Page 83 of The Bright Side of Christmas
“Mmm,” he says, then pours a beer and slides it over to me. I cup my hands around it, though I don’t drink it. “I’m assuming that’s why she slept at Hallie’s last night?”
“She did?”
He shrugs. “We live in a split house; she’s right next to me. Heard them stumble in late last night, and they were chatting a bit early this morning.”
Well, at least that explains where she was last night. I’m a bit relieved that she stayed with Hallie, since driving home late and exhausted would have been dangerous.
“What was the fight about?” he asks.
I am not a sharer.
I am not the kind of man who spills personal details with friends or asks for relationship advice. Part of that is because I haven’t had a proper relationship to speak of, but also because I value my privacy and prefer to keep things to myself.
So it’s a surprise when I find myself spilling it all to Colt.
“We were supposed to spend the night together last night. I had a big surprise for her, and I wanted her to have a relaxing night before her big day. But she forgot that we had made plans and took on another task, which someone else had fallen short on. I was mad, and then she got mad. Then she never came home so we could talk it out, so I kind of figured that was her answer.” That all-too-familiar pain lances through me, the same one I felt every time I glanced over at her empty drive.
On the drive here, everything reminded me of her. Every light, every bow, every decoration made that vice on my heart tighten. I didn’t miss the irony of coming to Holly Ridge to avoid the holidays and the dread and failure that accompanied them, only to fall in love with Christmas spirit personified. If things between Wren and me are unfixable, I know that the pain I used to feel around the holidays will be a pleasant contrast.
Colton nods as if his argument makes sense to him. “Sounds about right. She and Hallie have had that fight a dozen times over. You should know, if you stay with her, that’s a fight you’ll probably be fighting for the rest of your life.”
I nod, knowing that to be the truth.
But something about the way he says it makes me realize something new: I’m okay with it.
I’m okay with having this argument, standing firm when I know she needs me to, and being flexible when I must. Part of what makes WrenWrenis the way she gives so freely. I realize now that I don’t want to change that, as I think she fears. Isimply want to protect her so she always has the energy to help where it will be most effective, while also prioritizing her own needs.
Even more, I know I let my emotions and disappointment cloud the big picture yesterday. It wasn’t the right time to push her, and it surely wasn’t the right way. I can’t help but wonder how things would have played out if I hadn't. I should have offered to come to the community center and help, even though I can’t wrap a gift to save my life. I’m sure she could have found a job for me, something small to get off her plate.
Regret is flooding my veins and my mind, and I almost don’t hear Colt when he speaks next.
“You know, the pianist is sick.”
My head raises, and my brows furrow in confusion. “What?”
“Yeah, the pianist for the festival. Mr. Mooney. He’s been playing there for as long as I can remember, and he provides the only music at the festival, aside from the performances. Something about live piano makes it more festive than a recording or some shit.”He shrugs, as if it makes no sense to him, before continuing. “Anyway, he got that nasty cold that’s been going around, along with the chorus teacher. I think Wren’s going to try and scrounge someone up, but it’s also the last minute and the day before Christmas Eve.”
My mind is reeling on so many fronts that I don’t know where to start.
But mostly, it settles on how stressed Wren must be. If it’s a big part of the vibe and experience of the festival, and there is no piano on the first one she’s been in charge of, she’s going to be a mess. Did she find a replacement? And if she didn’t, what would she do? Is she okay?
For a split second, an idea rolls into my mind, but panic surges with it.
I could go.
I could easily play the piano for the festival.
But it would be one step closer to losing the anonymity that I’ve learned to cherish here. I always told myself it wouldn’t be that great. While it might be nice to grocery shop without being stopped or to meet someone and know there were no other motives to their kindness, that didn’t make itworth itfor me.
But I was so wrong.
It’s fucking amazing, and with that burden lifted, I’ve even gone and made friends with people who I know for a fact like me because I’m Adam Porter, a regular resident of Holly Ridge, not Adam Porter, songwriter or bassist or connection to big names in flashy magazines, for the first time I can remember.
But I only feel that way, feel so settled and accepted here, because of Wren, who, when I told everything to her, didn’t even bat an eye. She didn’t treat me any differently, didn’t stop arguing with me all the time, and didn’t start cozying up to me to get something.
Would anything really change if everyone found out who I really was?
I shake my head, trying to knock the thought from my mind. It doesn’t matter. If she wanted me to be there, she would have called and asked for my help.
