Page 34 of An Unexpected Christmas
I turn to her, still dazed. “Your house?”
“Yeah.” She smiles, cheeks pink from the cold and the glow. “My house.”
Before I can gather a single coherent thought, she grabs my hand and tugs me forward. “Come on.”
The door swings open, and the warmth rushes out first, wrapping around me, thawing what the cold had claimed while carrying the scent of cinnamon and pine and something sweeter I recognize instantly… her.
The living room has been transformed into nothing short of a grotto. Lights strung across every corner, casting a soft golden haze. A snowy tree glittering in the corner, branches heavy with pink and white ornaments that catch and throw the light back.
The table is already set, like a feast is waiting, glasses glinting, cutlery catching the light.
Then, the pink and green stockings come into view on the coffee table. One with her name stitched sitting next to one with… my name. I stop because it hits me too hard to move forward.
“You…” My voice fails, but the ghost of what I wanted to say lingers anyway.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I made Christmas,” she says simply. “For you.”
And it’s ridiculous, but I feel it then—every year I’ve spent alone, every halfhearted holiday with half-hearted decorations, every dim room and empty chair—rewriting itself in the magic of this one.
Frankie is something so unexpected… not just for Christmas but for a long time coming.
Frankie
Four years later
By the time I clock out on Christmas Eve, I’ve lived a lifetime in twelve hours. Three births back-to-back, one false alarm that turned into me eating graham crackers with a nervous dad-to-be in triage, and about a gallon of hospital coffee sloshing in my veins. I love my job. I do. But sometimes the only thing that gets me through the long shifts is knowing Sam and our ridiculous Christmas-covered house are waiting for me on the other side.
Except, lately… he’s been acting weird. Distracted, secretive. Yesterday, he asked ifIcould stay late at work tomorrow without explaining why. Today, he kissed me goodbye like his mind was elsewhere. And I can’t help it; the thought worms its way into my head that maybe, after four years of me and my chaos, he’s finally had enough.
Ivy’s voice crackles through the car speakers as I drive home. Oliver is exercising his lungs in the background. “Frankie, I promise you, Sam is not breaking up with you.”
“You haven’t seen him,” I argue, rubbing a hand over my tired eyes at a red light. “He’s cagey. And forgetful. And hepractically flinched when I asked if we should go away this year for the holidays. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Ivy bursts out laughing. “He’s lived in your house with Christmas exploding from every corner for four years. If that man hasn’t run by now, he never will.”
Still, my stomach is in knots when I finally pull into the driveway. And when I look up at our house, my heart drops out of my chest as my foot slams the brake too hard, propelling forward into the steering wheel. Everything’s dark. Completely dark. No twinkle lights, no glowing reindeer, not even the icicle strands Sam grumbles about every year when he has to untangle them. Just… nothing.
Panic grips me. Did he leave? Did something happen?
“Ivy, I’m gonna call you back,” I say, shoving my car into park. I’m out and onto the crunching snow before the call disconnects, keys clenched tight in my fist.
I take two more steps, and the world explodes into sound.
We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas…
The song blasts from somewhere, and I yelp, then start to laugh, shaky and bewildered. One by one, the lights wink on in a rolling wave—roofline, porch, the ridiculous reindeer Sam pretends to hate—until the whole house is familiar again and blazing so bright it turns our yard into daylight. The door swings open, and Sam steps out onto the porch, haloed by theglow of the hallway light behind him. He’s in a suit, anactualsuit, and for a moment I can only stare, my pulse racing.
His eyes find mine, and everything frantic inside me settles like snow in a shaken globe.
“Surprise,” he says, voice carrying over the music, the side of his mouth tipped in a smile.
I climb the steps slowly, suspicion warring with the pounding of my heart. Up close, he looks devastating, hair combed back, his newly grown beard neatly combed, and yes, that’s definitely the tie I once blindfolded him with.
“I thought…” My voice catches, and I have to swallow hard as I step closer. “You’ve been so weird lately. I thought you were going to break up with me.”
His expression softens as he rushes the last couple of steps toward me. “Break up with you? Frankie, I’ve been trying to keep you from finding out aboutthis.”
And before I can process whatthisis, he drops to one knee right there on our porch. The speakers are still blaringWe Wish You a Merry Christmas, which makes the whole thing ridiculous and perfect all at once.
