We circle Silver Lake. Ice floes drift toward one another on thedark water and drift apart again. Reaching the mountains, the horses pant as they climb uphill and speed up when they go downhill again.
At some point Knox says, “YouandI without any spaces.”
Sally steps over a snowy root, I look at Knox and ask, “Without any spaces?”
He nods. “Nothing comes between us anymore.”
I smile. I smile and am in love.
It’s the middle of the night by the time we reach the Winterbottoms’ resort. In spite of the heated seats, the cold is eating at my limbs. Our horse ride was one of the most beautiful moments of my life, but, honestly, I almost froze to death. No idea if any life will ever seep back into my feet.
Knox opens the door, and we’re back in a sea of golden rays. The panoramic windows have been decorated with string lights, the banisters of the wooden stairs have also been hung with garlands of fir, and the walls have been hung with wreaths covered in little candy canes, gifts, and reindeers.
“When did all this happen?” I ask. “Did the little Christmas elves show up while we were out?”
Knox puts his keys into the wooden bowl on the sideboard and looks around. “Dad has a decorating firm come over to decorate the house. We used to do it all together—Mom, Dad, and me—but after her death all he’s ever said is that he has no time, patience, or talent for any of it.”
I slip out of my boots and slide across the warm wooden floor to the fireplace in my wool socks. It’s not a classic fireplace, but one built into the wall, and above it towers a varnished wooden beam with two rustic consoles as support. Three ivory-colored bows decorate the cornice as well as an elongated fir tree and four advent candles. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. But what really catches my eye are the long, white knit stockings with pom-poms at their ends danglingbetween the bows. There are three of them.
Three.
And they each have a name.
Knox.
Jack.
And Paisley.Paisley.
I run my fingers over the firm, curved lines of the yarn and feel like I’m dreaming.
“Knox,” I say, without looking up from the socks. I wave him over. “Knox, look at this.”
He comes out of the bathroom with a half-eaten Twinkie in his hand. “Hm?”
“Come here. Have a look at this.”
His footsteps make a hollow sound as he crosses the large living room. On the way toward me he stuffs the rest of the Twinkie into his mouth and tosses the wrapper into the umbrella stand. Over the last few weeks I’d been wondering which of the two Winterbottoms used the thing as a trash can, but somehow it was obvious.
“What’s up?”
“My name’s there, too.” I point to the sock as if it were some kind of relic. “There. Paisley.”
Knox looks at me. “Yeah. And?”
“Why?”
“Umm. Because you live here?”
“I’ve never had a Christmas stocking.”
Knox frowns as if in pain. The touch of his hand between my shoulder blades warms my heart and drives the cold of sadness out of me. He pulls me to his chest, kisses my head, and says, “And now you have one, babe. Get used to it.”
It’s dumb, and I don’t want to, but I start to cry. Strange how it’s always the little things that make the cup run over. I’ve just carried so much.
Blows. Mental abuse. A shitty childhood. Shattered dreams.Abandoned friendships. And now, here I am, and it’s this white stocking with my name on it that brings it all back. I howl like a dog, drench Knox’s expensive shirt, and smear it full of snot. Sometimes it’s just like that. And right now is a good moment to do it, here in Knox’s arms, in my new life, filled with joy and gratefulness. Now I can just let everything out, let everything go. It’s all good.It’s all good. Go away, rotten thoughts. Go away, and don’t you dare come back.
The whole time Knox just runs his hand through my hair. Then he puts his hands on my shoulders, pushes me away from his chest, looks at me, and wipes the tears off of my face. I sniffle like a little kid to stop the snot from continuing to flow. My eyes feel swollen.
