Page 14 of Christmas with the Firefighter
The tiny ornaments scatter across the carpet, and I drop to my knees to collect them, my chest tight with panic.
This is what I do. This is who I am. I create chaos and then flee before anyone can point out the mess I've made.
The tree goes back on the dresser, slightly lopsided now, and I force myself to slow down. Take a breath. Act like a rational adult instead of a woman whose world got turned upside down by one night with a man who probably woke up wondering how to politely extract himself from whatever this was.
Because that's what this was, wasn't it? A moment of Christmas Eve magic that evaporates in daylight, leaving behind nothing but awkward small talk and the taste of regret.
I zip the duffel bag with more force than necessary and sling it over my shoulder. In the hallway mirror, I look exactly like what I am—a woman running away.
Hair still slightly mussed despite my attempts to tame it, cheeks flushed from embarrassment and the lingering heat of memories I'm trying to forget.
One night. That's all it was supposed to be. One night of feeling wanted, feeling chosen, feeling like I might be worth staying for.
But morning has a way of washing away illusions, doesn't it? And the politeness at breakfast, the way he kept checking his watch, the awkward pauses in conversation… those were reality setting in.
I should be grateful he was kind about it. Grateful he didn't make excuses or disappear while I was in the shower or treat me like an embarrassing mistake. He walked me to breakfast, made polite conversation, all with the sort of thoughtful courtesy that made it hurt worse.
Because that's what courtesy is, isn't it? The graceful way of managing situations you wish you weren't in.
The lobby is busier now, families checking out with suitcases and children, the warm chaos of people heading home for Christmas. The worker waves from behind the front desk, and I manage a smile and a nod as I hurry toward the exit, desperate to get to my car before anyone can see how close I am to falling apart.
The morning air hits my face like a slap, cold and sharp and exactly what I need to shock myself back to sense. My car is covered in a thin layer of snow, and I brush it off with my bare hands, the sting of cold on my palms grounding me in the physical world instead of the emotional mess in my head.
I should drive straight to the cabin. Stick to my original plan of spending Christmas alone, licking my wounds in private, pretending this detour never happened.
But my stomach is still empty despite the breakfast I barely touched, and there's a bright little diner just down the main street that looks exactly like the kind of place where you can get coffee and anonymity.
Tee's Drive-In sits on the corner like something from a Norman Rockwell painting, all chrome and neon. The parking lot is mostly empty this early, just a few pickup trucks and a minivan with Montana plates, and I slide into a spot near the back where I can see the street but hopefully avoid being seen.
The interior is aggressively cheerful—red vinyl booths, checkered floors, walls covered in vintage signs advertising Coca-Cola and apple pie. A waitress in a pink uniform waves from behind the counter, and I slide into a corner booth, grateful for the high backs that provide some semblance of privacy.
"Morning, honey!" The waitress appears at my table almost immediately, coffee pot in hand and a smile bright enough to power the neon sign outside. "You're new in town, aren't you? I'm Dolly, and I can tell you everything you need to know about Hope Peak in about thirty seconds flat."
"Just coffee, please," I manage, turning over the heavy white mug in front of me. "To go."
"Oh, sweetie, you can't leave without trying our cinnamon rolls. They're really famous, and I guarantee they'll change your life." Dolly fills my mug with coffee that smells like heaven and looks at me with the sort of maternal concern that makes my throat tight. "You okay? You look like you could use some comfort food and maybe a friendly ear."
"I'm fine. Really. Just tired from driving."
"Uh-huh." Dolly's tone suggests she doesn't believe me for a second, but she doesn't push. "Well, you just holler if you need anything. Food, coffee, someone to listen..."
She bustles away, leaving me alone with my coffee and the uncomfortable realization that even strangers can see I'm amess. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms, and try to make sense of the knot of emotions tangled in my chest.
Embarrassment, obviously. The deep, bone-level humiliation of having thrown myself at someone who was probably just being polite. Regret, sharp and bitter, for believing, even for a few hours, that I might be worth more than a one-night distraction.
But underneath all of that is something worse: disappointment. The crushing realization that for a moment there, sitting by the fireplace with snow falling outside and his hands gentle on my skin, I'd let myself believe in the possibility of being chosen. Really chosen. Not just for a night, but for longer. For always, maybe.
God, I'mpathetic.
"Here we go, honey." Dolly reappears with a plate-sized cinnamon roll, steam rising from the spiral of dough and brown sugar. "On the house. Call it a Christmas present from one lonely soul to another."
"I'm not lonely," I protest automatically, even as the kindness in her voice makes my eyes burn.
"But you're sure sitting alone in a diner on Christmas Eve morning, drinking coffee like it's medicine and looking like your dog just died. If that's not lonely, I don't know what is."
She's right, and we both know it. I take a bite of the cinnamon roll just to give myself something to do, and the burst of sweetness and spice on my tongue is so perfect it makes me want to cry.
"Good, right?" Dolly settles into the booth across from me without invitation, apparently deciding I need supervision. "Mygrandmother's recipe. She always said the secret was love, but I think it's actually the extra butter."
