Page 51 of Holiday Interference
“Because it always happens. At least for me,” I admit. “After…after a night like that, it’s usually all awkward. You wake up, the vibe’s weird, someone bolts, or someone talks too much, or you pretend it didn’t happen and hope nobody brings it up.”
He watches me. Doesn’t say anything, but the weight of his attention grounds me.
And unravels me.
I exhale slowly, trying to tamp down the knot building behind my ribs. “I don’t usually stay. Hell, I don’t usually do this type of thing. Or let myself…” I trail off, throat tightening.
“Let yourself relax?” he finishes for me. His voice is low, gentle in a way that cuts deep.
I nod. My fingers feel numb. “I’m the one people go to. I fix the problems, handle the chaos, smooth the mess. That’s what I do. If something breaks, I patch it. If someone falls apart, I pick up the pieces. I’ve always been that person.”
My eyes sting, but I keep my chin high. “Even when I don’t want to be.”
There’s a long pause.
“Why do you feel like you have to do it all? Fix everything?”
I shrug, keeping my gaze away from his so I don’t burst into tears. “I’m a fixer. Maybe it’s the eldest daughter syndrome. Or because my mother was busy making plans, and sometimes she forgot about her kids. Who knows?”
Another long pause.
Then he says, “You ever ask someone to do it for you?”
A hollow laugh slips out. “Who has time?”
His hand lifts. For a second, I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, his knuckles brush the inside of my wrist. It’s featherlight. But it zings through me like a pulse.
“I would,” he says quietly. “If you asked.”
My throat aches. “Why?”
“Because I want to. And I know how to help.”
“What do you mean you know how?”
I turn to face him fully now, and the look in his eyes is nothing short of devastating.
“My mom,” he says, voice rougher now, staring into the near distance. “It was just the two of us. I never knew my dad. He took off before I could walk. She worked two, sometimes three jobs to make ends meet. And I could see where she needed help at home. I hated seeing her so tired.”
He’s quiet for a moment before a sad smile lifts his beautiful mouth, then he meets my gaze. “She loved Christmas. She was the only person who ever made it mean something. We didn’t have much, but she made everything feel big. Magical. Safe.”
I don’t breathe.
“She died two days before Christmas when I was fifteen. Heart attack. No warning. One minute she was there and the next—” His voice breaks off. “I was shipped off to an aunt and uncle in New Hampshire I barely knew. And everything that felt like home was just…gone.”
I reach for his hand without thinking, fingers curling tight around his.
He doesn’t pull away. Just looks at me like he’s seeing too much and doesn’t want to stop.
“Every year since, I try to ignore it. Act like it’s just another week. But sometimes it still hits like I’m fifteen again, standing in that hospital hallway, waiting for someone to tell me they made a mistake.”
I slide closer, our shoulders brushing now.
“I’m sorry, Cal,” I whisper. “That’s—God, that’s awful.”
He nods but doesn’t speak again. Just holds my gaze like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment.
The air shifts.
