Page 18 of An Unexpected Christmas
“And Darren,” I force out along with a bitter laugh. “My best mate. I caught them together. Christmas Eve, no less. Talk about cliché.”
Her lips part, a faint gasp escaping.
“A life spent planning our future,” I continue, staring at the flickering candlelight instead of her. “Gone in one night. I stayed in London out of spite, stubborn as hell, but every street corner had their shadow on it. Then one day I saw them at a market—hand in hand like nothing had happened—and it broke something I hadn’t realized was still intact.”
Her fingers squeeze mine, warm and unflinching.
Most people looked at me like a cautionary tale. Like I was proof of what happens when you are naïve. But she looks at me like I’m still a person. Like, I’m not defined by the worst thing that ever happened to me.
“It wasn’t just losing her,” I admit quietly. “It was losing him too. I didn’t just lose a fiancée, I lost my best friend and eventually all my friends. And I haven’t really let anyone close since.”
The words come out flat, but the weight of them never lessens. She leans back slightly, her gaze not leaving mine. “I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been.”
I nod. One day, I was living in a fourth-floor flat with a view of the Thames. Next thing I knew, I’d lost years of my life, and I was hauling boxes through the door to this place, hoping no one in Holly Creek would hurt me like that.
I let her soft touch soothe me. It’s such a simple thing, skin against skin, but it feels like my body has forgotten what it feels like. I haven’t had anyone reach for me in years—not in comfort, not in affection, not without an agenda. The last time someone held my hand, it was Lucy, and even that memory is tainted now. Since then, it’s been handshakes with editors, the occasional brush of a stranger on the Tube; the kind of contact that means nothing and leaves nothing behind.
But Frankie’s palm is warm against mine, her thumb moving absently like she isn’t even aware of what she’s giving me, itunravels something in my chest I thought had calcified. For the first time in longer than I want to admit, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact.
“I told myself a lot of things the last six months.” I glance at her. “Like I didn’t need people. Like I could write again if I just got away from everything. But the truth is, I haven’t written a word since I got here, and I’ve been lonely.”
I don’t miss Lucy, not anymore. Haven’t in years. But the betrayal left behind has clung to me like smoke, impossible to scrub out no matter how far away I start over. Frankie doesn’t press, doesn’t prod, and that silence feels like mercy.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, my fingers curling slightly under hers.
“For what?” she asks, her voice warm.
“For not treating me like I’m broken.” I meet her gaze. “Most people do.”
There’s a faint curve of her lips. “You’re not broken, Sam. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still here.”
The truth of her words settles low, reverberating in places I thought were long dead, but it’s like a sliver of light, awakening something inside me. Like a door cracking open in a dark room. And she’s the reason.
Frankie
Maybe this year you try something different
For the first time since I met him, I’m not sitting beside a mystery. There’s something in the honesty he’s passed to me that I won’t take for granted. Being open with people is hard, especially when you’re semi-new to a town, and somehow I’ve managed to dig beneath his grumpy exterior tonight and found the man hiding beneath it. “So, do you always spend Christmas alone?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?” His huff is superficial, I realize, not intended for him to be miserable at all, and it has me preening again. He’s learning things about me too, it seems.
“Yes.”
There’s that twitch at the corner of his mouth again—fleeting, but real. He looks back to the window where the snow curls against the glass. “Not always,” he admits. “I used to do the big dinner thing with friends, but after a while it felt… forced. People move on. Life moves on.”
One question still plagues me. “But are you happy?”
He hesitates, his hand flexing against the arm of the couch. The motion pulls my attention, and before I can stop it, I imagine those hands, such capable hands, cradling my face, my hips, claiming what I’d already give him without question. The thought is gone as quickly as it comes, but it leaves a heat behind, one I’m not sure I want to ignore.
“Happy’s a stretch. But at least I’m being honest,” he says quietly, bringing my attention back to his voice. “I think I could be happy here.”
What he isn’t saying is that it's easier to be alone, and I can empathize with that to a degree. It is easier being alone with no one else to worry about, but I can’t deny the joy I get from knowing I’m seeing my family soon, cuddling people who love me unconditionally, and he doesn’t have any of that. My heart squeezes for him.
“Well,” I say, pushing to my feet and brushing off my plaid pajama pants, “maybe this year, you try something different. You can’t erase the old memories, but you can stack new ones on top until the bad ones aren’t the only thing you feel at Christmas. Start small. Tonight, even. Just one new memory.”
“With you?” he replies quickly, standing alongside me.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say, planting my hands on my hips as I look up at him. “But… the storm’s got us stuck here anyway. We might as well make the best of it.”
