Page 44 of Beautifully Messy
A twig snaps—
The night splits open with sound—
I snatch up a fallen branch, raising it like a weapon.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” A deep voice cuts through the dark. One I’d recognize anywhere.
James steps into view, his hands raised in surrender.
I toss the branch aside. “In my years of running, it doesn’t take much to put me on high alert. I’m conditioned to be ready for anything.”
He exhales. “Fuck. I hate that.” A pause, before he asks, “Can I join you?”
“If you want,” I say, starting toward where the path divides.
We walk in silence, weaving through the trees, stepping carefully over fallen limbs, avoiding hidden divots in the snow-blanketed ground. The night is still, broken only by the wind’s low whistle, a distant owl, and Bell’s occasional bark.
Our shoulders brush—once, twice. As if by instinct, we drift closer and just as quickly, we remember we can’t.
“Did you write a letter to Santa this year?” He asks, clever amusement warming his face.
“Of course. Didn’t you?”
“Naturally. Though I’m not sure how the big guy feels about fulfilling the wishes of a grown man.”
“And what exactly did you ask for?”
He pauses dramatically until I can’t help but smile. “Peace on earth. End of world hunger. And… new running sneakers.”
“Ah, so the basics.”
“Exactly.” He nudges me lightly with his elbow. “What about you? What does Sydney Wallis put on her Christmas list?”
“Sleep. Long, uninterrupted sleep,” I sigh, staring at the night sky.
“Now that’s a solid wish. If I could giveyou that, I would.”
Night enfolds us, stars scattered through the naked branches. How long has it been since I stood under the stars with someone who's made me laugh? Who's asked about my wishes? We walk in silence for a while, lost in our heads. The charge in the air grows with each quiet step. Like each step is willing truths to spill.
“What’s your favorite Christmas memory?” I ask, aiming for something safe.
He falls quiet, his breath fogging in slow, visible puffs, eyes cast forward.
“The year I got my first set of professional drawing pencils and a sketchbook. My mom gave me the drawing stuff. It wasn’t a lot, but it was just her and me sitting around a tree and drinking hot cocoa. It was the first Christmas we spent without my father.”
“I’ve seen you sketching around the house. Is it for work, or do you still do it for fun?”
He studies my face, deciding how honest to be.
“Both,” he says at last. “I hand-draw all my building concepts. It’s how I start every design. But lately… I’ve been sketching for myself again.”
I hesitate, my pulse stuttering, because I know the next question. I know what I want to ask. And the way he’s looking at me, already waiting for it, makes it worse. I look away and search the night sky.
“What about you? Favorite Christmas memory?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.
My mind flashes through a thousand fragments: ornate trees in cavernous, silent houses; gifts from my nanny; parents who didn't show; Europe in winter—train rides alone, hotel-room dinners, pool halls smelling of second chances and regret. Instead of getting lost in those memories, Anna’s face and her milk-drunk sighs come to mind. The warmth of her tiny fingers curling around mine, the way her entire body softens in sleep when she knows I’m near.
“I… I don’t have great memories from Christmases with my parents. But I think… this one will be my favorite. And every one after. I want Anna to have the kind of Christmas mornings I never did—to come down the stairs, knowing I’ll be there, waiting with the biggest smile, blasting cheesy Christmas songs while she rips open presents even at 5 AM.”
