Page 18 of Acting Merry
“Fair enough. What basics do we need to cover?”
I lift my shoulders. “I should probably know a little about your family.”
There’s a pause. It’sjustlong enough to make me wonder if he’s about to refuse to talk about them.
“I’ve got a little sister, Cara,” he says. “She’s two years younger than me. Our parents are divorced. I don’t talk to my mom.” His voice is light. Nonchalant—almost. There’s just the slightest tightness to it. “What about you?”
“I’ve got two older brothers. Jimmy lives in Florida. Spencer lives in Boston. They’ve both got kids, so my parents spend their summers in Boston and their winters in Florida.”
“And spring and fall in Seattle?”
I let out a laugh. “Without grandkids to tempt them? No. They sold their house here a few years ago and got rid of most of their stuff. They travel a lot.”
Cole looks at me, but I just tap my fingers to the beat on the dashboard.
“Do you wish you got to see more of them?” he asks.
“Sure, but I understand why they do things the way they do. Mom and Dad spent half their lives raising my brothers and me. They deserve the freedom to do what they want now. Besides, my nieces and nephews are the cutest things on earth, and they’re growing like weeds.”
“Do your parents know how you feel?” Cole asks.
I glance at him. “I mean…I haven’t explicitly told them, if that’s what you mean.”
“Maybe you should.”
I narrow my eyes. “You mean guilt my parents into coming to see me more?”
“That’s one way to think of it.”
“And the other way?”
“You’re just making sure they know how you feel—what you want.”
I don’t respond. Cole doesn’t understand. My parents are retired. They have all the time in the world. If they wanted to come see me, they would. There’s nothing stopping them except desire. I’m not about to ask for pity visits.
“What do you do for work?” I ask.
“I’m a contractor,” he says. “I build stuff, flip houses, do home improvement projects…that sort of thing.”
“And subscribe toMartha Stewart Living.”
“She’s the GOAT,” he says like it’s a fact no one could contest.
I smile. Only a man entirely comfortable with hismasculinity owns that sort of subscription the way he is. “Turn here.”
The landscape here is my favorite kind: a magical array of dazzling white, deep greens, and rich browns. It’s the same every Christmas, and yet it’s neverexactlythe same. The snow drapes across the hills and trees differently, like a different haircut on a person I know well. This year, the snow levels are high, but the streets are wet. It’s warmer than usual, and the icicles on each roof produce a constant drip, making divots in the piles of snow beneath.
We turn another corner and onto the bumpy, unplowed driveway, and our destination rises up in front of us—a large log cabin surrounded by a wraparound deck and deep green pines hanging low with wet snow. Lights dangle from the A-frame roof, and red-bowed wreaths hang from the largest windows, matching their red framing. Add in the forest green roof and garage, and the cabin looks like it was made for this season. Three cars are parked out front—one of them is Brady’s—which means we’re the last to arrive.
Everyone is here, and they’ll all be waiting to see who I’m bringing. The man they believe to be my boyfriend.
My hand shoots out in front of Cole. “Wait.”
He puts on the brakes and looks at me. “What?”
My heart thumps wildly. “This is crazy. We should go home.”
five
