Page 149 of Holidating
She gets into the back beside her husband and closes the door. Damien puts the Jeep into gear and pulls away from the curb.
“Check out this hotel,” Cam says, holding up his phone. “My dad still wants us to go to Aruba for Easter. You can get the time off, yeah?”
Her heart drops. “I told you I’d ask, but that’s a tricky time. The partners like to get away.” She’s working as a paralegal at a Boston law firm and trying to decide whether or not to reapply to law school.
In truth, she’s stalling. She doesn’t want to go to law school, but she also doesn’t have a great backup plan.
“Push for it,” Cam says. “See this beach? All you’d have to pack is a bikini.” He makes his voice sultry. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Now she’s squirming inside. “Look, Vermont got some snow,” she says, turning toward the window.
He wraps an arm around her. “Hope the ski conditions are good. Too bad I couldn’t talk your dad into going to Aspen. Vermont skiing is so trashy early in the season. Hell, it’s trashy, period.”
Nicolette’s eyes slide unbidden toward Damien, whose profile is only partly visible to her.
He’s staring straight out the front window, back straight, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. There’s no indication that he’s even listening to them at all.
She’s mortified, anyway. And it’s a long forty minutes until they finally arrive at the gate to her family home.
“You need the code, buddy?” Cam asks as Damien lowers his window.
Damien punches it in without comment.
“Guess not, then,” Cam says in a snarky tone.
“Cam,” she says under her breath.
He makes a face of innocent confusion.
When the car finally arrives in front of the house, Damien opens the driver’s door almost before they’re in park. Like he can’t wait to get away.
Nicolette slips out of the car and waits for him to open the back. As he raises the liftgate, his chunky wool sweater rides up an inch, and she sees a flash of ribcage. Her guilty eyes can’t quite look away. But she notices something marring his olive skin. Like a scar. But his sweater slips down before she gets a good look.
“You take plastic?” Cam asks, reaching for his wallet.
“It’s already handled,” Damien says tonelessly. He lifts out Cam’s bag first, setting it with a thud onto the plowed drive.
“Then here,” Cam says, peeling a five out of his wallet.
She sees a flicker of hesitation on Damien’s face. But then he takes the bill and shoves it into his jeans’ pocket. “Thanks,” he mutters.
Cam turns toward the front door, where her father has appeared, wine goblet in hand. “Cam! I just opened a 1989 Château Pichon Baron! Let me pour you a glass.”
Nicolette hangs back, and when Damien offers herthe handle of her suitcase, she doesn’t take it from him. “Look,” she says. “Seeing you is a surprise. I didn’t know you were back.”
He glances down at his boots. “Been back a few months. Trying to settle in.” There’s something heavy about his delivery. Like there’s a story there. But he doesn’t tell it.
“Well…” She sighs. “I’m glad to see you safely home.” After all this time, she still reads every single article about Afghanistan in the paper. Every day.
Finally, he lifts his chin and really looks at her. For a split second, the old Damien is back, eyes blazing with every ounce of intensity that they’d ever held.
But then he looks away again. “Good to see you, Nicolette.” He clears his throat. “Merry Christmas.”
Then he turns away quickly, before she can go in for the hug. He hops back into the Jeep and drives away.
After he’s gone, she realizes that he didn’t say, “Call me anytime.”
Damien heads back down the driveway, and it’s suddenly dark outside. In December, nightfall seems to descend on Vermont instantly—like an inexpertly lowered theater curtain.
