Page 18 of Holly Jolly Heresy
She looked off into the distance as she considered her words. Caleb didn’t know this Will person, but he didn’t like him already. “We were young.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It was college. He was a year older and in one of Kyla’s photography classes. An artist. Passionate, broody. You knowthe type.” He did, and he’d never been so jealous in his life. “Anyway, like I said, we were young.”
“What happened?” He hated himself for asking.
“He got offered a scholarship for grad school in California and he said he’d turn it down if I wanted him to.” She shrugged, unable to hide the grimace at the memory. “I thought it was romantic. I thought we were in love. But really, as time went on, it became clear he resented me for asking him to stay. The regret…it broke us. Maybe we would have broken anyway.”
“He didn’t deserve you.”
“You didn’t know him.”
“I know you.”
She looked away, and cleared her throat, the sound breaking whatever spell he’d been under. “What about you, Father? Truth or Dare?”
“I also always pick Truth,” he admitted.
“So what you’re telling me is we’re really playing Twenty Questions. I can work with that.” She shifted on the couch and her robe slid open further at her neckline, just enough to give him a glimpse of her clavicle, the small cluster of freckles at the edge of her neckline above the swell of her breasts.
Stop thinking about her breasts.
He took a sip of his hot chocolate and focused his attention on the heat of the mug seeping into his palms. “We could pick another game,” he offered.
“Nope. Too late. I already have my first question.”
He bit back a smile. “Then by all means.”
“Favorite Christmas tradition?” she asked.
“When I was a kid, we used to make gingerbread houses every year. Gavin and I would each get to choose what kind of house we wanted to make. We were supposed to pick something to represent our hopes for the coming year. My mom would spend days baking all the pieces. She made templates from Cheeriosboxes and kept them in the junk drawer in the kitchen,” he said, chuckling. “I haven’t thought about those in years. The week before Christmas, we’d go to the store and buy all the candy we could carry and then we’d spend a whole night assembling and decorating while we listened to the John Denver Muppet Christmas album on vinyl on repeat.”
She settled against the back of the couch, leaning a bit closer to him. “What was your favorite house?”
“The year we made the farm. Hands down. Gavin made the farmhouse, and I made the barn. Mom even cut out pieces to make a grain silo and cows and sheep. We used shredded wheat bricks for hay bales and pretzel rods to build a fence around the pasture, and so much red icing. When it was done, Mom said she wasn’t sure what dream we were trying to manifest, but the best she could do was a trip to Longfield Farm in the spring.” He paused, a bittersweet happiness settling over him at the memory. “We haven’t done it since I left for college.”
“Why not? You should revive the tradition!”
“We’re adults now—”
“You’re adults who get together with your friends to play competitive games of Monopoly and Uno. I think you could make gingerbread houses without worrying about it being too childish.”
He laughed. “You have a point.” He took the last sip of his hot cocoa and, as he placed the empty mug on the coffee table, wondered if the warmth flowing through his extremities was because of the fireplace, the alcohol, or her.
“I’ve never made a gingerbread house,” she admitted.
“You haven’t? I thought everyone made them as kids.”
“Just the ones with graham crackers and milk cartons you make in elementary school. My mom made amazing gingerbread cookies, but we weren’t allowed to make houses from them. She said it was wasteful.”
“Then that settles it. We’ll have to revive the tradition when we get back to Aster Bay. Everyone should make at least one gingerbread house in their lifetime.”
“Think we can convince the gang to forego a board game night in favor of gingerbread?”
“Not a chance,” he said, “But I think we can convince them to tack it onto the next game night.”
“Sounds like a plan. I might even try making my mom’s recipe. I haven’t made it in years.”
