Page 29 of An Unexpected Christmas
I swear there were sounds from the kitchen when I wrapped up the call, and I wonder if he’s here, listening. I know what I should want to pack and get home as soon as the first plane leaves. That was always the plan, but there’s something else I want too, and that’s to stay right here, where the storm gave me something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
I push to my feet and go to my kitchen, only to find it empty. Sam isn’t here anymore, but my back door is unlocked.
On the counter, a plate waits under a layer of foil. I peel it back, and a puff of warmth greets me, along with the scent of butter and pepper. Scrambled eggs, toast cut neatly, and one strip of bacon curled into a crooked little heart, all make my mouth water. My fingers hover above the plate, not touching yet, because if I do, I’ll ruin something, and the illusion of what we’ve done will shatter. Did he hesitate before walking out, debating whether to stay? Is he coming back? Should I cross thestreet, knock on his door, and thank him? I guess if he wanted thanks, he wouldn’t have left.
I eat standing up because if I sit, I’ll start convincing myself it means more than it does.
Then, before I can think better of it, I head upstairs, drag my duffel out from under the bed, and start throwing clothes inside. Maybe I’ve overthought everything. Maybe it was just kindness. Maybe I’m just the crazy Christmas lady across the street.
Sam
I’m a coward for slipping out, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated to make me more comfortable because she knew I would hear it. If she wants to go to her parents, then it’s no business of mine. The last thing she needs is blurred lines here.
My place feels colder than it did yesterday, the storm’s grip finally loosening but leaving everything feeling like a soggy sleeve of a jumper. I pause at the window just long enough to see her through the glass, her silhouette moving around upstairs. She’s probably packing, getting ready tosee her family.
Good. That’s good.
I force myself up the narrow attic stairs; the wood creaking in protest under my weight, and settle at the desk that feels familiar and yet not, for how little time I’ve spent here. Powering up my computer, within minutes, the same blank document glows in front of me. I focus on the rhythm of keys under my fingers as I type out the title to an idea I had this morning. Better to lose myself in a world where I control what happens.
The slam of a car door breaks my rhythm. I glance out just in time to see Frankie climb behind the wheel, the storm almost reduced to dirty slush at the curbside. My hands hover over the keys, frozen as I watch her pause before putting her keys in the ignition.
Something that feels too much like hope stirs in my chest, fragile and reckless. For a second, I think she might change her mind. Then the engine roars to life, and that hope gets crushed as quickly as it came. This is better, I tell myself. She doesn’t owe me anything.
I slip my headphones on before the disappointment can sink too deep, before the silence of the house reminds me what I already know: I will be spending Christmas alone again.
Sam
Christmas Eve number five alone to be precise
The first thing Detective Callahan noticed wasn’t the body. It was the postcard tucked into the victim’s hand, edges curled and yellowed like it had been waiting twenty years for someone to find it.
My fingers fly. The scene unfolds fast, sharper than anything I’ve written in months. Detective Callahan walks into the abandoned diner at the edge of town, dust motes suspended in the beam of his flashlight. Across the cracked linoleum, Dr. Avery, my other protagonist, kneels to examine the corpse with calm precision. Their eyes meet, not in the safety of a conference room or over coffee, but with the weight of a cold case pressing down on them.
The dialogue snaps and sparks, their distrust palpable, their partnership inevitable. A murder long buried. A clue that shouldn’t exist. An attraction simmering just below the surface, even as they argue over evidence and jurisdiction.
The keys keep pace with me, clattering in rhythm until my wrists ache. I don’t stop. Not for water nor food. For the firsttime in too long, and story has had its claws in me, and I let it drag me under.
Hours later, when I finally pause, flexing my fingers, the document word count makes me blink. Ten thousand words. Ten thousand. That’s the most I’ve written in years.
The clock in the corner of the screen tells me I’ve been at this all day, sunlight gone without me even noticing. I shut the laptop before I can be tempted back in, as my stomach makes itself known. My gaze flickers toward the window, but I don’t lift the curtain. I drew them earlier, deliberately, because I don’t want to know if her driveway is empty. If she’s really gone.
I stand, stretch the stiffness out of my back, and head for the kitchen. The kettle rattles to life while I root through the fridge, pulling out potatoes that are more sprout than smooth. I quickly make a cup of tea, then cut everything into wedges, coat them in oil, and shove the tray into the oven. Chicken hits a pan with garlic and a sizzle that sets the aroma alive, a few vegetables tossed in for good measure. It’s not much, but I realize how long it’s been since I bothered cooking properly. Waiting for it all to come together, I lean against the counter. The quiet has weight tonight. After spending the last few days with Frankie, it feels… strange here, pressing at the edges of the room. I should be used to it by now. I am, mostly. But right now there’s restlessness under my skin, a strange thrum I can’t pin down. Like some part of me has been nudged awake, reminded of everything I swore Ididn’t need anymore. Everything I thought I’d never get back again.
I didn’t know what else to do with it, so I turned to the only thing that’s ever steadied me. I wrote today. Really wrote, and that’s the feeling I’ve missed so much.
The only problem is, the one person I want to tell is probably high above the clouds by now, heading back to the life she was always supposed to choose.
I lift my mug and let the tea burn the back of my throat just as the chicken sizzles some more. Once everything is ready, I sit at my table alone.
Christmas Eve number five alone, to be precise. Tomorrow will be just another day, and that’s okay too.
The thing is, I’ve gotten a lot of perspective over the last few days, and I’m not sure what Lucy and I had was ever endgame. Maybe it justwas. The passion between us never threatened to burn me alive every time we touched. I’ve felt firsthand what that feels like with Frankie, and it doesn’t compare. The thought settles in me, and I want to kick myself for staying for comfortable, for making Lucy mine when it’s clear she was never meant for me.
But if there’s one thing Frankie has taught me, it’s that you have to live in the now. And she and I did.
I fork up a wedge, let it cool on my tongue, and wonder what Frankie’s parents’ house sounds like right now. I’d wager it’schaos because there’s a lot of that where she goes. But I also hope she’s laughing, enjoying the next couple of days.
I finish up, washing everything, and I start to make another cup of tea when there’s a knock at my door. I’ll bet Mrs. Kline needs something, although she’s not sought me out before; it’s usually me forcing help onto her when she looks like she’s in a pickle.
