But my legs feel like overcooked noodles, and the promise of not standing is too strong. I lower myself stiffly beside her, leaving a careful foot of space between us.
She offers the tin. I take a gingerbread man missing an arm. Holly takes a star-shaped cookie, nibbling on a point.
The silence stretches, but it’s different now. The frantic energy of crisis has bled away, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and the quiet hum of the furnace fighting the cold outside.
I watch the steam curl lazily from the kettle’s spout. My mind is blissfully empty for the first time in hours.
When Holly speaks her voice is soft, barely audible over the furnace’s high-pitched whir and the wind outside. She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on her half-eaten cookie star.
"You hate Christmas, don’t you?"
I stare straight ahead, at the opposite wall where the water stain is already darkening the drywall.Deny it. Deflect. Change the subject..
But I’m tired. So damn tired. Tired of the walls. Tired of the silence. Tired of carrying the weight alone.
The warmth of the bakery, the quiet intimacy of this shared space on the floor, the sheer exhaustion stripping me bare… it creates a terrifying vulnerability.
The words bubble up. Raw. Unplanned. A pressure valve releasing a torrent I can no longer contain.
"It wasn't always like that." My voice is rough and I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. "Sarah… my wife… she loved it. Christmas." Saying her name aloud, here, in this place filled with Holly’s warmth, feels like tearing open a scar.
"The whole thing. The lights, the music, the baking…" I gesture vaguely around the kitchen, at the remnants of Holly’s festive efforts. "She’d start playing carols nonstop in November. Drove me nuts."
"She’d bake for weeks. Piles of cookies. Fudge. That damn fruitcake from her grandmother’s recipe." I take a shaky breath.
"She’d make me help decorate the tree. Always argued about the lights. I wanted white; she wanted multicolored. She always won." The ache in my chest is a deep, hollow throb.
Holly is utterly still beside me. Listening. Not pushing. Just… present.
"It was three years ago," I continue. "December 23rd. Tabby was two. We were… we were supposed to go to my mom’s for dinner. Sarah was running late. Last-minute shopping. She hated crowds, but she wanted to find the 'perfect' gift for Tabby’s daycare teacher."
"It started snowing. Like this. Worse actually. It rolled in fast. I told her to come back home. That the gift could wait. That we’d figure something out."
The memory is sharp, vivid. Sarah’s voice on the phone, slightly breathless, laughing.‘Don’t be such a worrywart, Denton! I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Love you.’
"The call came an hour later." The words are flat, devoid of emotion. A recitation of facts. That’s the only way I can say it. "There was black ice on the ramp onto Lake Shore. Her car… spun out. Hit the guardrail. Another car…" I stop and swallow hard. "She was gone before the ambulance got there."
The silence that follows is deafening. Holly doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The only sound is the ragged pull of my own breath.
"The smell of pine trees. Gingerbread. That damn 'Jingle Bell Rock'… it felt like… like salt in the wound. Like the whole world was celebrating while mine ended." My voice cracks. "So yeah. I hate it. The lights, the music, the forced cheer… it’s not joyful for me.”
I finally look at Holly. Her eyes are wide, shimmering with unshed tears in the soft light. Her lips are slightly parted. There’s no pity there… just profound, aching sorrow. And understanding. A deep, quiet empathy that somehow cuts deeper than any words of sympathy could.
I look away, bracing for the recoil. For the awkward platitudes. For her to finally see the damaged goods beneath my facade and decide it’s too much.
Chapter 20
Holly
Denton’s confession hangs between us – Sarah, the blizzard, December 23rd – a devastating truth that explains so much. The rigid control, the aversion to Christmas cheer, the fortress walls around his heart. It wasn’t cynicism; it was survival.
What do you say to a grief that deep? To a loss that changed his entire life?
So I don’t speak. Instead, I reach out, my fingers brushing the back of his hand. His skin is cold, damp from the floodwater we’ve been battling, and rough with callouses. He flinches slightly but he doesn’t pull away.
My thumbs stroke slow, soothing circles over the tense ridges of his knuckles, over the scar near his thumb – a small, pale line, probably from a hockey fight years ago.
His head drops forward, his dark hair falling over his forehead, shielding his eyes. The rigid line of his shoulders tremble. The powerful defenseman, the man who commands the ice with intimidating grace, looks unbearably vulnerable.
