Page 9 of An Unexpected Christmas
I study her face, noting the way her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she sniffs away some of the emotion. Frankie, the woman who never stops smiling, who lit up the whole block with her ridiculous decorations, looks utterly defeated. And all I can think about is how much I’d like to make her feel better but not knowing how.
“It’s not fair,” she says quietly, her voice trembling. “I had everything planned. I was going to bake cookies, snuggle with my new nephew, play charades with my mom, watchIt’s a Wonderful Lifewith my dad. And now I’m stuck here, eating instant noodles because I didn’t go to the store, and staring at an empty house.”
Her vulnerability hits me hard, tightening my throat. The feeling she has right now is all too familiar. I’ve spent the last four Christmases alone, and it never gets easier. Except this year I’m not alone… I came here planning to check on her and leave. But seeing her like this, sad and unguarded, chips away at the walls I’ve so carefully built around myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, and I mean it.
She sniffles, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Thanks.”
I shift in my seat, feeling the awkwardness creep in. I’m not good at this—comforting people, offering words of reassurance. I used to be. But Frankie doesn’t seem to need grand gestures of being fixed. Just being here seems to help, in some small way. At least, I think so.
“Look,” I say, leaning forward, “it’s not exactly Boston, but... you’ve got a pretty decent setup here. Lights, cookies, a whole sleigh in the yard. That’s more than most people.”
She blinks, her lips twitching into a weak smile. “Are you... trying to cheer me up?”
“Only if it’s working. If it isn’t, you heard nothing,” I mumble as heat creeps up my neck.
Her laugh this time is genuine, if a little watery. “You’re full of surprises, Sam.”
She’s not wrong. I’m surprising myself right now. I’m not sure why I’m about to do this. “Now, come on.” I stand holding my hand out.
She looks up at me, confused. “What?”
“Lights,” I say, jerking my head toward the darkened tree. “Turn them on.”
For a moment, she just stares at me, assessing me with those big brown doe eyes. Then, slowly, she gets up and walks to the corner of the room. She hesitates, her hand hovering over the switch, before finally flipping it.
The tree springs to life, its lights casting a warm glow across the room. It changes everything. The room feels brighter, cozier. A lot more her.
Frankie turns back to me, her smile a little steadier now, and she takes a breath that I feel.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.”
Frankie
Who are you, and what have you done with Sam?
My Christmas tree lights fill the room, softening the edges of the scattered mess on the counter and the piles of wrapping paper I abandoned earlier. It’s warm and cheerful, the way it should have felt all along, but tonight, it just feels... hollow.
Sam hasn’t left. He’s still here, standing in the middle of my living room like some kind of Christmas ghost who can’t decide if he’s past, present, or future. His hands are stuffed in his coat pockets, which he still hasn’t removed yet, and his eyes, usually so guarded, flicker with something new.
“Do you have food?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.
I blink, jerking my head to face him, hoping he isn’t expecting me to host right now. “What?”
“Food,” he repeats, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were asking about the weather. “Do you have enough for the next few days?”
I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s soft and breathless, but it’s real, and it startles me as much as it seems to startle him. “Are you serious?”
His brow furrows slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Of course I’m serious.”
“Why?” I ask, crossing my arms and tilting my head at him. “You’ve never cared about whether or not I have food before.”
He shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s a snowstorm. People should have food during a snowstorm. It’s common sense.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out if his concern is genuine. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. I’m being difficult, I know, and nothing about what’s happened today is his fault. He doesn’t have to be nice to me; it’s not his responsibility to cheer me up. And yet, something about him being here at all, is exactly what I needed. Company. Even his Grinch-y self. “Do you have food or not, Frankie?”
