’m already reaching for the phone in my pocket just to be sure I have her number where I thought I saved it.
I don’t do complicated.
But I’m pretty sure complicated just did me.
4
Melanie
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
Seven months is a long time to avoid your feelings.
It isnota long time to choose a stroller.
I waddle—I mean, walk—into Baby Bungalow on Main with my sister, Amelia, flanking me like a Secret Service agent with a latte. Saint Pierce has done its usual magic: pumpkins turned to twinkle lights turned to back-to-school turned to—surprise—baby-on-board. The bell over the door jingles, and a wave of powder-fresh air and pastel overload smacks me in the face.
“Okay,” Amelia says, clapping once like a coach about to yellhustle. “Mission: Tiny Human. We need a car seat, a stroller, and something adorable with woodland creatures wearing sweaters.”
“Copy,” I say, then immediately detour to a wall of onesies that sayNew to the CrewandSnack Dealer. My hand slides to my belly—hi, roommate—who does a little goldfish flip like,Snack Dealer is our brand.
My phone buzzes in my tote. Charlotte’s name blooms across the screen with about nineteen heart emojis.
“Put her on speaker,” Amelia says, steering me toward a display of strollers that looks like a Formula One pit lane.
I tap. “You are live from the womb boutique.”
Charlotte’s laugh crackles through. “How’s the bump?”
