Page 28 of Holidating
I hate cigarettes. Just like I hate overgrown man-babies.
“Welcome to the family,” Mickey grunts. “Things are pretty hairy with the Griggs clan these days.”
Oh really? You don’t say. But that’s all on him. It must be hard work to maintain this level of animosity for—what did Weston say?—three years?
I should just keep my thoughts to myself, I tell myself.
But Weston is hurting because of this man. The whole family is hurting.
Maybe I can’t let it go. Some people just need a shake.
“It’s hairy becauseyoumake it that way,” I point out before I can think better of it. “This whole situation sucks for you. I get that. But you’d better get a grip on yourself already.”
He pulls a cigarette from the pack. “You’re young, honey. Talk to me in thirty years.”
My blood pressure leaps up.God, how I hate men who talk down to women. “First of all, I’mnotyour honey. And there are worse things in life than divorce.”
“Sure.” He flicks a lighter. “You probably know all about heartbreak and disappointment at the tender age of twenty.”
“Hey!” Now my anger is driving this bus. “I onlylookyoung. Three years ago my only parent was driving my dog to the vet, when they both died in a car crash.”
Mr. Griggs jerks backward, like he’s been slapped. “Jesus Christ. That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, I know. But don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. But for the love of God, stop giving your kids so much drama. You’re notdead.” I grab the cigarette out of his hand and throw it into the snow. “Not yet, anyway. So stop throwing yourself a damn funeral.”
He drops his head. “Shit.”
“Just stop,” I repeat, because I’m on a roll, and some people can’t take a clue until you shove it in their faces. “Get a goddamn hobby.Get a dog. Join Tinder and find some action. But stop wallowing in self-pity. It’snota good look on you.”
That’s when the slow clap starts. I whirl around and find Weston standing in the snow beyond the circle of light from the porch. His brother is with him, too, and Stevie also starts to clap.
Oh boy. I really didn’t mean to lose my temper like that. My face heats like a flame as the Griggs boys finish their ironic applause.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “It’s none of my business.”
“He did welcome you to the family,” Stevie says darkly. “That would freak out any girl.”
Weston laughs, and the sound is joyous instead of bitter. “It would, right?”
He and his brother look at each other and then laugh so hard that Stevie doubles over.
I edge away from my host—the man I’ve just insulted. And I step off the porch.
Weston reaches for my hand, and squeezes it. “Well done, Abbi girl. It needed to be said.”
Mr. Griggs wouldn’t agree, I bet. He stomps past us and heads for the parking lot.
Weston drives us home, his father stewing in the passenger seat.
I’m such an idiot. Weston invited me home with him because he wanted his dad to lighten up for Christmas. But I wrecked it. Now the man will probably avoid me, which means he’ll avoid his sons too.
Nice going, Abbi. Great work.
It’s deathly quiet in the car until Weston turns on the radio. Naturally there’s nothing but Christmas music playing. Weston turns it up, as if he could drown out his father’s bad humor with a pop star’s rendition of “White Christmas.”
“I like you,” Stevie says suddenly. He uses a low voice, and I don’t think anyone can hear him but me.
“Thanks,” I grunt, wondering whether Stevie is going to be creepy. I don’t get that vibe from him. Still, it’s an odd thing to say.
