Page 32 of Decking the Halls
That one lands like a skydiver whose parachute hasn’t opened.
Edie touches me, brushing the fading bruise where Nick shoved me. “I’ll try. For you.”
“For me?”
“You deserve to have your family accept your choices.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and kind. I’m used to people challenging me, not this.
“She said he wouldn’t be there,” I say. “But if Nick shows up…”
“Then we deal with it.” She shifts to straddle my hips, my shirt riding up. “Together.”
“Together,” I agree, gripping her waist. “But first…”
“We’ll be late.”
“Good.” I grin and pull her down for another kiss. “Sets the tone.”
An hour later, we’re finally dressed. I can’t stop looking at her—barefaced, wearing jeans and a sweater that slips off her shoulder to reveal the faint shadow of my teeth on her skin.
“Should I cover these?” she asks, fingers brushing the marks on her neck.
“No.” I come up behind her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Let them look.”
She laughs. “Possessive perv.”
“When it comes to you? Absolutely.”
I grab the presents I’d bought earlier in the week—scotch for Dad, a spa gift card for Mom, and the tin of cookies Edie made last night while I tried (and failed) to distract her.
“Ready?” I ask.
“No,” she admits. “But let’s go, anyway.”
The short drive is quiet. I’m not compelled to turn on the radio or hook my phone up to Bluetooth. Her hand rests on my thigh. It’s enough.
When we pull up to my parents’ house, the driveway looks the same as it did every Christmas before—except Nick’s BMW isn’t parked there. Small mercies.
Mom opens the door in her Christmas apron, her expression caught between hope andwow, look at these harlots.
“Wren. Edie.” Her voice softens. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Thanks for inviting us,” Edie says, handing her the cookie tin. “I made snickerdoodles. Wren mentioned they’re your favorite.”
Mom is genuinely taken aback. “You made these? From scratch?”
“Family recipe. My grandmother’s.” She taps her temple. “Memorized it.”
A flicker of amusement crosses Mom’s face. “Nick’s… friend brought store-bought to Thanksgiving.” She winces. “Sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“It’s fine,” Edie says. “I’m aware that he’s moved on to more suitable company.”
We follow Mom to the dining room. Dad’s at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. He looks up, his eyes landing briefly on Edie before flicking to me.
“Morning,” he says. “Wren. Ms. Montgomery.”
“Edie,” she corrects with a warm smile.
