“Oh dear.” She scuttles to the window and cranes her neck toward the road. “That didn’t take long,” she snips under herbreath.
“What didn’t take long? God, that sounded terrible! It sounded like a freight train meeting with a wall. It wasn’t a black truck, was it?” God forbid Gage get tangled and mangled before I can let into him properly. Not that I plan on anything other than the silent treatment—and that’s just forstarters.
She’s quick to wave me off as she heads toward the closet. “You’ll find out soon enough. Merry Christmas, Skyla. Remember, better to be the giver, always and forever.” She turns and her entire being is swallowed up in light. “The giver holds the power—the receiver is only a little better than a beggar.” She scowls over at me. “Don’t beg, Skyla. It’s most certainly not becoming. You spring from a royal lineage. You are a victor in every single capacity. My daughter is the head and not the tail.” Her voice begins to evaporate right along with the rest of her. “This life is but a vapor, but eternity is yours and belongs to those you love. You are sealed—bought with a price. You are a—” and that’s as far as I can possibly strain my ears to hear. But the silence in the room is short-lived as the wail of an ambulance tears through this little corner of Paragon, on this, the first Christmas Eve my children willexperience.
I lounge in bed with the boys for the next few hours, feeding them, counting their perfect little toes, their tiny stubby little fingers, and I can’t help but smile through the tears. I’ve shed a river, no thanks to Gage. What has happened? Why did it happen? Gage didn’t trust me enough to get us through this. Deep down, I know he was right to do so. I’m not sure who I’m angrier with—him or me. But it’s the resolution of how we might crawl away from this latest, greatest disaster to rock our world that breaks me. Chloe rings through my mind like a gong. If Gage thinks he will easily skip to the dark side, without so much of a mention of it, then I’m curious to see what he’ll think of the hard medicine heading his way. I consider the irony for a moment. Chloe Bishop has been a lot of things to a lot of people—a savior isn’t one of them. But there was no one else, and no matter what vomits from the situation at hand, I will be forced to stand by mydecision.
That demonic stone my mother gifted me a while back—that demonic number that’s etched over it comes to mind. There is a time, set and determined, that signifies the end of Gage Oliver’s life—of my life as well. And together we’re finding ourselves on the wrong end of the hourglass. I try to push all thoughts of him out of mind as I reach for my phone, half-expecting a spastic number of panicked texts left by the traitor himself, but instead, I find just one.We need to talk.Such brevity after a wild night of reckless abandon, on his partanyway.
Gage and I might need to have one serious sit-down, but not only am I in no mood to do so but I have a party to get ready for. If my earthly mother loves anything in this world, it’s a good get-together where she’s able to off her questionable cuisine to friends andfamily.
It’s late by the time I get downstairs—ever so carefully carrying both boys in my arms as my mother greets me with a wildcry.
“Can you believe it’s Christmas?” She claps up a storm before taking a startled Nathan from me. “What is this they’re wearing?” She scoffs at their matching gray tracksuits. Oh no, no,no!” she trills as she scoops Barron up as well and traipses right back upstairs. “I picked up the cutest outfits for these two little elves! You’ll just die when you seethem!”
“I’m dying, all right.” Please, God, don’t let them come back dressed as elves. I smack my lips while looking at the jovial decorations. The banister is rung with garland, half-dead poinsettias are strewn about, the entire house drips Christmas in its every chaotic format. Dozens of candles sit calmly illuminating their peppermint-scented splendor into the vicinity. I could stare at the tiny red flames all day, so peaceful and quiet. That’s the funny thing about candles. No matter how docile that flame looks, you still run the risk of getting burned. My marriage seemed docile for so long then—bam, I was left charred and smoking in a singlenight.
I walk down the hall only to be greeted by a miniature plastic Santa dressed as Elvis who shakes his hips as I walk on by. There’s a fully decorated tree in both the living room and the family room. The one in the living room is winter white with matching lights and shiny red ornaments, a total rip-off of Emma’s sanitized ode to the holidays. I happen to know for a fact the Olivers will be here tonight, so I suppose this is my mother’s way of making her feel comfortable—or perhaps, it’s my mother’s way of giving her the finger for being so rude this entire last year. Rude has long since been Emma’s MO with me in particular. But tonight, I’d happily deal with a thousand rude Emma’s rather than a single Gage Oliver. Now there’s irony foryou.
My phone bleats in my back pocket, and it’s a text from Laken.At the mall! You need me to pick up any last-minutegifts?
That witch I leashed myself to bounces through my mind.Yes.I text right back.A bottle of perfume—Chloe. I’ll pay youback.
Laken doesn’t waste a minute.You don’t have to pay me back. You’ve got boys in diapers. And are you sure about that perfume? I’ll gladly pick up any other scent with a far less nefarious name. It’s not actually for Chloe, isit?
Laken and Coop left early last night so I doubt they witnessed the late, great demise of Gage and SkylaOliver.
It’s forChloe.
A moment thumps by, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking.In that case, I’ll let you pay me back. Kidding, sort of. Are you feeling well? You’re not having some mental breakdown, areyou?
My mental health in general seems to be on a sliding scale as of late.Well enough. Swing by when you’re through. We’re having a get-together. It’s going to bereal.
I follow the red tongue of the shag rug my mother lined the hall with right into the family room and bypass my stepbrother Drake and his wife slash my bestie, Bree, on the way to thekitchen.
“Christmas,” I mumble to no one inparticular.
The thick scent of everything delicious lights up my senses, which can only mean Emily is at the culinary helm. Just seeing Em with her dark hair pinned to the top of her head, her dead-serious expression as she glares at me momentarily before getting back to the fine art of cooking, marks me with a sense of grief. Emily Morgan is a Viden, and Gage happens to be in charge of that slightly disenfranchised group. The Videns were formed through the union of Rothello of the Soullenium and a human host who gladly—or unwittingly offered up her uterus to him. Nevertheless, he sold his people to Demetri for a pittance, and thus Demetri gifted them to his most beloved son. I most likely wouldn’t hate Demetri so much if he hadn’t killed my father, pulled my husband to the dark side, and quite on purpose impregnated my mother with her youngest daughter, Mystery, aka Misty. Bastard. That about sums up Demetri Edinger in anutshell.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Skyla!” Brielle hops over, adorned with a festive sweater—a deer with a 3D ruby red nose that blinks on andoff.
“May Kissmas!” Little Beau Geste mimics his mother, and little Misty and Ember sing something that closely resembles that in a choir of coos. Misty and Ember almost look like sisters with their dark hair and matching blue eyes. But Ember is Emily’s lovechild with Drake. She’s dating Ethan now, and well, in true Landon form, it’stwisted.
“Same to you,” I say, lackluster. I can’t bring myself to use the proper, cheery wording a day like thiscommands.
“There’s nothing happy about this day,” Tad grumbles from behind his laptop and I roll my eyes at the sight of my ridiculous stepfather. “Your mother is infiltrating us with the enemy to my checking account. Do you know how many mouths she’s saddled me to feed?” He lets out a robustbah humbugfurther cementing his status as the Scrooge in question. “Good thing ol’ Demetri will be here with bells on. I can always count on my good buddy to donate toward the bottomline.”
“As if.” I scoff at the thought. Little does Tad know Demetri is the enemy that routinely helps himself to infiltrating my mother’s bottom line. And dear God, I hope that’s nottrue.
“What’s gotten in your craw?” Drake barks and belches at the same time as he makes his way to thefridge.
“I’m tired,” I offer in lieu of the truth. Come to think of it, that is the truth on a raw, I’ve-got-twins-hooked-to-my-udders-every-three-hourslevel.
“Tired?” Tad belts out a maniacal laugh as he clamps his laptop shut. “Welcome to the new normal! Bet you thought being a parent would be a breeze, didn’t cha?” He leans forward with a renewed vigor as if my depleted state somehow enlivened him. “Bet you thought your mother would add those two little bugaboos to the family burial plot blooming in our bedroom, didn’tcha?”
I’m not sure whether to be more offended over the fact Tad just referred to my children as bugaboos or the entire conversation ingeneral.
My mother waddles back in, hauling two adorable tiny Santas in tow, and my heart melts. Suddenly all is right with this twisted worldagain.
