Page 23 of Perfectly Complicated
She frowns. “Are you challenging me, Riley?”
“Maybe I am.” I feel that familiar competitive fire igniting in my chest. “What if I can prove that everything you think is great about this place is just marketing and manipulation? Not what Christmas is supposed to be.”
“And what if I can prove there’s still some good to be found? That it’s not all marketing and consumerism?”
“Then you’ll have won our bet, won’t you?” I pull onto the highway that will take us toward Santaville. “But when I’m right—when you see that I’m not the problem, Christmas is—you’ll understand why I feel this way.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her brow furrowing as she thinks this over. “What happened to you, Rourke?” she asks. “What made you so afraid of believing in something good?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I mutter. For a second, I’mtempted to tell her about the Christmases when my dad would drink himself into a rage and then yell and destroy things. About my mom crying over presents he broke or ones she’d have to return so he could buy more whiskey. I learned early that Christmas was just another word for disappointment.
But that’s not who I am with her. With Janie, I’m supposed to be the charming guy who doesn’t do feelings. The man who can stand on stage and sing karaoke without blinking an eye. A showman with all the charm and none of the baggage. I’d rather people believe I’m strong, unshakable, than let them see my scars.
I clench my jaw, keeping my eyes glued to the road. “I just learned a long time ago that believing that Christmas is all fuzzy feelings is a good way to get disappointed.”
“Then maybe today we can meet halfway,” she says simply. “I’ll let you show me your reality, but you have to agree to let me show you mine.”
I pause before nodding once. “Fine,” I say, “but if we’re talking about why we dislike things, tell me why you don’t like hockey.”
She pauses, then glances out the window. “In college I was a waitress, and when the hockey players would come in, they were the worst to serve. Disgusting comments. Terrible tippers. Always left a mess. One even asked how much it would cost to sleep with me.”
My jaw clenches, and I grip the wheel tighter. For a moment, I feel like putting someone through a wall.
“Those weren’t men,” I say, keeping my voice under control. “They were jerks who happened to play hockey.”
“Same difference?—”
“No,” I say, looking at her while trying to rein in my anger. “It’s not the same. You won’t ever have to worry about that kind of treatment again. Not from me, not from anyone while I’m around.”
She stares at me for a long moment and doesn’tsay anything, her eyes searching mine like she’s trying to figure out if she can believe me.
After that, she’s quieter. The Christmas music fills the silence, and I relax as we settle in for a long drive. Getting away from the rink—from the pressure, the noise, the demands—lets me breathe a little. I take in the evergreens lining the roads, the small towns we pass through wondering if Santaville will really be that bad.
Finally, when we reach the end of the playlist, Janie sits up a little in her seat. “There it is,” she says as we crest a hill.
I stare at Santaville spread out in front of us, like someone pulled it straight from a holiday postcard.
The entire town square has been transformed into a holiday movie set. The storefronts are draped in garland and white lights, leading to a massive Christmas tree in the town square that’s three stories tall and covered in thousands of lights.
And everywhere I look, people are dressed in Christmas costumes.
“What is this place?” I mutter. “A Christmas cult?”
“No, it’s the perfect Christmas town,” Janie says, practically glowing.
Something in my chest does this weird flip thing, watching her light up like that. For a second, I almost want to understand what she sees in all this, just so Icouldbe the one to make her that happy.
But then I remember that it would require me to like Christmas.
And that’s not happening.
“Okay, Bennett,” I say as we search for parking. “You’ve got your magical Christmas village. Now show me what’s so special about it.”
“Oh, I will.” She unbuckles her seat belt before I’ve even parked the car. “By the end of today, you’re going to understand exactly what Christmas spirit is supposed to feel like.”
I turn off the engine,then glance over at her. “And if you can’t?”
She opens her door and pauses. “I refuse to imagine that possibility.”
