I stumble, pressing my hand into the cold marble wall to stop myself from falling to my knees. He left me there in the corridor of his workplace, discarded like I was nothing to him.
I went home, I packed a bag, and I went to the nearest hotel to our apartment. I wasn’t going to stay when he so brazenly let me know he didn’t want me anymore. It didn’t change the unfortunate fact that I loved him. I wanted us to fix it. It was fucking Christmas. I waited for him to call or come find me. He never did.
I spent that Christmas alone in bed, cuddled up next to my phone with a migraine induced from crying. It was later that night, when Raegan showed up to check on me, that it hit me. We were over, and Christmas was going to be a forever reminder of the day my heart was ripped apart and of the person holding the knife.
???
I sit in front of the mirror in Nick’s room now, two years later. It’s two days before Christmas Eve, but close enough for me to consider this my do-over. That night left a scab on my heart, and every year, it falls away, leaving a fresh wound instead of a scar. The past few days have been a healing salve over the cuts in my heart that felt like they would never fade away. I want tonight to be the same. We’re heading to a secret location for a Christmas party held by the locals.
Nick steps out of the bathroom, enveloped in the steamy aroma of his hot shower. Tiny droplets of water stick to his deep skin as he stands by the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist. “I don’t even know what I’m going to wear,” he says, scratching the coils on top of his head.
“Let me see what you have.” I stand, tightening my robe as I head over to his suitcase. He didn’t want to come with me at first, but it didn’t take much convincing after he realized I had no intention of staying in the cabin tonight.
I spot the logo of something by Ami Paris hiding behind a Ralph Lauren sweater. “Ooh, what’s that?”
He picks it up, shaking it out of its folded state so I can see the black, wool crew neck with the red logo printed over theleft chest. I walk over to my outfit, holding the fuzzy bandeau top and sequined pants against it. A smirk kisses his lips as he watches me. My eyes flutter up to his, my skin heats. “What?”
He shrugs. “Just something I could get used to, I guess.”
I purse my lips, try not to blind him with the grin that threatens my face. “If we’re going to appear as a couple, we should match,” I say, laying my clothes on the bed and returning to the mirror to finish my makeup.
He doesn’t respond, dipping his fingers into a tub of whipped shea butter and applying it to his body. My face gets hot. How long are we going to keep dancing around the subject of what comes next? We only have two days left.
My stomach sinks.
Maybe I shouldn’t be allowing myself to get so used to his company — to be comfortable in it. It’s more than a comfort, though; his presence reminds me I’m alive.
When we finish getting dressed, we stand in front of the mirror. He’s still a bit taller than me in my heels, tall enough that when I turn my head to the side, I have to look up slightly to brush his lips with mine. He rests a hand on my hip, rubbing his thumb back and forth as he runs his nose over the curve of my shoulder.
“If you’re trying to find a way for us to stay home, you can forget it,” I say, the breath in my voice betraying me. He tosses his head back with laughter, the sound of it familiar and warm. I swallow.
“Alright,” he says around a lopsided smile.
I toss a satisfied glance at my reflection one more time before turning to face him. “You know, if you want to stay…” I begin, knowing I want him to come with me, but not so badlythat I’d put him in a situation he doesn’t want to be in. “If you really want to stay…”
He pushes a deep exhale through his slightly parted lips. “I want to be wherever you are,” he says. “If I stay here, I might make myself busy for a bit, but I’ll keep wondering about you, imagining you laughing and having a good time without me,” he says.
“Would that be so bad?” I reply.
His smile widens, growing wicked. “That would be the worst,” he says.
I chuckle. The thick thread of emotion growing between us is taut with the weight of all the things we refuse to say. A gentle knock on the door snaps us out of it. Nick reaches over, swinging it open.
“We’re just about ready to leave,” Gayle says.
“We’re ready,” he says, nodding to me.
The night is pitch black, and the bright stars above us feel like a reflection of all the fairy lights adorning the trees and shrubs in the front yard. The Christmas music that usually pulses through the van is replaced with a rhythmic R&B playlist. As we drive into town, I get more and more nervous.
My knee trembles against the seat.
Nick squeezes my thigh, leans into my shoulder, and asks, “You okay?”
The desire to shake my head, to brush his question off with a smile, flashes across my mind. I take a deep breath, finding my courage in the reflection of the window. “The last time I went to a party around this time of year, I left with a broken heart. Maybe mentally, I’m ready to move on, but my body remembers that night.”
He rests his head on the back of the seat, opening his palm for me to lace my fingers through his. “Then, I’m glad I didn’t stay at the B&B tonight. I’m glad I can be here for you if you need me,” he says.
I look down at our joined hands. “I don’t want you to babysit me, I want you to enjoy yourself too,” I say, my nose burning. My mind drifts yet again to thoughts that try to decipher if he’s this thoughtful, this selfless, all the time.
