Page 51 of Perfectly Complicated
Janie’s house is a small three-bedroom Cape Cod tucked into one of Sully’s Beach’s quieter neighborhoods—the kind of street where kids ride bikes and neighbors actually know each other by name. Because let’s face it, I’ve never even talked to my neighbors in The Foundry, let alone asked them their names.
The white clapboard siding and black shutters could use fresh paint, and when I first arrived, the front porch had a sag that made me wince every time she walked out there. So yesterday, while she was at the grocery store, I grabbed some tools and fixed it. She didn’t even notice right away, but when she did, the smile on her face was thanks enough.
Janie’s taken the modest space and changed it into something that actually feels like home—with throw pillows in gray and cream, framed photos of her and Aria scattered around the place, and soft blankets that she loves to use when she cuddles her daughter. The kitchen is so small that two peoplehave to do an awkward dance to get around each other—something I don’t mind, especially when I catch a whiff of her perfume.
Her entire place is a fraction of the size of my industrial loft, with none of the expensive finishes or designer touches. But walking through these rooms, seeing Aria’s toys scattered across the floors and Janie’s coffee mug, I understand something I never did before. This is what I’ve been searching for. Home, family, and everything I never had.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the living room lights are on, but Aria’s room is dark, which means I missed bedtime.
I let myself in, dropping my gear by the door quietly so I don’t wake the baby before I notice Janie at the dining room table. Her laptop is open in front of her; next to her is a mug of steaming tea and a notebook covered in scribbled-out words. She lets out a sigh before throwing down her pen.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying not to surprise her.
She looks up and gives me a tired smile. “How was the game?”
“We won.” I grab a slice of leftover pizza from the counter. Somehow, the game doesn’t seem as important as what’s eating at her. “What are you working on?”
“This script.” She gestures at the laptop screen. “It’s impossible. I’m trying to fix the entire storyline so we don’t have Santa mixed up with Bethlehem and Saint Nicholas. I swear the last director tried to stuff every Christmas story in here.” She rests her chin on her hand as she stares at the screen.
“I thought this was my job?” I ask.
“I know you offered.” She pauses. “But you don’t have time for writing on top of everything else.”
“And you do?” I lift a brow.
“Okay, you made your point,” she says with a sigh.
“Mind if I take a peek?” I sit next to her on a chair and read through a few lines. The script is exactly as bad as I remember.
“Listen, I know you offered. But I think it’s best if someone who likesChristmas reworks the script.”
I lean back in the chair. “Janie, you look like you’re about to cry into your laptop.”
“I’m not about to cry,” she says quickly. “It’s just…this is my responsibility. My kids are counting on me to make it work.”
“So let me help.”
She shakes her head. “But the whole structure is wrong. There’s no flow, and it’s kind of flat, honestly. And you’re already doing enough by playing Santa?—”
I cross my arms. “I told you, I’m not playing Santa.”
Her face snaps to mine. “Rourke, you signed up for the lead. It’s the only adult role.”
“And I said we’re not mixing up fact and fiction. If I have to participate, I’ll play Saint Nicholas instead.”
She throws her arms in the air. “What’s the difference?”
I lean back in my chair. “Saint Nicholas was an actual person who gave away his inheritance to help people. Santa’s just marketing magic, red suit, flying reindeer. Complete fiction.”
She stares at me. “Since when do you know anything about Saint Nicholas?”
“Since I decided I wasn’t going to parade around in a fat suit ho-ho-hoing for your amusement.”
“Myamusement?” She scoffs. “This is for the kids. It has nothing to do with how I feel.”
“Which is exactly why it should be someone real. Saint Nicholas actually cared about children. Or maybe I think kids deserve better than fairy tales.”
“Okay,” she begins, like she’s thinking it over. “I’ll let you be Saint Nicholas. But you still need to wear something red.”
